#baton (instrument)

[taterswithranch]

Fun fact, for his final chemistry project in college, Fawkes made a small atomic bomb. Istg I might give him a little Oppenheimer hat

This school apparently doesn’t care for background checks all that much hehejwk

Surely that would’ve gone into some sort of permanent record

[plotismade]

Whilst I’m drunk enough to post personal shit how cute is my mini Christmas tree?!?

[trev1s-made]

Check out my YouTube and support the grind 💯 won’t be disappointed

[harmonysanreads]

Playing Dress Up

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ft. Sunday, Aventurine, Dr Ratio, Blade

Heads up: Female!Reader, Possessive Behaviors, Very Self Indulgent

-; ੈ♡˳ SUNDAY

Sunday seeks refinement in every aspect of his life, this does not fail to extend to how you'll dress yourself while tied to his prestige as well. Sifting and digging through uncountable articles on women's fashion, extensive research on sources to make his vision come to life — Sunday hadn't even put this much effort into drafting his own style. What beget this initiative is rooted in his innate desire to make your connection to him clear through means sans saying it outright, though he'd much rather present it as his attempt in searching for a style that is uniquely yours ; which he does wish for to a degree, not to fret.

Your clothing will be weaved from scratch with the finest threads, silk and satin will be cut, folded and stitched to perfection. Even the measurements of your clothing will be penned down by the man himself : skirts must be of moderate length, not too long or too short and necklines must be modest. Said attires will be painted in shades of white, blue and gold ; his colors in short. But anything under these graceful dresses will be sleek black, a secret that'll never meet the public eye. The motifs of his halo will be skillfully engraved on the canvas that is you ; woven on the dresses, tempered in jewelry to adorn your hair and ears and not even your shoes will be spared.

The principle Sunday follows throughout this charade is complexity through simplicity. While one might think you'd look much like an over-groomed poodle after this, the gentle elegance of the reality will surprise even you. That is because Sunday practices caution in areas that are easy to complicate, jewelry for example. He's partial to earrings, bracelets, brooches and hair ornaments — not necklaces as he prefers the unobstructed beauty of your decolletage. Even those few ornaments are not gaudy in design, selected exclusively to accompany than to steal the stage. But the stones, diamonds and pearls he orders to be embedded in them are far precious than they initially suggest. After all, you deserve nothing but the best.

Most of Sunday's struggle was concentrated in the makeup area, for which, he had before anything else, scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist. Only when he had a detailed report on what products would suit your skin and what would harm you did he place the orders. Sunday thinks this endeavor to be much like conducting an orchestra : not all will understand why the conductor standing on the podium spins and twirls the baton, but when the tunes from the instruments unite and bring the melodies to life, it all makes sense.

-; ੈ♡˳ AVENTURINE

Aventurine has no patience for subtlety and employs bold tactics to get his message across. Should someone be naive enough to interrogate the man himself in his extravagant displays, he'll be unflinching in his reasoning as well. No amount of zeroes attached to the price tags or repeated cursory glances from passerbys will deter him in his shopping spree and should you complain about the mounting amount of bags — well, he has two perfectly functioning arms and adjacent shoulders sparkling in their vacancy, doesn't he? Your job is to just point out what catches your eyes, sweetheart.

The Stoneheart has discovered a sweet spot for matching since you entered his life ; which will materialize in earrings, bracelets, rings, hats, sunglasses, coats, chokers and the list goes on. Even though he gives you fair chances in choosing your attire, he'll not so discreetly sneak in pieces that'll reek of him. In occasions where this charade gets spectated by more than two pairs of eyes, Aventurine is less teasing and more edified in his intentions. Blue, pink and emerald coating fabrics that expose more than they cover will mock wanton eyes and they'll say loud and clear — this will never be yours.

Aventurine's favorite part has to be picking the perfumes for you. If you already have preferences, he'll scout the finest brand of that fragrance and make sure no other being in the expanding universe will be able to acquire it from then onwards. It just so happens that he also sees the importance of securing something that is uniquely you. If you're indecisive about perfumes, then even better! You can be doused in the fragrances he indulges in, keep no doubt that they'll be tasteful.

All this glamour might give the impression that Aventurine never allows you or himself to ever be stripped of the fanciful, glimmering and glittering layers oozing with the repute of uncountable credits. However, you were pleasantly surprised to find his lax attitude concerning your nightwear. You did not see any flickers of that ravenous flame concealed beneath enigmatic smiles even if you wore something bruised and tattered by time or, if you stole something from his wardrobe upon a random urge. Perhaps in moments overlooked by the light of distant stars, he treasures above all the sight of you in your most natural state, and wishes he could indulge in the same vulnerability as well.

-; ੈ♡˳ DR RATIO

The prodigious Veritas Ratio loves watching you get dressed, although there's a scarce chance of him openly admitting to his shameless ogling. Ironically, his genius receives negative marks when he tries to search for a rational reason as to why he continues regardless of your teasing — which, just so happen to never have sufficient burn to deter him for good. There's an odd sense of peace in spectating you building your look, in the movements of various tools and scattered, dexterous hand gestures. To him, it's almost synonymous to sculpting ; shaping something unremarkable to a display of skill and artistry.

Ratio thinks studious scholar should never limit their perspectives, which is why he tries to broaden his agenda with new experiences constantly — or at least, that's the excuse he ultimately settles on. He's yet to tell you of this, but he's certain he's acquired quite the quantity of knowledge on makeup from his observations. He knows the difference between foundations and concealers, in which order the cosmetics are applied and has a decent understanding about shades and highlights. It's safe to say, you can rely on him on this matter should there ever arise such an occasion.

When it comes to clothing, Ratio appears to be quite indecisive, form fitting or loose, he has no issues. The area where he is particularly strict, is hygiene. Which means no missed baths, or any half-hearted showers. After he's found himself comfortable in your presence, he'll take personal initiative to make sure your baths are never boring. Fragrant body washes, essential oils, exquisite rose water, bath bombs, shampoos — he has it all covered. Another astounding discovery for the scholar was that he adores taking care of your hair, in particular. He always takes extra caution when washing it, buys smoother combs so that it might not get damaged and occasionally tries different hairstyles — though he's not very skilled at it. But learning has never been an effortless process to begin with, he's sure he'll be able to decorate your hair the way he desires properly one day.

-; ੈ♡˳ BLADE

Blade seldom comments on your choice of attire, but it doesn't mean that he never thinks about it. He prefers to dismiss most of those bubbling thoughts, for what does a weapon understand of fashion senses and trends? What he does offer you instead are drawling stares tiptoeing before the line of glares. Insufficient time knowing the enigmatic Stellaron Hunter will prove your inefficiency in understanding his brooding gazes. Should you directly ask his opinion on a certain outfit, it'll not earn you more than a grunt or a hum. But coming from Blade, that would be considered a lot.

In truth, Blade finds himself bewildered before the feelings you stir within him through the most mundane actions. He was certain that wanton emotions, urges and his humanity were devoured by the curse. For centuries, he wandered without a definitive purpose, stewing in the rage and hatred bubbling from his fate. Above all, he did not think himself human. So when you, in all your bright and humane light dug through the battered cage of his ribs and made yourself its soul resident, tugging him closer closer closer towards that tunnel's end through seemingly meaningless antics — Blade was lost.

It made him afraid sometimes, for the unreachable end that he always clawed towards seemed to lose its appeal before you. When he realized one day that he liked lighter colors on you, that he enjoyed watching you practice a hairstyle for hours, that he loved how your lips shimmer after a swipe of lip gloss, that he'd not trade the matching tassels you gifted him on a whim for the universe — the appalling realization that living is just a tiny bit more bearable with you around crashed on his beliefs and destroyed him beyond repair. Which is why, for the longest time, he didn't know how to respond to any of your gestures ; far too occupied with processing whether its the talons of mara digging into his sanity or just plain pleasant emotions.

Blade is often irresolute when you ask for his opinion on your clothing, not because he has not the faintest idea of what is considered appealing but because, you just look good in everything in his eyes. There's a particular garment though, form fitting Qipao with cheeky side slits that had him run the first time you wore it. Only after Kafka's reassurance that no, it isn't his mara was he able to gather the courage to approach you again. In conclusion, be prepared for every possible outcome when you're dolling yourself up for Blade.

[spear-gsun]

Because ive been thinking about the Prismrivers, heres my take on Layla's design, where i ended up writing maybe a bit too many notes explaining my choices lol

Completely forgot to draw it but the "instrument" i'd give her would be a conductor's baton i think Also also, this is just an attempt at making a design for Layla that fits in style wise with the other Prismrivers, for all we know the actual Prismrivers and Layla couldve looked completely completely different back when they were alive

[postoctobrist]

hey I'm moving to a state with lax knife laws, and I use a cane. it's clear I need a sword cane, any recs?

I don’t have any because a sword cane is a special, even more different kind of illegal in the UK. This is because in 1988 the Thatcher government was psychologically obsessed with scary VHS movies and therefore banned every possible cool kung-fu movie weapon. Here’s the complete list of cool illegal weapons:

a knuckleduster, that is, a band of metal or other hard material worn on one or more fingers, and designed to cause injury, and any weapon incorporating a knuckleduster;

a swordstick, that is, a hollow walking-stick or cane containing a blade which may be used as a sword;

the weapon sometimes known as a “handclaw”, being a band of metal or other hard material from which a number of sharp spikes protrude, and worn around the hand;

the weapon sometimes known as a “belt buckle knife”, being a buckle which incorporates or conceals a knife;

the weapon sometimes known as a “push dagger”, being a knife the handle of which fits within a clenched fist and the blade of which protrudes from between two fingers;

the weapon sometimes known as a “hollow kubotan”, being a cylindrical container containing a number of sharp spikes;

the weapon sometimes known as a “footclaw”, being a bar of metal or other hard material from which a number of sharp spikes protrude, and worn strapped to the foot;

the weapon sometimes known as a “shuriken”, “shaken” or “death star”, being a hard non-flexible plate having three or more sharp radiating points and designed to be thrown;

the weapon sometimes known as a “balisong” or “butterfly knife”, being a blade enclosed by its handle, which is designed to split down the middle, without the operation of a spring or other mechanical means, to reveal the blade;

the weapon sometimes known as a “telescopic truncheon”, being a truncheon which extends automatically by hand pressure applied to a button, spring or other device in or attached to its handle;

the weapon sometimes known as a “blowpipe” or “blow gun”, being a hollow tube out of which hard pellets or darts are shot by the use of breath;

the weapon sometimes known as a “kusari gama”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at one end to a sickle;

the weapon sometimes known as a “kyoketsu shoge”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at one end to a hooked knife;

the weapon sometimes known as a “manrikigusari” or “kusari”, being a length of rope, cord, wire or chain fastened at each end to a hard weight or hand grip;

a disguised knife, that is any knife which has a concealed blade or concealed sharp point and is designed to appear to be an everyday object of a kind commonly carried on the person or in a handbag, briefcase, or other hand luggage (such as a comb, brush, writing instrument, cigarette lighter, key, lipstick or telephone);

a stealth knife, that is a knife or spike, which has a blade, or sharp point, made from a material that is not readily detectable by apparatus used for detecting metal and which is not designed for domestic use or for use in the processing, preparation or consumption of food or as a toy;

a straight, side-handled or friction-lock truncheon (sometimes known as a baton);

a sword with a curved blade of 50 centimetres or over in length; and for the purposes of this sub-paragraph, the length of the blade shall be the straight line distance from the top of the handle to the tip of the blade;

the weapon sometimes known as a “zombie knife”, “zombie killer knife” or “zombie slayer knife”, being a blade with—a cutting edge; a serrated edge; and images or words (whether on the blade or handle) that suggest that it is to be used for the purpose of violence.

the weapon sometimes known as a “cyclone knife” or “spiral knife” being a weapon with—a handle, a blade with two or more cutting edges, each of which forms a helix, and a sharp point at the end of the blade.

[alwaysonf1]

another hamilton?

Pairing: Charles LeClerc x Hamilton!OC

Genre: Slice of Life; Fluff

Word Count: 2.2k

Warning: Changes in the timeline for the sake of the story.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: N/A

The van rolls to a stop in a packed parking lot. And despite the buffer of the vehicle and the music playing inside of it, the noise from the stadium is loud and clear. 

“Are we late?” Alex asks.

Lewis smiles, shaking his head.

“No. We’re a little early actually.”

There are clearly more questions everyone wants to ask, but before anyone can voice them a producer opens one of the doors and beckons them out. All six of them pile out of the vehicle quickly. Despite Lewis confirming they have some time there’s still some uncertainty with how loud it is in there if the game hasn’t started yet.

At least they think it’s a game. Like the last four episodes filmed they were told where they'd be going and not who they were seeing and what the first sighting would be. Some of the guys only have one sibling or only one really comfortable with the limelight so it was easy to guess. But with Lewis all of this was beyond confusing.

The seven time champion didn’t usually involve himself in something of this level, so when he walked into the planning meeting for this thing it threw everyone off. Once they got past that the assumption was that it would be Nicolas. While the world knew of Lewis’ other siblings, they didn’t seem the type to agree to this.

Then they were given the destination of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Daniel asked a million and one questions after that reveal and no one who had the information would give it to him. The man’s charm didn’t beat out their willingness to keep it all a secret so everyone could maintain some level of surprise. As if they didn’t have enough.

Charles is so in his own head about what the hell they’re walking into, that it takes a moment - and the shouting of his name - to notice that everyone is already several feet ahead of him. He jogs up to catch them and keeps his focus on what’s happening in the moment, there’s no need for him to anticipate too much of what could be coming next. 

They walk through the parking lot for a while and then turn down a path that puts them at what looks like the back of the venue. The area gives the weird sketchy vibes that you get from being late night at a track, even with all the sound going on.

At a door stands a Black woman who Charles imagines he’d be into if older women were his thing. When she smiles, he’s debating making an exception. She has curly dark hair tinged with gray and her shirt says Human Jukebox, which only serves to further confuse Charles and Carlos, who’s eyes meet his.

“Hello,” the woman says, her voice cheerful.

“Hey, Sherri,” Lewis says.

They both move forward and embrace each other, when they pull away, she places a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Where are my manners? Hello, young men. I’m Sherri Jones. It's nice to meet y’all.”

There is a chorus of greetings from everyone, and they each take a turn trying to shake Sherri’s hand, only to end up being pulled into a hug. When she gets to Charles he simply goes for the hug, and it draws a laugh from her.

“Well, I’m glad y’all could make it here. We have a little time before things get started, but we should…”

Silence falls and trumpets fill the air, then drums. A flurry of other instruments join the mix and they do so seamlessly. The song isn’t one Charles can pinpoint, but it sounds good.

Sherri winces. “It seems the Jukebox is starting up. We better get in there before we have to fight for a spot to watch them play.”

It’s a marching band. 

Though this is not at all something that he’s especially familiar with, Charles has seen the wonders that are marching bands in the US. After watching Beyonce’s Coachella set, he even went through a small phase where he wanted so many of his unreleased songs to feature a similar vibe from it. But there’s a reason it’s unreleased.

Everyone files through the door and after a few twists and turns they walk through a shaded tunnel. At the end there’s a field clear as day

On the back of the shirt Charles catches a glimpse of the words ‘Mom of a Doll.’ And though he now has the answer to what the front means, he’s even more interested in finding out what the back entails.

When they emerge, the lights are a bit blinding, but he adjusts quickly. The sounds they’ve heard since arrival, become much clearer. And the packed parking lot feels not so packed when he sees the stands filled to the brim with people. 

He notes that the crowd is predominantly Black, which leads to the quick guess that this is an HBCU. Another thing he knows of, but not much about. 

What he does know is that the energy in the place is infectious and he finds his body moving along with the band. Who stands in the stands not far from where they enter. 

As they approach the benches and lawn chairs right in front of the band - put not in the stands - they seamlessly switch to a song that feels deeply familiar, but he can’t quite name.

Though he probably can’t name it because the moment they get in front of the bench, which has a reserved marker on it for them, he notices women draped in capes walking with an elegance he can’t comprehend and so in sync that all he can think about is when he watches a race back and sees them warming tires during a formation lap.

The women fill out the four rows that are unoccupied in front of the band in a staggered formation. Only one sits in the very front row, and it piques his interest.

Charles leans toward whoever is on his left and whispers yells, “What is going on?” 

“I have no idea, but I’m into it,” Daniel says.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other drivers - minus Lewis - nodding in agreement. Lewis is actually standing a bit further up, with a wide smile, and staring intently. Charles steps forward to stand directly next to him and Sherri.

Excitement brews within him as he watches as each row shrug off the cape and take a seat in a domino effect. Their sparkly light blue outfits remind him of the leotards gymnasts wear and it’s a brow raising moment. He knows they aren’t going to do anything of that danger level in a location they’re in, but he can’t imagine what. Until his brain yet again goes back to Beychella.

Again, the band transitions to another song, also familiar to him, but all his brain power is on taking in what’s happening with Lewis. He’s not so sure he’s ever seen the man this happy or at least not in this way. Though he would be lying if he said he didn’t notice some of the same emotion in him now as when he’s congratulating Charles for being up on the podium.

That gets the brain turning as he remembers why they’re there in the first place, but out of the corner of his eye he sees movement in front of them.

Who he assumes is the leader slowly stands up and all eyes move to her, including his. Her brown skin is glowing, her long hair moves with her, and Charles can’t help but see how tall and long she looks, as well as the curves of her body. She’s beautiful and he can only see two thirds of her face because of the way an overhead light flashes in his.

The beat drops and she makes a sharp movement that sends her upper half down low at an angle and as she comes up her hands glide up her long leg. Each move after is just as sharp, but also fluid. She body rolls once, then again, before the next row joins. In unison they go through the routine and once the second time is done, she stops and takes a seat, kicking her leg high before crossing it over the other.

Again, like the domino effect the other rows go. Each performing twice before taking their seat the same way she did.

She doesn’t even look back to ensure that the last person is down before she rises again, arms floating into the air as she dances. She gives a spin, and her hips move in a way that makes it clear she’s at ease with what she’s doing. That it’s almost a second nature for her. 

Each movement is sensual, but in that way that entrances you, not makes you feel like a pervert for staring too hard. Though Charles does feel a little bit like one.

Just like before she takes a seat and as the last person takes her seat, her leg lifts a little more dramatically than the others, the music changes and so does the energy in the stadium. Yelling gets louder and Lewis is bouncing on his toes.

A more intense expression takes hold, and she starts the routine just as she had before, but when she comes up the sequence is different. It’s longer. And Charles feels himself take in the hype and looks to the others to see the same. Even Lance, who tends to be more reserved in public and on camera, like they are now.

The domino starts, but they all keep going until everyone has done it twice and then without missing a beat she switches to another routine. Though Charles is still unsure of what this is, he can tell that these aren’t connected in any way other than she’s made the choice to do it and the others are following her lead.

Each new one maintains its beauty, but something about it feels like a battle.

“Ooo, they’re going to throw the new one. I saw a little of them practicing it last week,” someone behind him says.

The leader turns her back to them, the band somehow gets louder, and then in the most intense of the routines yet she begins and this one is longer than the others. The moves aren’t complicated per se, but they're definitely the kind that you mess up just by lacking the musicality and the level of aggression that’s just right for it.

She does her run through, and all the girls join in. They all give it the same energy as she did, in fact Charles in awe of how they all ramp it up. It’s something he can’t imagine articulating. 

“You better!”

“Come on, Kayla.”

“Show them how it’s done, Dolls!”

“That’s my girl. Show out, Kierra!”

“That’s my baby!” Sherri says, drawing Charles attention.

Lewis cups his hands around his mouth. “Let’s go, Iman!”

Reality hits Charles, he once again remembers their purpose. Who they’re there to see. And while there is no indication from Sherri or Lewis who they’re screaming for, the smile that graces the one up front makes it clear. He stares at her in a way he didn’t before, and he sees the mix of Sherri and Lewis in her face. She’s her own person, but she definitely looks like both of them.

It’s the type of thing that makes someone feel like they could be knocked off their feet by it, even if it’s a little dramatic.

Lewis Hamilton has a college age little sister. One that radiates a similar energy and passion that her older brother brings to the track. One whose smile has Charles feeling some type of way, though he refuses to dwell on it.

Shock still gripping him he turns to look at the others and they’re equally gob smacked by it. And their camera man is getting every second of it. 

“He has another sister?” Carlos asks.

“That’s his sister?” From Lance.

“She’s so good. Like I don’t fully know what you’d call this, but it’s fucking good,” says Daniel.

Alex nods in agreement.

“Yes, it is,” Charles whispers.

When Charles turns his head back, he sees the cocky smirk on Lewis’ face and the pride is still their clear as day.

“Y’all haven’t seen anything yet,” he says.

There is no way to know what he means by that, partially because he turns his attention back to Iman where he yells more words of encouragement and because so does Charles. The girls wind down, and the domino is going in the opposite direction. It gets to Iman, and she throws in more body rolls then the routine calls for, earning more yelling, and then she sits, throwing her leg up, and then lowering it slowly.

Screams fill the stadium like never before and a smirk forms on her lips as she throws her hair over her shoulder. She smiles at her mother and brother, then she looks to the other drivers and winks.

It’s something they talk about during the game in a spur of the moment group chat Daniel makes that doesn’t include Lewis, for reasons that include fear of the man - despite nothing out of line being said. And a few of them gather in Charles’ hotel room with Arthur, and a couple other drivers, on Facetime to talk about it.

They’re enthralled and it’s a miracle nothing leaks.

And just like the information the drivers got, the title of the episode will be vague, but after they play the routine and the men’s reactions it says something like: Introducing Iman Hamilton. Secret Sibling and Captain of Southern University’s Dancing Dolls.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Hii! Hand her over anon here~

I'd like the same characters, skip the sex scenes (or not as you like), boys reaction after it happend with Mikey (worried husbands agenda)

ORDER UP SQUIDWAAAAAAAAAAARRRDDDDDDD

Hand Her Over (Part 2): Ran Haitani/ Rindou Haitani/ Kakucho Hitto/ Sanzu Haruchiyo x Fem!Reader

tw: nsfw, angst

wc: 1.3k

masterlist

Hand Her Over Megapost

Sanzu Haruchiyo

"Oi." Sanzu sees you flinch when he calls out to you. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, staring off into space. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," you reply, hurrying to close your robe and scurry into the bathroom. Sanzu stands in the bedroom, aloof, trying not to think too hard about what happened right in front of his eyes a mere fifteen minutes ago.

There's no remorse behind his musings. He's pleased and more than satisfied with the events. It's just that they made him so...

"Mind if we... shower together?" Sanzu wonders, peering at you as you let the robe slip from your figure. You nod a few times silently, then step into the already-running fixture. Sanzu follows close behind you, still rock hard despite letting himself go (all over the carpet) earlier.

You don't touch yourself with any of the washing instruments, but Sanzu sees this as a moment to show his tender side. "Would you like for me to wash you?"

"Sure," you breathe, the words barely a whisper over the shower sound. Sanzu's hands caress your backside, touching you carefully and sweeping over the hickies with reverence. Just a reminder of the gift Mikey was given and enjoyed thoroughly.

Sanzu doesn't ask if you liked it; he knows you did. The cum between your legs is evidence of your and Mikey's enjoyment. "Hold on," Sanzu murmurs, sinking to his knees. "Let me clean you here." Sanzu lifts your right leg, and - under the spray of the shower - he places his mouth against your cunt.

It's intoxicating - the taste of Mikey on his tongue - and he flicks his eyes up to his wife with a building sensation of utter contentment. He notices how you hold on to the shower wall and the quivering of your lip, but he says nothing about it.

He's too busy tasting every drop of cum left inside of you. His tongue laps at your hole greedily, sucking and flicking as much as he can to tease one last orgasm out of you. Sanzu's free hand wraps around his cock and strokes slowly, circling around the tip effortlessly before settling against his shaft and going back up again.

"Haru," you murmur, placing a hand on his wet hair. "Please..."

Sanzu continues to suck on your clitoris harshly, praying you'll cum before him. You cry out and push him closer, hissing while you cum on his chin. Sanzu moans and groans with you, cumming as he laps up whatever you give him.

"That's my girl," he whispers finally, licking his mouth and chin happily. "Always so good for me."

Ran Haitani

Ran is furious.

"I told him no!" He roars, swiping the vase off the foyer table, letting it crash against the marble flooring. Rindou is standing by, letting his brother rage wildly, destroy his own property, and tear apart the entire home.

"You heard what I said!" Rindou doesn't even flinch when his brother points at him.

"I heard what you said."

"And now..." Ran huffs, the rage leaving him in great gasps of air. Rindou watches his brother collect himself, push his loose strands away from his face, and readjust his dress shirt. Rindou supposes the worst is over, but Ran stalks into his bedroom, then comes out as he's pushing a clip into his gun.

"Ran, what in the hell are you doing?"

"I'm doing what I should have done a long time ago," he breathes calmly. The old baton resurfaces, too, and Rindou hurries to his side.

"Ran," Rindou whispers, holding his brother's wrist. "This isn't part of the plan."

"Neither was Mikey's little stint this afternoon," Ran mutters, shoving the gun in the holster. "But we can make it right."

"What are you going to tell y/n? She's waiting for you at the--"

"Tell her I'll see her soon," Ran answers, striding toward the front door. "I just have to tie up some loose ends."

Rindou Haitani

"Are you safe?"

"I"m fine," you whisper into the phone shakily. "Everything's fine."

"You're not hurt?"

"No, baby." Rindou shivers, feeling more relieved than worried. You could take care of yourself, and it wasn't unlike you to get yourself to a safe place should things get hairy.

"When are you coming home?" Rindou asks the question without thinking, but he hopes that when you answer, you'll be honest.

You pause, then reply softly, "I'm coming home tomorrow." Shock floods through Rindou's veins, and he smiles to himself. You're coming home early, for once.

"I'll be here when you get back."

"I would hope so," you chuckle. "Kind of want some cuddles from my favorite guy." If there was a way for Rindou to show his absolute gratefulness to the universe, he'd kiss the ground you walked on for the rest of his life.

"Lucky for you, I have tons of cuddles," Rindou teases, placing his arm around the back of the couch as if you were there. "Might be able to fill that need for ya."

"Okay, you ruined it." Rindou cackles, relishing in the secondhand embarrassment.

"You love me, just admit it, already."

"I do," you admit. "And thank you for warning me ahead of time with the whole Mikey thing." Rindou sobers up, not sure what he would do if Mikey actually assaulted you like he intended to.

"It's because I love you," Rindou murmurs, feeling his heart beat wildly. "And I promised to protect you. No matter what."

Kakucho Hitto

"Shh, shh, shh..."

Kakucho is stroking your hair lovingly like he used to right after you got married. He's lying beside you, holding you close and protecting you, like he should have before.

"I'm sorry."

You're deathly still, holding onto his arms in silence and breathing shallowly. Flashes of the confrontation rock Kakucho's brain, jostling it around like he's in a turbulent airplane. And they hurt, the thoughts. His skull must be bruised inside with how much his head aches.

"I'm going to run a bath for you." Kakucho knows that this is a temporary solution - not something that'll fix the real problem. His fingers shake violently as he tries to turn the knob for the tub, but he can't seem to get it right on the first, second, or third try.

And then, he's breaking down at the side of the tub, whimpering silently as he tries to figure out what to do next. "I need to leave," he chants, reaching up to turn the knobs again. "I need to leave." A hand comes down on top of his, and there you are, standing next to him. Crystalline tears slide down your beautiful cheeks, and Kakucho wipes his face quickly.

"I..." You turn the knob for him, and warm water gushes out into the tub.

"Don't," you hum, holding his chin. "Don't blame yourself." Kakucho leans his head into your round stomach, listening to the silence his child can thrive in.

"I let them," he croaks, voice raw from screaming and crying and trying to make Mikey stop. "I let them hurt you... I let them hurt our child..."

"No," you whisper, stooping down to his level and holding his face in your hands. "I love you. You didn't do anything. You couldn't." Kakucho's heart breaks, and he leans into your shoulder and bawls. You stroke his hair - and this feels wrong; he should be comforting you - and Kakucho tries to find his bearings, holding you incredibly close.

"I'm going to leave Bonten," he finally concludes. "I'm taking you and our child and leaving this hell." You nod, and Kakucho kisses your tears away before helping you up.

"Let's take a bath and talk about this," you urge him, leaning into his embrace. "I'll follow you wherever you go. I promise."

[pieroulette]

untitled project, corpse bride (teaser)

author's note. a jungwon 7k oneshot corpse bride inspired with him as a 'psycho serial killer butchering everyone in the train' i did since a year ago, but im not satisfied with it yet but here's a teaser! i haven't written in awhile so it might be crusty rusty lol but yep it will be out this month, hopefully ♡ trying to get back into my momentum.

warning. subtle graphic description of murder, gore. / excessive tagging wouldn't be used but a tagging system of playing card symbols i've created so please read at your own discretion when the full fic is out.

Horrendous. Awful.

Not quite like the picture perfect image he had been fantasising about whenever he'd like to.

But he likes it, more than he would like to.

Awfully likes it.

He just needs to fix it a little more. Just a bit would do.

A bride on her merry way down the aisle of promised vows of happily ever after, a sweetened pursed up glossed lips and irises, couldn't she grow any more sweeter than this? Perhaps, it could. But to him, your shattered delicate state was much more sweet than he could taste, he could even sniff it into his soul—dark, dark, terribly dark soul.

Your bouquet, strip to nothingness where restorations could no longer be made was evident with madness. Or was he, the madness in itself? Perhaps, it is. What is there to deny?

Now the question is, what happened? Was it an arranged marriage on the foundation of a million bucks or perhaps even better, a mine of gold? Or was it actually true love at first sight? A runaway bride with her lover but was unfortunately shot to his death, or maybe, maybe fell to his death down the cliff? Or was it betrayal?

Which one is it?

Which one did actually happen that it has this tremendous effect in making this sweet of a delicate bride stranded somewhere in the city, boarding a train in all her fleeting gloriousness that was all for her cherished husband-to-be to relished on?

How amusing.

Where did your smile go? Your pitch black mascara smeared, tainted with pearl tears. Glossed lips now chapped and dry. The overall makeover he was sure took a horrendous amount of preparation was replaced with an image of a decomposing corpse bride.

But he likes it.

Of course it would, why wouldn't he?

He wouldn't need to go through the tremendous hassle of butchering another one when you're all here, all ready to be his next corpse bride in collection.

It just needs a little more, a little more — effort.

To make you his perfect corpse bride.

Silence.

Nothing came.

Only a deafening silence in constant rhythm of beats, accompanied by (Name)'s rampant heart as the main vocal. The train's intercom and the sound of the train tracks was what served as the instruments, side vocals by the distant screaming ahead the carriage.

All of it, the entire piece of orchestration of all led by the conductor with his baton. However, the conductor was eerily silent. Weirdly, horrifyingly silent.

"Whose bride do we got here?"

A hiccup escape from the bride's throat as soon as those words reverberated from the conductors lips.

Amused by the unusual sight you don't often see everyday especially while boarding a train, the man let's put a satisfying groan as he sat down facing the bride, comfying himself for another break session.

He's sitting down? Are you fucking serious right now?!That particular sentence echoes beneath everyone's mind in varying volumes and expressions. No one knows how long will it take. But everyone was sure as hell didn't want him to sit that long.

Get lost. Just get fucking lost!

But one should know that one single wrong step is only a foolish's mistake.

Therefore, it was a silent agreement of all;

To stay still.

Do not anger the lion.

Or perhaps, the conductor if we were being classy here.

"Since you didn't hear it, I'll repeat my question," Jungwon grins behind the cat mask, "Where's your husband?"

An orchestration of a bloodbath; scream once, your head gone. Try to run, don't bother, just crawl. But Jungwon wouldn't mind a bit letting your head stay intact a little more, he just thought you would look a lot sweeter with your delicate face and piece of dress splattered with the perfect ingredient.

© pieroulette (previously ateliertale)

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - LVII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Fic is rated explicit; MDNI. This chapter is not suitable to those under the age of 18. Chapter on AO3 here.

He should have encouraged you further to use less hot water, Zandik realized, as his hands reached for yours in the scalding water.  Air thick with steam, laced with scents he would only ever attribute to being yours, you’d somehow convinced him a bath was more worthwhile.  And now you and the heat were going to his head and both of you would pay the price later.

A shower would have been efficient. He could have spent the entire time exploring your form, taking care of every curve.  He would feel more invigorated standing.  His body didn’t understand relaxation unless it was to sleep and every waking second couldn’t be wasted.

You’d insisted, however, that a bath would be enjoyable.

Zandik didn’t entirely understand how.  Not at first.  And then you arranged yourself behind him in the tub, a feat considering his own height; at least the tub was more than accommodating.  You pressed your breasts to his bare back before you eased him back into your lap to wash his hair.

How many times had you sat like this with him, he wondered.  Upwards of twenty, no doubt.  Even when your face was obscured to him, you cradled his head in your lap and listened as he went on tangent after tangent.  The last time you’d done so, he realized, was when his Segments still whispered on the wind as you overlooked the Ruin Golem.

“Relax, mon rêve .  I won’t get shampoo in your eyes,” you teased.

Relaxing didn’t take much effort thanks to your soft skin and the way you massaged his scalp as you lathered the shampoo.  He recalled, briefly, that Pantalone specifically spent the time and money getting his hair done for this experience and for once, he could understand why.  Just enough pressure to ensure efficacy but gentle enough to lull him to sleep right here.  Zandik never liked being touched by others, not even by his Segments; vanity to the point that Regrator took it to was a waste of time and mora anyway.

Your words from the courtyard after Pantalone’s dance floated through his head like padisarah petals on the surface of the river, noble and demanding.

He thought like Regrator too, once; Zandik’s turnabout wasn’t even all that long ago in the grand scheme of the universe.  He had outlived you already. He had centuries of experiences, of knowledge, of understanding. Back when he saw himself as a system, less a human and more of a concept in the shape of a human.

How limiting.

You rinsed his hair, thorough and meticulous in the same way you dusted your cello’s bow and body and strings.  When you finished, he reached up and took your hand in both of his and held it above him, mindful of dripping water and lingering suds as he massaged each joint.

You still had your writer’s bump, naturally.  But your palms were rougher, despite your vain attempts to keep them soft.  You exerted pressure on the handle of your claymore in some spots more than others and unless you were in the cold, you never wore gloves.  You used your baton more often now but every once in a while, you preferred to swing the blade yourself, you said; you enjoyed the power in your muscles, feeling the force of the blade and understanding everything as a mere extension of yourself.

A sentiment he more than related to.

Zandik craned his neck slightly to look at you only to find you watching him intently, your other hand grazing his cheek.

Even if he could outlive you, what would the point be?  The universe would never be exhausted but without you to share any of it with, why bother?

“They ache less,” you said. “I couldn’t have done tonight or any preceding tasks without your handiwork.”

“As was intended. Your claymore took away most of your grip strength and left you with little to use on daily tasks.  Eliminate that and you are free to take better care of your joints.  I saw no need for extreme alternatives.”

“Such as?”

“Prostheses.”

“I do rely on my sense of touch. Would be a shame to lose it.”

Your grazed your fingers over the tender spot between his shoulder and his neck; his eyes fluttered shut and his heart shuddered as if he was struck by lightning. The after-effects of the Furnace centuries ago were nothing compared to this sensation.

“A travesty,” Zandik replied. “Without it, your music would lack its soul.”

He would rather have fought and killed you, once upon a time.  Especially upon seeing you burdened with a device that tainted the mind.  He did not want you and yet his very nature demanded your presence, your music, your soul; he was a glutton for knowledge and to ignore you meant turning away from an opportunity to explore the world through a lens he would potentially never have again.

A slave to fate in all but name.  

His past self, or even just Omega, would have laughed if he walked in.

Omega understood, in the end, long before either his creator or you did.

Between his Segment and your thrice-timed persuasion, twice in appreciation of your presence and then once in your absence, and your willpower alone, his choice was made.

He didn’t need to feel his face to know how flushed he was. Amid the steam, he felt his pulse throbbing, lightheaded from the heat.

You fought, you always fought when given the right evidence, and Zandik hated few things more than passive acceptance of one’s intended life. You worked as hard as he had, as had as he did , endured pain he could conceptualize and at least acknowledge.

He wondered, for a moment, if that first night would have been different if you knew , then, in the darkened performance hall. He doubted it. What you lacked in physical prowess you more than made up for in emotional blows.

Which was precisely why, he realized some time ago, you would have gotten away from Omega on your own. You didn’t need him, Zandik, even if at the time it seemed otherwise. Sedatives would have worn off. Omega was distracted enough with the Traveler that you could have woken up without assistance.

And it was your fourth persuasion, feet caked with sand and a wooden cello neck in your hand, that made something finally fall into place.

You wanted him.

If you could have nothing else, no memories, no instrument, no colleagues, couldn’t you at least have him?

And wasn’t that how he felt with himself?  If Celestia was going to force you upon him, he might as well explore the bond.  That hasn’t changed. 

If he could have nothing else, couldn’t he have you?

In the cold depths of the Palace, shut away with nothing but false corpses for company, he came to the root of Omega’s selfishness and obsession over you. The Segments had nothing of their own, despite having autonomy and individuality; what Zandik gave them was what shaped them and he gave Omega his worst self.

All he knew was how to build, create; he learned and he adapted as needed. Moving. Always moving. If he stayed still, he would never reach the next conclusion, the next breakthrough.

And yet here you were, keeping him steady, focused. Wrapped in emotions he repressed in another era of this world. Willing to see what fate laid beyond the stars.

Zandik opened his eyes and caught you lost in thought, face just as flushed as his; no doubt you, too, were feeling the effects of the water. You blinked and looked down, your head titled at the same angle as when you heard a series of notes and were trying to work out the exact positioning to mimic it.

He didn’t deserve you, to feel inspired and anchored and…

“I know,” you whispered, bringing a hand to smooth back his wet hair again. “I know.”

Did you? he wanted to ask.  Did you truly know, understand, the depth of such a thing?  The amount of times he wondered if, for a moment, it was possible for a single person to hold an entire cosmos in their existence, just from looking at you?

A scholar would never stop until every avenue has been exhausted; fate would, inevitably, always find a way, for it was unnatural in its persistence.

So why not explore it?

For every challenge, Zandik saw the world in a richer context, experienced an outcome that, without your presence, would have been fleeting. The two of you would have found one another through other means, if not then, in Sumeru.  The means didn’t matter so much as the result.  The experiment was the journey, in truth, and he could control that.

And he would.  With your input, of course.

He chose. 

He chose you. 

And he would always choose you.

[scuttlingcrab]

A Night at the Symphony

Another Raphael POV piece. I'm thinking on making this into a longer series, with more little snippets of Raphael as he goes throughout his other business.

I listend to Tchaikovsky: Valse sentimentale, Op. 51, No. 6 on repeat whilst writing.

Summary: Raphael goes to the symphony to check in on a client.  

The concert hall hummed with anticipation, the atmosphere was electrifying as the audience slowly found their seats. Raphael glided from the shadows into his private balcony, only the best seat was reserved for him; the symphony’s resident devil.

He stood with his hands behind his back, confidently surveying the elegantly dressed concertgoers. A wondrous melting pot of opportunities lay beneath him, succulent souls ripe for the taking. Dinner and a show? Raphael would feast well tonight. 

The lights slowly dimmed and with that the chatter from the crowd subsided, the murmurs turned to whispers and then there was silence. The performance was about to begin and Raphael took his seat. 

A thick red curtain parted, revealing a sea of musicians on stage. They sat up straight and stared intensely out in front of them, holding their bows proudly as if preparing to charge into battle. 

Marin Goldfeather, the spindly stone-faced conductor, marched out from the wings to centre stage. Marin bowed deeply to the audience, then rose to focus on his army of musicians. He raised his baton high into the air and paused, his musicians readied their bows. 

Marin slashed his baton through the air and the music swelled. It filled the hall like a giant wave, surprising Raphael as it hugged him into a tight embrace. Violins introduced the rich melody, followed by cellos and flutes promptly joining in to set the mood for the first song of the evening. Raphael leaned forward and dug his fingers into the cushioned armrests of his chair, wetting his lips. A magnificent opening! 

An hour passed, then two. Oh, how he wished he could indulge all evening. Each song somehow surpassed the next, the music ached, bellowed, wanting to be held, to be loved; full of nostalgia and longing, for something or perhaps a moment in time Raphael had never experienced. Each instrument, albeit different in nature, blended so effortlessly together.

Raphael’s heart floated to his throat. He found himself unexpectedly moved by the music, a mortal emotion he rarely liked to allow himself, or admit he could bear. The soft sounds of the melodies had distracted him for the first time in aeons. If even for a minute, his mind was vacant of the strings he had to pull, the armies he had to mould, in order to lead himself to victory in the Hells. 

When the final song concluded and the audience stood on their feet roaring in appreciation, tears formed in his eyes. The tears were fleeting, as the drops of water evaporated as soon as they touched his skin. Raphael leaned back, concealing his face in the darkness of his box as he let the rest of the emotions overtake him. He sat there for a moment, holding a tight fist to his chin, the gears turning in his head. Time to pay the conductor a visit.

Raphael soon found himself backstage, observing the cluster huddled around Marin’s dressing room. As he entered the packed quarters, some patrons recognised him, nodding as he passed; while others unconsciously parted the way, sensing his importance. 

Raphael placed a hand on Marin’s shoulder, interrupting the conversation at hand. 

“Maestro, congratulations are in order.” 

Marin took a sip from his champagne glass as he turned around, ready to devour yet another compliment. He froze when he met Raphael’s cool gaze. 

“M-Master Raphael!” Marin choked. 

He bowed clumsily, spilling some of his champagne onto the carpet. 

“True to your word, Marin, you have created the finest piece of music I have been fortunate to experience in all of the Sword Coast.” 

“You honour me, sir.” 

“And quite the attendance this evening,” Raphael noted, eyeing the guests continuing to fill his dressing room. 

“Ah, well yes, I am most fortunate.” Marin paused, shifting his feet uncomfortably and tugging at his high necked collar. A drop of sweat appeared from his receding hairline.

Raphael leered as he watched the bead of sweat fall slowly across Marin’s face, followed by another. Marin leaned forward and whispered, “about our agreement…” he cast Raphael a knowing glance.

Raphael considered Marin for a moment. 

“As you have impressed me, maestro, I’ll be more lenient this time and give you a few days extension on your next piece. You deserve some time to… celebrate.” Raphael’s eyes went to the champagne glass Marin was clinging to, and the gaggle of beautiful women behind him.  

Marin’s face grew sickly, he staggered, about to faint. Raphael grabbed his arm to keep him centred and snapped his fingers. The air hissed and time stood still around them. 

“Why the long face, maestro? Are you not pleased? All these mortals, finally here to see you, to appreciate your music. Is this not what you wanted? What you’ve dreamed?” 

Marin looked around him, opening his mouth as if to call out for help. He recoiled into himself as he looked into the faces of his frozen guests. 

“B-But…It was my masterpiece. I-I can never write another like this!”  

Another snap of Raphael's fingers and Marin’s contract sizzled into view. Raphael twirled a finger and the scroll opened, unravelling itself nearly to the floor. He pointed his long index finger to the text in the middle of the contract. 

“If you see here, clause 6.1.13 - ‘the client shall produce the greatest symphony the benefactor has never heard.’ Quite simple terms, no? I am dumbfounded at your confusion?”

Marin was clawing at his collar, struggling to unfasten his doublet. 

“Now that I have been most fortunate to hear your work this evening, it means the terms of this contract are still unmet. You know the cost if you fail to achieve what is required of you, yes?”

Marin was gasping for air, like a fish out of water. Raphael scowled at him, a sour taste in his mouth. How was that the same creature who brought him to tears only moments ago? 

“Chin up, maestro, you really should read the fine print.” 

Raphael snapped his fingers and the room returned to life, the lively gossip continuing as if nothing had changed. Marin fell back into the group of women he had been conversing with before Raphael interjected. The women squealed in shock as they tried to lift him to his wobbly feet. 

“R-Raphael, I implore you to—”  

But Raphael was already walking towards the door. “I await your next masterpiece!” Raphael exclaimed as he disappeared into the crowd. 

[diazsdimples]

Play me like a fiddle

Rating: E

Pairing: Eddie Diaz/ Evan "Buck" Buckley

Word Count: 34k

It's here!! Musician AU is finally here!!! This has been consuming me for weeks, and now, 34k words later, here it is. I genuinely feel like I've given birth. Please enjoy a small snippet below!

Soon, the orchestra falls silent and the lights in the auditorium dim, the low chattering of the audience fading away to nothingness as they sit and wait, anticipation building. There’s an echo of footsteps and Bobby strides onto stage, the audience breaking into applause as he takes the stand. He bows once and turns, gesturing for the Oboist to begin tuning.

The room is filled with the sounds of the instruments tuning and Eddie blows experimentally into his horn, adjusting it as it falls a little flat. Bobby waits until they’re all finished and gives Buck a small nod.

The audience applauds loudly as Buck takes the stage, strolling across it with a confidence Eddie can only dream of. There’s a few whistles and catcalls as he sits down, taking out the spike of his cello and settling it between his legs. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of Buck’s mouth as he raises his bow, eyes locked dead on to Bobby’s and begins to play.

The first few notes that burst from the cello are deep, rich and fill the room with their warmth. The orchestra follows along behind, the wind section playing in answer to the question Buck’s cello sends out and they’re away.

Eddie watches with awe as Buck plays, counting carefully so he doesn’t forget to come in. Buck’s eyes are closed, and his head is tipped back as he plays, the lights of the auditorium making his curls glow golden as he tosses his head. The look on his face is not dissimilar to the way he looks when he’s in the throes of his orgasm, as though the music is transporting him to another dimension. It’s passionate and full of emotion and Eddie can’t help but match it when he comes in, the music bursting proudly from his horn and sailing through the auditorium, filling it with the call and answer of the cello and the horn.

Bobby’s watching it all unfold with delight as he flicks his baton. He raises his hand, pointing to Eddie as he comes in and gestures for him to play louder, to let it all out and Eddie puffs out his chest, letting it all burst free from him. Buck’s head flicks up in an aborted movement to seek Eddie out across the stage and Eddie’s heart swells. There’s truly nothing more he wants to do than make music with Buck.

And then it’s just them playing, Buck scrubbing away furiously as Eddie concentrates hard on the passage. It’s exposed, high and difficult and he’s been practicing it for months.

Of course, he nails it, egged on by Buck’s performance, and he lets his breath go as he sits back, not due to come in for a few more moments. He catches Chimney’s eye from across the stage and the man sends him a surreptitious thumbs up across the stage.

The concerto lasts half an hour and the whole time, Eddie is mesmerised by Buck. If he thought Buck had been putting on a performance in rehearsals, nothing could have prepared him for what Buck would be like in the actual concert. The man is swaying so much Eddie worries his spike might slip free, and his bowing is so enthusiastic that a couple of the hairs break, hanging limply by the side as he skips the bow across the strings.

By time they’re playing the final few bars, Eddie’s sweating and he can see that Buck is too. His forehead is glistening, the light from the stage reflecting off it to make it look like he’s sparkling. They play through the final few bars and Buck and the orchestra finish with a flourish, Buck’s bowing arm up in the air as his chest heaves, breathing hard. Instantly the audience erupts into applause, louder than Eddie thinks he’s ever heard before. There’s whooping and cheering and it’s like a roar in Eddie’s ears, drowning out all other noise. Buck stands up, beaming from ear to ear, and takes a bow as Bobby stands next to him. They go through the motions post-solo, the conductor and soloist leaving the stage, coming back on, leaving again, going through this at least 3 times until a woman from the 1st violins comes up to Buck shyly and hands him a bunch of flowers.

Read the rest on ao3

[crimsonstonetranslations]

Shinrei Tantei Yakumo Another Files - The Dead’s Wish - epilogue

Shinrei Tantei Yakumo novel translation

Another Files - The Dead’s Wish

( first | previous )

epilogue - afterwards

-

Haruka sat on the chair with nerves on edge.

Despite having participated in recitals many times, she could never get used to them.

From the stage lit by the spotlight, her eyes wandered across the audience seats.

Lights in the audience seating area had been dimmed, so even if she saw people enter, she wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

Haruka had informed Yakumo about this recital, yet Yakumo’s response had remained vague to the end.

It wasn’t clear whether he would come.

Considering the Yakumo that Haruka knew, that man likely wouldn’t come to watch her recital. That was Haruka’s thought.

Yet on the other hand, she had hopes that perhaps Yakumo might come.

Rather than feeling uncertain like this, she should’ve forced Yakumo to give a definite answer, but it was too late for regret now.

Haruka turned towards Watanabe, sitting at the end of the same row as her.

While other members were occupied with checking their music scores for the final time, or adjusting their musical instruments, Watanabe was repeatedly checking the audience.

He might have had the same thoughts as Haruka.

The envelope Aki had returned the other day must have contained tickets to today’s recital.

Watanabe appeared concerned, but Aki should be somewhere in the audience. Though she had no basis for it, Haruka felt that way.

While Haruka was lost in her mundane thoughts, the conductor emerged from backstage, welcomed with applause from the audience.

The conductor signalled for everyone to stand up.

Haruka rose from her seat in unison with her fellow orchestra circle members and bowed once towards the audience.

As she sat down, Haruka exhaled deeply.

She couldn’t keep thinking about other matters. Right now, she had to concentrate on the recital.

Throughout the preparation leading to this recital, various things happened that led to Haruka having to excuse herself from a lot of rehearsals, so she honestly had no confidence to perform.

Even so, to the people coming to listen to their performance, such things were unrelated.

Besides, this was an orchestra performance. Things wouldn’t get solved by blaming herself over mistakes she made.

She had to play to the best of her ability.

As if waiting for Haruka to firm her resolve, the conductor then lifted his baton.

Everyone audibly drew their breaths in unison.

While tense, Haruka liked this moment.

The moment when a recital was about to start.

The conductor swung his baton.

With it, the performance began.

***

After the recital was over, from the corner of her eye Haruka could see a few members who had been talking with their instruments on hand began stowing away their equipment.

The recital itself had safely ended without trouble.

However, the dance routine—included due to the fact that this had been a recital on the campus festival—had been a complete disaster.

Haruka wasn’t particularly great at coordinating her body to begin with, and her lack of practice had made it worse.

She had remembered the moves, yet her movement had been so stiff even she herself could tell.

In her panicked attempts of adjusting her tense body, Haruka had ended up tripping on her own foot, falling down spectacularly as a result.

An utter failure.

Laughter exploded from the audience, and Haruka had felt as if her face was spewing fire.

“Ozawa-san, you really stood out back there.”

“What a splendid way to fall down.”

Upon returning backstage, she was teased relentlessly by other members.

Absolutely horrible—

Furthermore, despite being an orchestra circle, they had to perform a mysterious dance popularly seen on a television drama.

Not to mention they had to wear cat ears—

Even though they did this every year, this was the first time Haruka wanted to run away from her responsibilities.

Prior to the recital, she had been curious whether Yakumo had attended. But now, for the first time she hoped that he hadn’t.

“I’ll be on my way,” Having finished packing her belongings, Haruka left the waiting area.

The others had still been mocking her over her falling incident, so she promptly escaped with a bitter laugh.

She glanced at her watch.

There wasn’t much time left.

After this, she was going to watch the theatre circle’s stage play held at the auditorium.

The timing was barely enough.

Haruka began running faster towards the campus auditorium, but stopped her steps in front of the campus courtyard.

She witnessed Aki’s figure, sitting on a bench just like when Haruka had seen her for the first time.

Next to her was Watanabe.

He was still holding onto his musical instrument.

After the recital had ended, he must have ran after Aki who had been watching the performance.

Haruka couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but a smile faintly appeared on Aki’s face.

Haruka felt relieved and smiled as well without realising.

Uh oh, now’s not the time to space out. I’m going to be late.

Haruka quickly headed to the auditorium.

Yakumo had already been waiting for her in front of the entrance.

”You’re slow,” he said with a sigh upon seeing Haruka.

“Sorry,” apologised Haruka sincerely.

At that moment she noticed familiar faces.

Gotou and Ishii were next to Yakumo.

“Hey,” Gotou shouted as he casually waved. On the other hand, Ishii called out to her, purposely dragging out his words, “Haruka-chaaan!”

“So Gotou-san and Ishii-san came along too.”

“That’s right. Since we’ve been dragged to work on this and that, I thought we might as well come to watch.” replied Gotou.

It was true that Gotou and Ishii had been a great help during the theatre circle case. So it would be understandable for them wanting to know how things were going afterwards.

She understood that, yet at the same time, a question she had long since forgotten about resurfaced.

“By the way, what happened to Iida-san afterwards?”

Iida had been the culprit that had deliberately collapsed the set and injured Tomoko.

“He obediently admitted to his actions now. The charges are for bodily harm.”

“That’s a relief to hear.”

“Then, Daichi will soon be handed over to a prosecutor.”

“Is that so...”

Various feelings muddled within Haruka.

Daichi’s lover had practically been murdered. Haruka understood the depths of his resentment and grief. However, Daichi had chosen the wrong path by pursuing revenge.

While he deserved punishment, the whole thing had left an unpleasant taste.

“Also, I think Sakamoto and Fujimoto will be prosecuted for charges of causing death by negligence in duty of care.”

“Eh?”

“Because of testimonies from Daichi and that student named Natsuki, they finally admitted to it as well.”

Haruka’s heart felt lighter after hearing Gotou’s explanation.

They were going to be prosecuted, but most importantly, they had admitted to their actions, a sign that they had the willingness to repent.

Haruka felt it was a salvation that they could at least obtain.

“Just how long are you guys planning to hang around here?” asked Yakumo, returning Haruka to her senses.

If they didn’t hurry, the stage play would soon begin.

All of them quickly entered the auditorium.

It was free seating, but because they had come in late, they had to sit all the way at the back. Luckily, they managed to secure four adjacent empty seats.

Yakumo sat closest to the aisle. Next to him consecutively were Haruka, Ishii, and then Gotou.

“Is Haruka-chan’s circle going to do a recital or the like as well?” asked Ishii when the situation grew calmer.

What Haruka had just forgotten returned to her mind.

“Ah, it was already over.”

“Is that so...I would’ve wanted to go and watch...” Ishii hung his head in regret.

Such a huge disaster wasn’t something Haruka wanted to show.

“Ishii-san, in my opinion, you should be grateful you didn’t go to watch it,” added Yakumo.

“Why?” Ishii asked in return.

“Not only was she wearing cat ears at that age, she also performed a dance that made me wanted to close my eyes, and then fell spectacularly to top it all off—”

So he did come watch after all!

Haruka was happy that Yakumo had come to watch her recital. Yet at the same time, she was embarrassed by the fact that Yakumo had seen her in such a state.

“No…that...”

Haruka wanted to make excuses, but Yakumo held his index finger against his mouth and shushed. “Sshh.”

The audience seat lights had already been dimmed.

Haruka felt troubled by various things, but for now she decided to simply concentrate on the stage play.

Haruka then turned her eyes towards the stage—

[doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou]

Hi I like your writing so much :)

I was wondering if you could do lesso x reader where reader is the first morally grey teacher after the schools unite.

Ever-Never

> lady lesso x fem!reader

> requested? yes!

> content/warnings: arm pulling, D being oblivious

> a/n: so sorry for the delayyy, i had to fix my requirements for college, but here it is!

“Why do we need to hire new people again?” Lesso asked whilst playing with a paperweight.

Dovey sighed and rolled her shoulders. She's been trying to get Lesso to lighten up as it's been weeks after Rafal's return. “Yes! We need to hire new people to teach subjects that Evers and Nevers have in common!”

 

Lesso leaned against her chair. “Subjects like ‘Evoking Magic'?”

Dovey gave Lesso a grin and clapped her hands. “Now you're getting it!” This made Lesso roll her eyes and mumble. “I wish I hadn't.”

Letting the paperweight drop on her desk, Lesso looked at Dovey and asked. “Why do Nevers and Evers need this subject?” She pointed at the third subject suggestion on the paper.

Furrowing her brows, Dovey leaned forward and looked at what Lesso is pointing. “Music Invocation? Why yes! Emma suggested it and I couldn't help it! Music has been part of both the Evil and Good side of the story!”

“The program name is quite... misleading to most students.”

“You mean your students?”

With that, Lesso motioned for Dovey to get out before she could not help herself and fling the paperweight towards her counterpart. 

---

“And that is the library, and a corridor down is Yuba's office–” You blurred Dovey's voice as you looked around the area. Although you graduated years before Dovey became Dean, you couldn't help but stare at the castle interior in awe.

“-and here we are!” Dovey stopped in front of a huge door, making you bump into her and drop your flute.

“Oh! So sorry about that.”

Dovey gave you a grin and put her hands on your shoulders. “It's quite fine, I know how nerve-wracking this can be!” She said whilst brushing the dust off your dress.

Fumbling down to get your flute, you let out a chuckle and looked at Dovey. “Oh, I'm not nervous. Just dazed, that's all.” With your words, Dovey raised her eyebrow.

“Pray tell why.” Dovey gave you a smile and opened your new classroom full of instruments and music sheets.

“Well I've been here be– Woah!” You started yet stopped as you saw the whole room. Every nook and cranny, you could see music related items. From the thinnest baton to the largest organ you ever saw in your life. Stepping inside the room,you immediately went near the piano on the right side.

As you played a note, Dovey smiled and leaned against the wall, watching you intently. Clearing her throat, Dovey closed the door and sat on a chair next to her. “Y/N... may I ask?”

Stopping your movements, you looked up towards Dovey's figure. “Yes, of course.” you said as you fumbled to get a chair to sit on.

“How does Emma know of you?”

Biting your lips, you gave Dovey a nervous chuckle as you fiddled with your dress. “Oh well– uh–”

Your stuttering was interrupted as someone opened the door and barged in without notice. “You! Have you seen Dovey? And what are you doing out of class?”

A red-headed figure walked towards you and grabbed your arm, pulling you upwards. Wincing at the harshness of her actions, you gave Dovey a scared look. To which the Dean of Good answered with a gasp and a shout. “Lesso! Put her down!”

Freezing at her counterpart's voice, Lesso tightened her grip on your arm. “Now!” With that, Lesso pushed you back on your chair and turned towards Dovey.

“Dovey. I was looking for you.”

“Now you've found me.” Dovey huffed and walked towards Lesso to grab the Dean of Evil by the arm and drag her out of the room. “I'll let Emma know you're here, Y/N.”

With that, Dovey and Lesso left you alone in your room.

---

“And she pulled you? Upwards? By the arms?”

You huffed as you rolled your eyes at Emma's constant questions about what happened. You explained to her what happened yet she cannot comprehend that Lesso did, in fact, drag up upwards by the arm. “Yes. How many times do I have to tell you!”

Emma chuckled at the tone of your voice and took your arm. “Well then, let's have lunch with your now ‘archenemy’.” She stated while making air quotations.

Rolling your eyes, you tried to shrug off Emma's hands but to no avail, you just let her hang on your arm. “Keep saying that and you'll be my archenemy.”

Nodding to the fairies as they opened the hall door for both of you, Emma laughed. “Ha! As if I haven't been your archenemy your whole life.” This made the students near the hearing range look up from their lunch to both of you.

Shaking off her arm, you shushed her by putting a finger on her lips. “Shush, my dear. Let us go and eat. I am famished.” Then you left her in the middle of the hall and sauntered to the tables.

As you neared the tables, you saw Dovey give you an excited grin. “Oh you're here! I assume Emma has given you the continued tour of the school.” Mention her name and she shall arrive, Emma suddenly appeared beside you making you jump and put a hand over your chest.

“Sweet heavens!” you closed your eyes as soon as you looked beside you and saw Emma's face a few inches away from yours.

Giving you a smirk, Emma poked your cheek and said. “That's the first time you said ‘heavens’ to my face.”

Pushing her away, you shot Emma a glare and walked towards Dovey. “Professor Dovey.” 

Looking up from her lunch, Dovey gave you a smile. “Oh Clarissa is fine, dear.”

Sensing that Emma was beside you, you rolled your eyes and huffed. “Clarissa, where will I sit?”

“Oh!” Dovey stood up from her chair and leaned towards you. “Well, on the Ever side, dear.”

Widening your eyes, you glanced beside you and saw Emma's face contort into a more serious one. “That's the problem, Clarissa.” She answered for you.

Narrowing her eyes at the Head of History, Dovey asked. “How is that a problem? If she's an Ever then–” Dovey gasped and put a hand over her mouth. “Unless, Y/N is a Never?”

“My sister has her faults but she is not a Never.” Now, Emma's voice arose, making the people in short range look towards her.

“Sister?!” Lesso and Dovey said simultaneously.

“Yes, sister.” Emma rolled her eyes. “But that is not the issue, the issue is where does my Ever-Never sister sit?”

With Emma's revelation, you could hear the whole hall burst into whispers. Ever-Nevers were rare. The only known Ever-Never was Robin Hood, and to this day he was widely known as an Ever, not both.

Closing your eyes, you sighed and listened to Emma argue with Dovey as to where you would sit. After a minute of them arguing, a figure cleared their throat behind you. “Do sit with us, we have a vacant chair.”

Looking up, you saw the redhead that grabbed you by the arm earlier next to you. Giving her a grateful smile, you nodded and motioned for her to lead the way. 

Pulling a chair next to her, you sat down and watched as she sat beside you. “I apologize.” 

Raising your eyebrow, you shot her a questioning look. “For earlier. When I pulled you up by the arm.” Biting your lips, you gave her a smile. “It's quite fine...?”

Looking at you with wide eyes, Lesso put her cutlery down. “Oh, Lesso. Dean of the School for Evil.”

“Well then, Oh, Lesso–” you chuckled in her direction. “It's fine.”

You turned to the plate in front of you and started getting dishes you preferred. “And, thank you for apologizing.”

[zponds]

Extra Moments in Sailor Moon Cosmos (season 6)

With the idea of adding a sixth season to my classic Sailor Moon anime rewrite, I wanted to explain a couple of things that the 10 Sailor Guardians would do during the sixth season; having a musical concert in school and doing a school play dressed up as waitresses.

First off, a musical concert involving all 10 Sailor Guardians would come into fruition. As for who’d play which instrument; Ami would play a flute, Rei would play a clarinet, Lita would play a trombone, Mina would play a french horn, Amara would (of course) play the piano and Michelle would (of course) play the violin, Trista would play a cello, Hotaru would play a viola and Rini would play a triangle. As for Serena, she’d be the one with the baton. Now Serena, Rini, Ami, Rei, Lisa, Mina, and maybe even Hotaru and Trista would under go a series of practice sessions in order to master their respective roles and musical instruments in the music concert, especially Serena as she’d be the one coordinating the music and tones with the baton.

Secondly, the 10 Sailor Guardians would dress up as waitresses for a school play that takes place in a cafe. Mina especially would be excited as she’d look extra beautiful as a waitress.

[djmarinizelablog]

Tango (a TwiYor drabble)

“I want to make sure that we’re not stepping on each other’s toes in this mission,” she tells Loid.

The main hall is festive, bright lights from the chandelier adorning their presence amidst crimes against humanity. There is a live orchestra playing in front, guests making conversation over food and music. A nearby waiter is offering glasses of champagne, but Yor catches her husband’s disapproving face and knows she’s not having any alcohol tonight.

She’s here to finish off a certain Sascha Koslov, the main sponsor for this masquerade ball. “Unfortunately, no highly-protected client comes without a throng of bodyguards." She shrugs. 

“Interesting,” Loid comments. He’s eyeing the quickest exits and possible escape routes in the interior while the orchestra music is slowly fading in their ears. “I have to intercept an exchange of photos regarding Koslov as well. The man who spoke to me was the first contact.” 

The conductor raises his baton to begin a new song. People partner off as a sultry tango starts with a slow start before the instrumental gradually escalates to the accustomed rhythm.

At this point, the floor is crowded, civilians and criminals alike. Armed guards are patrolling the corridors for any suspicious activity. Three on the left, two more on the right. Yor surmises she’ll have to get past them if she even wants to face her target tonight. She’s merely biding her time, waiting for an opening amidst all this dancing. But at the rate things are going, her client is bound to slip away from her before she can even call it a night.

A civilian elderly married couple is showing off their performance, their movements more rigid than a cardboard box. “Aren’t you two joining?” 

Yor has half an inkling in her mind to pull out her weapons to spare herself the trouble, but Loid is quicker when he tugs her by the arm. “Come on–” He leads her to the floor, away from the suspicious guards.

She flushes when her husband pulls her by the waist. “What are we doing?”

“Dancing.” 

Dancing, yeah. She knows how to do this, sort of. It takes two to tango, right? Wait a minute, what? Yes, the wonderful Loid Forger has taught his wife the steps to this intricate and complex activity before (yes, activity, among other things). They might as well act like elites. He lets her rest her hand on his shoulder, while his other hand threads their fingers together. Yor bites her lip once they begin moving as one, with Loid’s broad frame a source of support for her clumsy movements. She’s concentrating real hard not to step on her husband’s toes, but there’s no avoiding their legs brushing against each other for the duration of this song. The challenge, really, is avoiding the gaze from his blue, blue eyes. Loid looks so devilishly handsome right now; it's not fair to the world, Yor thinks. The black tux does wonders to her brain, and his blonde hair slicked back is very agonizingly neat. Yor’s lips tremble as Loid guides her to keep up with the pacing of the music. The more he gets closer to her, the more intoxicated she gets. Yor doesn’t understand why. Sure, she’s danced with people before, mostly as a ploy to prevent them from committing an assassination in the middle of a ballroom, but it feels so different when it’s Loid.

“Yor,” her husband breaks her train of thought, his voice restrained from an invisible pain, “You might want to relax your grip. You’re crushing my knuckles.”

“Sorry!” She’s about to let go, but something in the way they’re locked in this intimate position makes her feel at ease. The suspicious onlookers are gone now. Their movements are becoming more fluid by the second–every twirl and turn, every gesture and angle perfectly fitting their bodies.

The violin part heightens once Yor hooks her leg onto his hip, and she notices that quick glance from him marveling at the supple thigh that dares to peek from the slit of her dress. Loid clears his throat to compose himself, but Yor’s definitely not imagining it when his hand slides underneath her calf while Yor is bracing him for support. They stay like that for a while.

“I found my other contact,” he whispers in her ear, “What about you?”

Her eyes scan the dance floor real quick. Sascha is nowhere in her periphery. When she shakes her head, Loid leads her to a different area. Without warning, he dips her real low, his hand supporting her spine. She gets an upside down view of her surroundings. 

“What about now?” His blue eyes are questioning behind his mask.

She spots Sascha Kozlov standing by the balcony door in the corner. “Target locked.”

The conductor raises his hands and the music comes to a halt. There’s a round of applause that reverberates around them.

“I’ll see you at home.” Loid slowly lets go of her, but before he completely detaches, he takes the rose from his boutonniere and places it on her palm, closing it before gently pressing his lips against the rim of her knuckles. “Be careful.”

---------

hola i'm now in the sxf brain rot era pls hmu fam