#drabble tag

[baenakinskywalker]

say yes, run away now

rating: t

words: 849

a/n: first up in my quick feysand drabble(ish) series! here's a take on ACOMAF right after rhys and mor rescue feyre from the spring court — i'm playing fast and loose with canon to build in a marriage of convenience. first paragraph comes directly from ACOMAF!

for @popjunkie42, even though i did not answer your actual prompt at all. saving it to come back to later!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“As your presence here isn’t part of our monthly requirement, you are under no obligation to go back.” Rhysand rubbed at his temple. “Unless you wish to.”

I felt sick. Unless I wished to. As if any of that mattered to the male who had just locked me in his house, even when he knew what it would do to me. He knew. “He’ll come for me.”

Rhysand stood from the low couch opposite me. “And if he does, we’ll be prepared. We’ll even come for him first, if you like.” He smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. Nothing but thinly veiled rage leaking from his skin like smoke under a door. Only destruction on the other side. My teeth chattered despite the warm air in the mountaintop palace. 

There was a steaming mug in front of me, the scent of sweet spice inviting me to take a slow sip. I felt Rhysand’s eyes on me as I drank, saw the way his posture relaxed as I drained the cup. I hadn’t felt thirsty until the cup was pressed to my lips. I set the mug down, and a thought occurred to me that sent my heart into my throat. 

“Your shields are holding, Feyre darling,” Rhysand said. “But I can tell there’s something you’re not sharing. Tell me, please.”

I swallowed hard, wishing I had another mug. Maybe something stronger. “If I had married Tamlin, would you have called in our bargain?”

Rhysand clenched his jaw, eyes going a darker shade of violet — near black. “What are you asking me?” “If I had married him…would you have been allowed? I mean, could you have taken me?”

Something dangerous glimmered in those eyes. “It would have been difficult. There are…” He paused, tilting his head. “The same protocols that made it so Mor had to take you from Spring would have hampered me calling in our bargain if you were married to Tamlin, yes.” 

So even in Prythian, a female needed marriage to have any semblance of autonomy. Not so different from life below the Wall. It made my next move crystal clear. “So if I were married, Tamlin would find it…difficult to collect me.” Rhysand growled, a purely animal sound. “Feyre, I swear to you that you are safe in the Night Court. We have our own sentries — my own generals and spies — who will ensure that he doesn’t cross into this land.”

I shook my head. “It’s not enough. It won’t be enough — you know it.” My voice grew frantic. I had to convince him. “You know what he’s willing to do,” I said. 

Across from me, Rhysand paled. Then he took a deep, steadying breath, inky black like a starless night sky rolling off of him in waves, and sat beside me. “So what exactly is your plan?”

“Marry me.”

“What?” Rhysand went completely still. “You have no idea what you’re asking.” His eyes were wide, like that moment when he said goodbye to me Under the Mountain, after I had been brought back by the High Lords. 

I bit my lip. “If you marry me, I can stay here. I’ll be protected.” 

“I’ll protect you anyway.”

“But if I’m your wife — ”

“By the Cauldron. You’re serious.” He looked pained. 

“I understand that it’s not ideal.” I pictured it: Becoming Rhysand’s wife, Lady of the Night Court. In name only, just for my safety. “It could be a small affair, just us and a high priestess.” I shuddered on the last word, remembering Ianthe. 

Rhysand pinched the bridge of his nose. “You want us to marry so that Tamlin will have no further claim to you.”

I nodded, palms going slick. He could easily refuse, and then what would I do? “You hate it,” I said softly. 

A long silence stretched between us. His eyes closed, and he slumped a little. I waited for the rejection, for him to politely extricate himself from the situation. Then he looked up, violet eyes meeting mine, flecks of stars circling his pupils. “I hate that it could actually work,” Rhysand groaned. 

My heart pounded faster in my chest. “So you’ll do it?” If this worked, if it kept Tamlin from capturing me and forcing me back into the Spring Court, I’d be safe. Free. For once in my life.

Apart from being tied to the High Lord of the Night Court. 

“Feyre,” Rhysand started, taking my tattooed hand in his, “if this is really what you want — if you understand what this means…what you’re giving up, then yes. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. Even this.”

My eyes were drawn to his hand curled around mine. “I do.”

Beside me, a dry laugh. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

I exhaled, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. There was so much still to cover — my powers being most important, given the destruction in Tamlin’s manor — but so long as I didn’t have to go back, I could chip away at it all. Slowly, and with Rhysand’s help.

Together…for better or worse.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[bloodfin]

Bright as the Starlight

Phantom/Swiss

Words: 1.222

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Whump

Written completely on mobile so pardon any errors. No one is dead I promise. Everybody leaves one day 💔

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

"What do mean you're leaving?"

Phantom's lip is quivering, tears filling their big, sad eyes. Swiss sighs and pulls them closer against his chest.

"'M sorry buggy, but Frater needs help at the Ministry."

"But, but he has so many ghouls, why does he need you?"

The only way Swiss could describe Phantom right now is in anguish, the way sobs wrack their little chest, thin fingers twisting into his shirt as they bury their face in his neck.

Swiss soothes them as best as he can, large hands warm across their back.

"Doesn't Frater know the band needs you?"

Phantom sounds muffled, clinging to Swiss with all of their might.

"He knows bug, he knows. But the Ministry needs me right now."

Phantom sits back, something like anger and heartbreak flashing in their mismatched eyes.

"Well what about me, huh?"

Before Swiss can respond, they're breaking down again, words barely passing through their chapped lips, a heartbroken whisper.

"What about me, Swiss? I need you."

The way they say it, it breaks something in Swiss, too. There's nothing he can say, they both know that. And in that moment, the only thing Swiss can do is wrap his arms tighter around Phantom's shaking form, and let them cry.

When Phantom's breaths finally stop heaving, Swiss tilts their chin up and gives them a gentle kiss.

"The new guy needs you -"

"What if I hate the new guy."

"You don't mean that, bug." Swiss fixes Phantom with as stern a look he can manage. Phantom sighs, of course they don't hate the new guy. Just the circumstances.

"D'ya know when," they murmur, hoping that maybe tomorrow they'll wake up and this whole thing will have been a nightmare.

Swiss shakes his head no, runs his thumb over Phantom's bony side. Another huff from Phantom, and they snuggle against Swiss more tightly.

"Don't let go, okay?"

"Never will."

They fall asleep like that, clinging to each other like love could stop the wheels of time.

When Phantom wakes, their arms are as empty as their heart, a deep ache settling into their bones. Swiss's favorite guitar pick is pressed into the palm of their hand, and Phantom can't help but cry all over again.

-

The ride to sound check is quiet.

Dewdrop’s foot is broken. Mountain's fist hasn't unclenched despite Cirrus' best attempts at providing comfort. Solaris doesn't know what to say, just leans her head on Aurora's shoulder, who looks as lost as Phantom feels. And Rain? Rain looks like he hasn't slept in fifteen years, exhaustion heavy in the bags of fluid that have built up under his eyes.

Perpetua took his own van ahead of the group, still new himself and wanting to go early to check his monitors before the band arrives.

When the van pulls up Rain gets out first, helping Dew hobble out next. The van slowly empties after them, leaving Phantom scrunched in the back corner.

"Phant?" Cirrus sticks her head in, eyes gentle as she takes in the little ghoul in the back seat. "You coming?"

"Yeah, " they sniffle, "jus' needed a minute."

"I understand," she says, smiling softly.

And Phantom realizes that yes, out of everyone in the pack, Cirrus does understand the most.

"How are you handling it?"

She chuckles. "Well, it kind of is my fault she had to stay home anyways."

Cirrus reaches out for Phantom and they gently take her hand, climbing out of the van.

"But," she continues, nudging them gently with her hip, "I wish she was here more than anything. It helps to know she's watching, back home. I want to put on the best show I can for her, who cares what the humans think."

Phantom hums, thinking it over. "Do you think Swiss will watch too?"

"I'm certain of it."

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, hand warm in Cirrus's. It's a little less overwhelming with her by their side, and they know if they tug on the pack link it might take some time, but Swiss will be there.

When they make it onto the stage the rig seems wrong, the empty platform with its untouched microphone stand and tambourine feels too tall, taking up all the extra space in Phantom’s mind. Cirrus pats them on the back and heads toward her keys. Phantom shuffles past Mountain and stands in front of the platform, looking up and lost.

It feels like it's looming, an impassable fortress that Swiss alone brought down to earth. Phantom remembers all the kisses, the hugs, the head pats. Their toe hits the tuner they clipped to the front, sparkly purple bat stickers glinting under the lights - a gift from Swiss after they finished their first ritual despite Aether’s guitar being too heavy, the helmet too big.

Phantom then peeks to the side of the platform and spots an empty stand, the pick growing hot in their pocket. They turn with fire blazing in their eyes, pointing an angry finger at Papa Perpetua.

"What did you do with Mabel?"

Their voice is gritty, laced with a quintessence crackle fueled by anger and sadness and grief. Perpetua, for his part, is extremely confused. He's in the middle of adjusting the settings on his earpiece and mic, unable to hear well. He feels Phantom more than he hears them, turning to come chest to chest with the boiling ghoul.

"Mabel. Where is she? You got rid of Swiss and now you're getting rid of her, too?"

Perpetua blinks at them, eyes wide with confusion.

"Frater needed the Swiss, who is the Mabel?"

Phantom feels their throat tighten, grip on their glamour slipping. Claws are beginning to peek through their fingertips, a tail starting to form in their shadow.

"Mabel," they shout unhelpfully, gesturing towards the platform. "His Mabel. I swear if you did anything to hurt her -"

Papa backs away from Phantom, hands raised in surrender. He's not yet bonded with the ghouls, and the way Phantom's fangs are starting to slip is leaving him with several feelings, but most of them are fear.

Phantom stalks forward, drawing attention from the other band members who quickly rise and ready themselves to intervene. That is, of course, until Rain's sharp voice echoes across the stage.

"Phantom, stop."

Phantom whips around full snarl to find Dew cradling Mabel, Swiss's acoustic guitar, gently in his arms.

"Sorry bug," he explains, limping closer with Rain's help. "Tech said one of the strings was about to blow, and I didn't want him touching it. Swapped and tuned for you."

"Dew, I -"

"Don't worry about it," Dew shrugs. "But maybe take it easy on the new guy."

Phantom looks over their shoulder at Papa, cheeks heating as realization set in.

"You gonna play it?" Rain asks, head tilted just to the side.

"Think so. I can handle some of the parts, and still do and bit of pedal work for limp biscuit over there."

Dew scoffs and tries to shuffle away, stopped by Rain's firm hand at his waist.

"Swiss would be proud, you know."

Phantom takes a deep breath and looks down at the acoustic guitar in their hands, gently thumbs at her strings.

"Gonna make sure he is," they promise, face steeling with resolution. "It'll be the best damn show anyone's ever seen."

[sicksoulmark]

For the @sterekdrabbles prompt: Fish, History, Soak.

"I'll go ahead and say it, I'm very disappointed in both of you." Stiles stands between his dad and Derek, looking from one to the other with a slow shake of his head. Derek is soaked, dripping lake water all over the deck of their rented cabin while the Sheriff does his best to avoid eye contact. Derek breaks first, sullen beneath his floppy fishing hat. "You're the one forcing us to 'bond'. Did you really think, given our history, your dad wouldn't jump at the chance to drown me?" "For Christ's sake, Hale, you fell passing me the rod."

[avarkriss]

*taps mic* IT IS ELI'S DAY OF BIRTH!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @beskars MWAH MWAH MWAH

birthday fluff set in the 🌊 au, for one of the most wonderful friends the pandemi led me to. 5 years of chaos and a single shared braincell, may your day be as wonderful as you are 🤍

"Are you sure you don't want to hang out a little longer, shirk your responsibilities? It is your birthday after all!"

Gwen was smiling at you in the rear-view mirror while Sophia softly laughed.

"I'm looking forward to going in," you shrugged, unbuckling your seat belt with a quiet click.

Sophia and Gwen exchanged a knowing look that you were about to question before they both moved to exit the car, each wrapping you in a fond hug.

"Hope you enjoy your cake," Sophia smiled, leaving you only slightly perplexed.

"Oh, is there cake at the bar?"

"You'll see," she smiled, and ducked back into the passenger seat before you could ask anymore questions.

"Happy birthday!"

The two of them smiled and bid you goodbye with a wave, and you made your way into The Last Wave to start your shift.

The bar was starting to bustle, a few minutes later than you'd normally arrive despite Gwen's promises to get you back on time. On time, she insisted, not two hours early. But regardless, as much fun as you had, you were looking forward to spending the evening with Vander.

Who, you noticed, was suspiciously missing from behind the bar.

"Why hello," Benzo called, stepping over to the batwing door, conveniently blocking your path. About as subtle as a bull in a china shop. "Have fun with Gwen and Sophia, then?"

"Of course! I also heard there was cake?" You tried to peek around him, get a glimpse of whatever surprise Gwen and Sophia hinted at.

Benzo laughed. "The cake is in his cottage, waiting for you."

You raised your eyebrow, poised to argue.

"Na-uh, you take it up with him. I was told to man this bar, and man this bar I will. You, on the otherhand, shoo."

"Shoo?"

"Shoo. To the cottage with ye."

You huffed with a good natured eyeroll and made your way out of the bar to knock on the cottage door, smiling up at Vander when he answered.

His hair is a bit of a mess, slipping out of the bun that's tied on the back of his head. His apron is splashed with what you can only guess is tomato sauce, and there's a slight bead of sweat on his brow.

"Come on in." His smile was warm and infectious, just as alluring as the smell of garlic wafting over from the kitchen.

"Benzo's on chief bar duty?"

"Yeah," he huffed. "Ella's gonna need a raise."

You laughed as you followed him to his kitchen, stopping to take in the spread of food he had laid out.

The small island had been dressed with a simple tablecloth, and two small votive candles burned in the center. There was a steaming lasagna with crispy edges, and a spinach salad off to the side, beautiful in its simplicity. What really caught your eye though, was the cut sourdough loaf - dotted with confited garlic and sundried tomatoes, the crust speckled with rosemary and oregano.

"You - you made all this?"

He wrapped his arm around your waist and hugged you close, whispering a gentle happy birthday, honey into your hair.

The meal was filled with easy conversation and comfortable silence, trading stories about your day with Gwen and Sophia for his day spent in the kitchen.

"The cashew ricotta definitely worked out better than the tofu one I tried, I'm glad that it came out well today. I was nervous."

You tilted your head. "Vander, how many vegan lasagnas have you made?"

A small blush rose in his cheeks.

"Ah, three. One to try out the tofu ricotta. One to try the cashew ricotta. And this one, of course. I think if I make another lasagna this month Vi is going to move out," he chuckled.

You could feel tears welling in your eyes, and he quickly reached across the table to take your hand.

It wasn't just that he made you dinner. It was that he took the time to research recipes, to try them ahead of time. That he took such care in crafting something, just for you. That he thought about you. No bouquet of flowers that would die in two days, no cheesy last minute hallmark card off the pharmacy discount rack. No box of chocolate that you couldn't eat anyways.

It was time, thought, and effort, all put into you. You didn't even have to ask for it - he was just there. Making moments without you having to ask.

"You totally put Sophia and Gwen up to taking me out and keeping me there, too, didn't you."

It wasn't a question, didn't need to be. His laugh told you everything you needed to know.

"Burnt the first batch of garlic," he shrugged. "Just needed a little more time."

You stood and pulled him into a hug, adjusting in his arms so he could fully envelope you.

"Thank you," you whispered, leaning against the warmth of his chest.

"Don't have to thank me, honey. It's your birthday, and you deserve it." He pressed a kiss to your temple before pulling away, making towards the refrigerator.

"Made this too," he smiled, real pride evident in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

He placed the cake on the island and gently nudged it towards you.

"I'd sing but, I don't want to ruin it."

You bumped him with your hip before grabbing a fork - it was your birthday, after all.

The cake was immaculate, thin layers of espresso kissed sponge that had been brushed with a delicate rose simple syrup. The filling was a pistachio crème pâtissière, with crushed toasted cardamom pistachios scattered over the top.

"Like that latte, from the coffeshop," he explained, taking his own bite.

"You made this?"

"Vi helped, but we got it done."

He said it so simply, like it didn't take hours of prep and chilling and assembly and prayer that it wouldn't fall over. He said it like it was easy, like handing you a clean rag at the bar. He said it like he'd do it again if you asked.

He said it like you were worth the effort.

He said it like he meant it.

Once the cake was packed away with the leftovers and the dishes were done (which Vander only let you help with because you refused to do nothing after all the cooking he had done today), he led you upstairs to his bedroom and let you settle on the bed.

He stood between your knees before slowly lowering himself to the ground, running his thumb along your jaw.

"Got another treat for you," he murmured, pulling you forward to meet your lips. You smiled into the kiss, letting one hand wrap over his shoulder, the other tugging at his waist.

When he finally broke away from he nuzzled at your ear, breath warm and words heavy.

"Get comfy honey, I need some more dessert."

[hopefromadoomedtimeline]

Traveling through time often could skew one's view of it quite significantly. Yesterday could be five years ago, an hour could've been last week, or a month could've actually been a few minutes. This had been a necessity for a certain swordsman, as there had been numerous reasons to travel through time more than once: Doomed futures, planet ending threats, or simply just wanting to check on timelines he had already been to. And of course, there were times where he unexpectedly landed in entirely different worlds other than is own due to unforeseen circumstances.

These visits varied from casual conversations to fighting to ensure no one gets killed by a maniacal monster. For the most part, they allowed him to build connections to people he never would've met otherwise, for his home lacked many things the worlds of others contained. Devastated by destruction for decades, the process of it healing was slower than many felt it should've taken. The large wastelands were only beginning to be sprinkled by greenery, the sounds of construction machinery were foreign to the ears of those who returned to the cities. It was hard for anyone attempting to rest with both eyes closed. Sometimes people looked towards the sky and held their breath as they waited for those two ominous figures to descend and rain hellfire upon the populace once more.

But they never came. They were truly gone. Taken down by someone who refused to give out his name. But they knew who he was. There was speculation on why he neglected the fame and the glory that came with saving the world, though they would spot him frequently, flying around like a mythical being. He'd be carrying food, or water to others, approaching strangers and asking them what they needed without prompting, and even helping rebuild houses alongside mother. There were some that feared him, believing his good intentions to be a facade to get others to lower their guards before he struck. And those who thought he merely was a false champion and the androids merely flew off somewhere to toy with another planet's population.

While those that speculated on what happened or denied his victory had earned some irritation from Trunks, he refused to let them eat away at him. He knew he avenged everyone, it didn't matter what others thought. All he thought about was how he was going to help his home heal.

But first, it was time to visit his own home. Having been away from it for quite some time, it would be nice to visit Scratch for a bit, maybe tinker on some machinery that he had found in his latest search for supplies, or just simply eat his fill and rest on his mediocre bed.

When he opened the door, he would call out to Scratch, who would give a small meow in response, earning the man's genuine chuckle. As he took a few steps inside, he'd be surprised to find Bulma, fast asleep in a chair, her head and arms resting against a table as she quietly snored the day away.

She was always the workaholic, there had been times where it would be weeks before they'd see each other, even before the time machine was first completed. But it was rare for her to come into the house to sleep, she'd often fallen asleep due to exhaustion in her workshop instead. Rather than question what changed, he would quietly make his way to the bedroom, and grab the sole blanket on top of it before returning to her and draping it over her body.

The gentle pressure causes the gadgeteer genius to stir, opening her weary eyes to spot her only son and putting a smile on her face as she attempted to get up. However, her son would urge her back to rest, which the rest of her body would agree with, even if Bulma would mutter some words in defiance. And following that, she mumbled some other words Trunks couldn't quite make out before she returned to sleep.

A kiss is placed atop her head before he now returns to his own needs, mainly food. He'd move to check the fridge in his kitchen, only for his eyes to widen in surprise as something immediately caught his eyes: a cake.

A small, white, misshapen cake, and with a single candle crudely stuffed onto the top, it was no mistake that this was his mother's attempt to bake. But it couldn't have been his birthday already, could it? He was only gone for a few days, his birthday wasn't for another month.

He'd scan for the calendar in his home, figuring his mother would've changed the dates while she stayed in his home. There were marks on the paper were made, one circle for the big day, and then sporadic slashes following it. It wasn't his birthday, it was a few weeks after. To think, she'd wait around hoping to be the first to wish her baby boy a happy birthday. She was typically the one to remind him anyway, even when they weren't living in times of peace.

He merely smiles as his gaze returns to his mother, and then to the fridge.

A few minutes later, he takes a knife to the cake, putting a slice for his mother, who now barely hung onto consciousness, and another to him, who would've barely remembered the occasion. And a bowl of cat food for Scratch, who was with them no matter what. It was just the three of them, but he couldn't ask for better company.

Bulma mumbled again, this time, her voice is a little louder than before, and he can make out the words.

"Happy Birthday Trunks."

[arcanaaa]

"Do not go far from me" and it's a promise they swore as children, hushed and in darkness, but a promise sealed in tiny pinkies locked hold little sanctity when in the face of cruel destiny.

"Do not go far from me" but forces beyond their control will inevitably meddle and conspire to change them, for better or worse, and this is faced with the cold, terrifying realization that for all their efforts to cling to one another, they will eventually drift apart.

"Do not go far from me" except Gray must walk a different path from the rest of his loved ones-- and especially from Cana. And she knows it.

"Do not go far from me" because Cana knows that death follows Gray. It has followed him, perhaps since the beginning. Since the destruction of his village and his family. It has touched him and stained him and he will never escape it, no matter how much he tries to bury his past in ice, it lingers beneath the surface watching. Waiting. Until it takes him for a brief second-- and then time spirits him from its grasp. For now.

"Do not go far from me" but no matter how much Cana pleads, she knows he will go where she cannot follow, and she has no choice but to let her brother go.

"Do not go far from me" and they won't. Not even death would keep them apart-- after all, they made a promise, right?

[offrozenmemoirs]

Cat in the Cradle

"It seems as if Vadu has deigned to give her blessing to your younger brother. I'll admit, I'm surprised that he was chosen, given his...deficiency."

Ariortos frowns as he listens to his father. He knew nothing of his sister, otherwise, he would've known that his brother, was a sister, and to speak of her as if she were useless because she couldn't call upon the elements...It annoyed him. Had he paid attention, he would know that she showed an interest in alchemy, a field that only a few from Nihiran took up as a study. Especially within the nobility, it was frowned upon for being seen as common work, but that hadn't mattered.

Part of him does feel a sting of jealousy at Nelia, the one member of their family who couldn't use magic, and she was the one who was chosen to be blessed by Vadu. It wasn't enough that she was the only one of them to be born with the hooves of a fiend, showing just how strong their hellish inheritance was within her.

[It seems almost unfair, to have put so much work into my practice, to become one of the greatest necromancers to ever graduate from the Graneyean Academy of the Arcane Arts, to have surpassed my grandfather...For someone who can't use magic, in a family known for magic, it makes no sense!]

He bites his tongue, controlling his body so that his tail doesn't lash in irritation. He tires of listening to his father speak about his sister, but it's not her fault that he's angry. Part of him knows it's wrong to be upset with Nelia, she didn't ask for the blessing, and had even went out of her way to cover up more and more to hide the changing pigmentation of her skin. Where there had been a rich, brown color matching their usual tone, splotches of red had been popping up and growing larger. She had come to him first, thinking that it had been a sign of sickness and that she was dying.

"Indeed. Though, I believe she is more afraid than anything. She does nott understand what is going on, at such a sensitive age...Nelia is panicking. Perhaps it would do her well to have you explain the changes?"

Leonardo raises an eyebrow once his son speaks, and where he might've shrunk under the other's gaze before, Ariortos simply stares back at him, eyes hidden behind his glasses. He could never read his son anymore, as if he never relaxed, or let himself be known by others. Rafan stuck to herself, even moreso once she began to work as Vadu's enforcer...Naeem, no, Nelia, when had that happened? Liyan was far too young to do anything other than babble and crawl around, and he left her to be cared for by his wife.

"I suppose you have a point. I'll make a note to have a talk with her. To explain the gift she's been given. Lack of magic or not, she's the one who will lead us to greater heights. Vadu's blessing has not manifested in centuries. She shall come to understand her role within the house soon enough."

Ariortos gives a stiff nod, waiting to be dismissed from his father's office. His eyes scan the room, despite being highborn, he never liked being in here. Everything was far too gaudy, gilded portraits, a collection of his father's accomplishments, but what stood proudly above the fireplace, was the head of a dragon, its bones perfectly preserved.

He never liked the idea of such majestic creatures being reduced to trophies of all things. He understand the history and them being reduced to near extinction, but to have done this...Horns capped in gold, spiraling along the grooves, ruby red gemstones placed in the eyes, engravings done to the bones, and filled with silver...It did not deserve the fate of being a trophy.

"By your leave, father."

Before Leonardo could say anything, he hears his son's retreating footsteps, broken from his thoughts.

[I remember when he used to hang on to every word of mine. How he would always ask me how to apply magic to more practical uses. Where has the time gone?]

He sits in silence, contemplating just how little he knew about his children nowadays. Had he become the same person his father had been to him? No, he couldn't have been that bad. At the very least, he acknowledged his children.

Ariortos found his way to his own office, much less decorated than his father's, a simple setup, with more lab equipment within it, and built to be functional over fashionable. Within it, sat a simple desk, with no decorations, save for a photo of himself and Corvus on their graduation date. He had even smiled, or what his friend teased him as a smile. Really, it had been more of a quirk of the lip than anything. His window was open, letting some air in. He sighs as he sinks into his chair, opening a drawer at the bottom of his desk. Within it, sat a bottle of Avernian Fire Wine, he never drank, but he couldn't refuse the gift from his only friend.

He could brew some tea right now, but he felt exhausted. He sat up, preparing to get up until he saw a familiar head of hair peeking within his doorway.

"Come in, Nelia. I can see you hiding within my doorway."

"Nuh-uh."

His lips twitch in an urge to smile.

"What do you mean, 'nuh-uh'? You are not intangible."

He hears her giggle as she steps into his office, wearing a smile. Ariortos knows that things have changed, she is chosen, and he was not...But does she deserve to be punished for that?

"You said you'd spend time with me today, big brother, so I'm here to bother you, now that...dad's not spending time with you."

He hates how her smile falls at talking about their father...Sperm donor, really, it's not as if he's ever made any effort to spend time with them or get to know them. He's been the one who really took care of Rafan and Nelia, and he knew that. She carries a book of alchemy, the basics, but she's already taken to it like someone years above her own.

"Do not fret over him. Pull up a chair, we shall go over the applications of alchemy for combat today. I know you have been excited for that portion of lessons, correct?"

As quick as it faded, it came back in full force, and she excitedly took a seat next to him. She already begins questioning him, and he smiles at her.

[Perhaps she has been chosen for a reason. But she does not deserve my anger. No, I shall reserve that for father and Vadu.]

Right now, he took a small pleasure in getting to help his sister come into her own. If only to assuage her feelings of inadequacy, he would be happy to help her understand that she could be just as great as any member of House Zarin, if she put the effort in.

[valentinesparda]

here we are, reminded of how we're doomed.

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

the walls are far too close together, every inch of surface covered in plastered posters and ripped paper. this part of town is juniper's least favourite, but marble was the only place to be where they could be themself. and maybe it was because they'd recently seen a few more dead bodies than they're comfortable with, maybe it was the desperate crush that they'd managed to fall into, but being by date's side was the safest place they could be as of late.

"maybe i should find a place to stay tonight. the kumakura boys know where i live, and you seemed to make a bad first impression on them by asking a bunch of questions." juniper waddles past an overfilled trash bin, trailing behind date by a few feet.

"just doing my job, you know." he turns to face them while still walking, yellow eye glowing in the dark. jun skips a couple of steps to be closer to the detective, and date cringes at the sound of how heavy their boots are against the stone walkway.

"you could be louder," he jokes, and jun immediately halts in response to his dry words. perhaps they had been a tad bit annoying. their small "sorry" is second nature to them, and they're worried date is about to scold them even more when they notice he's stopped walking as well.

a pause. date snaps his head toward the lamplight parting two buildings ahead of them, and as quick as he had done so, he's taking tentative steps back towards juniper. their head is tilted, and before they can even ask what the hell he's doing, he has his hand in theirs and pulling them deeper into the darkness they had barely just emerged from.

juniper feels their heart jump in their chest, a kickstart of paranoid thoughts and quickened pulse as they find a particularly shadowy area out of sight to nestle into, date's body caging them in without a second thought.

a meek noise sounds out from the back of their throat, a question that will not receive an answer, and for several quiet moments the two of them stand there, unmoving, as they hear the sound of heavy footsteps and muffled chatter. and for those several moments, starting from when date braces himself with a hand against the wall next to their head, juniper feels uncomfortably warm.

they don't dare make a sound, because who knows who could be traipsing about after hours? or maybe they would be able to think better if they weren't able to smell the kind of body wash date used. they're sure they recognize it, but--

dammit, this isn't the time to be distracted. some goon with a gun could turn the corner at any moment, and they'd be caught unawares. juniper knows they can't handle themself in a fight, and it's possible date would prefer to not engage any criminals, which leaves them scant for options - and thus, pressed firmly against a heavy wood panel.

"aiba says we're clear," date whispers, his sights still focused on hazy lamplight ahead of him. when he finally tears his worried gaze away from it to check on his small florist friend, he realizes what he's done.

their hair is wild as ever, close enough that he can smell their shampoo, and their thick brows are furrowed, lips downturned and jaw set with anxiety. date feels his throat is dry at the same time that he's realized that he's spent possibly too long looking down at them. he feels as though he might start hacking up a lung when juniper casts a curious glance up at him.

oh.

juniper feels their breath hitch in their throat. date's artificial eye is a blazing yellow in this proximity, making his naturally green one seem oddly drab in comparison. they notice his lips pull into a thin line, mirroring their own, and against their better judgement they let out a shuddering sigh into the cold air between them.

oh.

date tells himself to relax, to not clench his jaw so tight, to not stare too long, and his lips part in a shaky breath. but now that they've locked eyes, it's impossible not to feel himself drift closer and closer to them, like magnets drawn together. he can feel the grain of wood beneath his palm, even through the fabric of his purple gloves. juniper has ridges digging into their back with how far they've pressed themself into the wall.

oh, no.

juniper can feel his breath fan across their face, cooling the warm blush that has bloomed beneath the pale skin of their cheeks. they're scared stupid, but not so stupid that they give in to the urge to pull him as close as they could, to press their chapped lips against his, because from this distance his lips look so soft in comparison to their own.

before they can do anything dumb, date squeezes his eyes shut, his face scrunched in a look of annoyance.

"um, date, are-are you okay?" they stutter, the question barely audible enough for themself to know they've asked it, what with their heart hammering in their head.

"I'm fine. just...." he hisses, tapping his left temple with a single finger, "have an unwilling audience."

juniper lets out a small snort of a laugh, still a bit dazed from nervousness. they tilt their head, and with a gentle voice, they coo, "aiba, are you making fun of him?"

date feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, a breathless chuckle leaving him lightheaded. "she is. says my hormone levels are spiking or whatever."

juniper nods. it's a sour feeling, knowing that they have to be the one to ruin the moment - if that was a moment, they double back around to overthinking. "maybe we shouldn't be out in the open like this."

in a last bid for some sort of contact, some sort of flirtation, they push themself from the wall, and date is taken off guard by this. he watches them with an astonished look in his eyes, pulling his arms back down to his side as he takes step after step in time backward while they move forward. perhaps it was too bold of them, to hold his attention the whole time, a suggestive tango of push and pull until they're left standing in the middle of the alleyway the way they had been before.

there's a moment's hesitation on date's end, where he looks back towards the light at the end of the alley and then drags his gaze back to juniper. with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat - for fear of his hands wandering, finding something to grab, with his body aching for the touch of their skin having been ripped away - he finally breaks the silence.

"do you still want to get a drink?"

[ephemeralove]

blood on the whetstone

Rusalka reminds her of what she can never cease to be.

When she was little, she had wanted a mother... though not specifically a mother, per se. She had wanted a family, a friend, a companion, a confidant -- she had wanted someone, anyone, who when they reached out their hand would not strike her down, but pull her back up. She had wanted to be loved.

By the time she arrives in Rusalka, Katarina has been slotted into the place where she belongs. Like one piece out of many to fashion a weapon, she is pointed twice over: first by the church towards the terrible unknown, and second by their guide Keranes. She presents them neither crimes nor comfort -- only familiar faces with which to bloody their hands. They number fourteen, a perfect mirror, and by their sacrifice they might dismantle this illusory village and cut the evil from its heart. Yet look as she might, all Katarina sees are the faces of those who have been loved.

Then one rainy day there came a woman robed in lovely colors-- a lady, not a mother -- who extended her hand. Not that Reese had known what to do with it. She shrank away as violets do, staring, quivering, scared. At that, the woman had laughed. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could not hear how still no one ever had. My name is Eremiyah, the woman had said, and that would be the first and only time Reese called her by name alone. Eremiyah, she had repeated, and there were stars in her eyes.

And there are stars in her eyes, brilliant, blue, and bright. The confusion of why Kris is here is rarely ever comparable to the joy of the simple fact of it. Her hand hovers by his elbow, but when he speaks, she knows: he is not her Kris. Perhaps he is not even Kris at all. Keranes' words echo in the back of her skull, a death knell that calls for half his number, but in her selfishness she does not want to give him up, not even if he is false. She worries that this will be their undoing, and worries more that she might regret not following him when he pulls away.

Her chin, poised between thumb and forefinger; the first hand to hold and not to hurt. "You'll do as I say. Won't you, Reese?" Pressure placed lightly at the point of bone. She could break away, if she wanted to, but then she would disappoint her. Clarisse would scoff, and Roro would laugh in the way she'd learned she didn't like. Blood smears on the fine edge of a blade Reese hesitates to hold, beading against the soft flesh of her palm, and Lady Eremiyah smiles the smile she would do anything for. "After all, your life exists for mine."

The sun has only just kissed its zenith in the sky when she looks down upon a young man's corpse. The first attempt on his life comes from the very man who had loved him into this place; the first to claim it from a girl whose mercy is to usher him away once more. It is through their first incendiary actions that Rusalka's soil turns copper and foul, though she cannot find it in herself to blame them. If not them, then someone else would have broken this tepid peace. Someone else would have hated her for the blood they spilled, faulted her for the crimes she learned because of them. Rusalka is not so different from Knorda.

Knorda was only ever beautiful when it was silent. Reese had never loved it, but she had liked it most when the night swept away the day and all its angels went to sleep, so that finally she could scrabble through the garbage for a bite to eat, and finally she could have a moment of rest until morning's first unfriendly heel found her ribs again. They were what Lady Eremiyah taught her not to be -- no, she was a weapon of a different kind. Her timidity, her soft-spoken manner, every facet of who she was refashioned into a tool until she could no longer trust herself. ...until she learned that earnestness was the best way to slip a knife between the ribs.

On their second morning, she is minded of Altea Castle -- not before her departure, but after her return. The once-and-no-longer tactician wears all the mistrust and suspicion with the familiarity of one who would be uncomfortable without it, instead standing at a lonesome edge in contemplation of her worry. Such mundane things as were her joy before (Had he eaten enough? Slept enough? He wasn't hiding any injuries, was he?) are vanished in the moment; are her sorrow now. And for good reason: Kris never comes back.

She killed because she was told to, because that was what she was made to be, and because-- she knew well this was the truth-- she had never chosen for herself to be better. In the end, she still never chose for herself, but for a bright blue star. He was the first to offer his hand and let her be; without carving her, without remaking her, she was enough for him the way she was. And he had laughed for her, once. It was a beautiful sound; no one had ever laughed for her before; and so she could finally hear how wonderful it was to be loved.

The path out of Rusalka they cut for themselves (she is not alone in her mourning, in her worry and sorrow) ends with a body. He lays in the dirt like some half forgotten thing, like his corpse is a pedestal to triumph, and Katarina hates it. Loathes it. Herself most of all for the fact that she will continue regardless of if he is true and real, because death is absolution for a sinner, and the things (the person) he loves remain behind.

The path into what she supposed was her home was as dark as she remembered, for she and they had lived there, and it was never a place meant for lovable things. But there was something worth saving now, though he would live on without her, and though he did not need to be saved. Yet he was the choice she made, and so she led them, light into the darkness.

One final act of defiance, the metaphorical guillotine at her throat--

--the metaphorical guillotine at his throat, the weapon he once polished now having bled him dry--

--the weapon she once polished now having bled her dry, and Katarina leaves her body in the dirt, blood sticky beneath her hands--

--and Katarina leaves his body in the dirt, wildflowers mournful beneath his hands, and it terrifies her that she has no answer for the question heavy at the back of her mind.

Am I... different than I was back then?

They return to Rusalka; light ebbs into darkness ebbs into light. She considers in frenetic, wounded, resentful cycles all manner of things: Who was it? Did they think he was real? Why did they choose him? Was his blood so easy to spill? They make a torrent, a maelstrom, gnashing the kindness she wants to be between the fangs of heartache. And Keranes asked this of them, did she not? She had set them upon their hearts and by this upon each other, a tepid why offered without so much as a how -- and they all had been so happy to oblige.

...In the end, she does not kill because she chooses not to, even if choice has been a hard thing to learn.

(The blade remains sharp, for the past can never be unmade. It is part of her, and she is Katarina: a lady's broken blade, the king's knife, and the sum of the love she has been given & the blood on the whetstone.)

[baenakinskywalker]

didn't stay dead

rating: t

words: 466

a/n: next drabble! for @fuckyesfeysand's dreams and nightmares prompt: what if feyre and nyx died at the end of acosf, but rhys didn't?

read on ao3!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The smell of blood and sweat filled the room. My own screams echoed off the walls, and I strained against Cassian and Azriel, who were holding me back from Feyre, dying in bed as Madja tried her damnedest to stop the bleeding. To right the wrong. To beg my mate to take another breath.

Elain and Nesta held each other, hardly able to breathe themselves for crying out. Cursing the Mother, the Cauldron, all of it. In Mor’s arms, our son. Too small, too pale, completely silent.

I was moments away from death, too.

“Let me go,” I begged, voice hoarse. “Just. Let. Me.” I pulled harder against my brothers’ hands gripping my arms. “Hold. Her.”

The bond between us, that shimmering, beautiful thing that had saved me at my lowest moment — that had saved Feyre, too, once — went taut. A hot poker beneath my skin, trying to burst out. Pain ripped through my body unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Was this what dying felt like? On my next inhale, I felt it: the bond was gone.

Feyre was dead.

My mate.

My best friend.

The High Lady of the Night Court.

That starving girl in the woods.

Dead.

I howled, and finally Cassian eased up. Knowing I had mere seconds left, he whispered something to Azriel, who let me out of his grip. In an instant, I was holding Feyre’s still body. She was pale, blood painting her thighs and abdomen, yet still beautiful. Soon, I would be with her again. I would be with our son again.

“I love you,” I sobbed against her parted lips. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be right there.”

I waited for death to take me, too.

And waited.

And waited.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and I was still alive. Still breathing. Still missing the bond like a limb. I still clung to Feyre, body going cold under my grasp. Why the fuck was I still alive?

Madja tried to move me away from Feyre. I growled, something completely animal taking over. I was supposed to be with her. “Wait. Just wait!”

Mor placed the baby, now wrapped in an inky black blanket, in the crook of Feyre’s stiff elbow and murmured a few words I couldn’t make out. Amren guided everyone out of the bedroom, and I heard her ancient voice as she said, “Perhaps the Cauldron doesn’t think it’s his time, bargain or no.”

My blood ran cold.

“Please,” I whispered, “you have to take me. We had a deal.”

Nothing replied. I took another breath. My heart beat steadily in my chest.

“I demand that you let me die.” I was the High Lord of the Night Court. The most powerful High Lord in history. Surely I could command my own death.

And yet I lived.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[hexellent]

His legs felt like lead, his ears were ringing and time seemed to be moving in slow motion.

He was stronger than this, he knew he was. It should be nothing to pull the dangling hedgehog up from danger, a pit of deadly debris, metal and concrete promising fatal concequences for the speedster. But the guardian's body was beaten, bruised and exhausted, the last of his reserves used up just trying to stay alive.

He couldn't remember exactly what was going on, too concerned with the situation he was in. One that was figuratively and literally slipping away from him. Sonic pleaded for his life, begging Knuckles to pull him up, what was he waiting for?

He was trying, but for all his efforts, it only served to make the speedster slip from his hands all the more. Each tug proving more and more useless. He could feel tears welling up in his vision, panic reaching a crecendo as he gave every bit of energy he had left into trying to lift his best friend up.

But it was all for nothing.

In a blink, all that was left in his hand was the tatered remains of Sonic's clove, the owner having slipped free and dropped to the earth from their great altitude.

He could hear himself screaming, feel his throat burning with the sound as he watched the only person he ever fully trusted, cared for, loved, plummet down, down, down until--

"SONIC--!"

The guardian shoots upwards, arm outstretched to grab at something that wasn't there. Their chest heaved with heavy, panicked breaths, mind working overtime to try and peice together what just happened. They sat in a limbo of reality and dreams until a vloce broke the silence.

"...Knuckles?"

Still wide, teary lilac eyes snap to the owner of the familair voice, staring silently at him as if they weren't sure he was real.

It didn't take longer than a moment for Sonic to realize something was wrong. The knucklehead rarely had such a frightened and broken look on his face, if at all. It made his stomach turn, and he wasted no time in speeding his way up the steps of the shrine.

"Hey, what happened? Are y--"

Sonic is stopped short of reaching out to the guardian, his wrist snatched up quick by a shaking hand. Knuckles stopped looking at him, head down and eyes hidden from his friend. But their breathing didn't calm.

His face softenining, he slowly gets down on his level, crawling into Knuckles' lap while facing him, legs on either side of the echidna's waist to get as close as possible. It wasn't until Sonic hooked his chin over Knuckles' shoulder that he finally let go of Sonic's wrist to opt for squeezing him tightly, arms and legs curled protectively around him.

There's a long silence as Sonic has one hand at the nape of Knuckles' neck and the other soothing up and down his back.

"I'm okay Knux..."

"...I know--"

"M' not goin' anywhere."

"This is stupid."

"Not at all."

Not many words were exchanged, but not many needed to be. They understood one another, their intentions, and needs. They've know each other long enough to understand without preamble.

[primeministerofantarctica]

Kalim: It's pride month Jamil you know what that means

“Jamil! JAMIL!”

On his only day off that month, Jamil Viper was rudely awoken by incessant pounding on his bedroom door. 

He groaned and rolled over. Maybe if he ignored him, Kalim would get the hint and go away. 

He should have learned by now not to wish for the impossible. 

Kalim opened the door and bounded into his room, jumping onto his bed. 

“Jamil, wake up!” He shook him. “Guess what today is!” 

Jamil pressed his face deep into his pillow and muttered some things that might have gotten him fired if Kalim had half a mind to pay attention to his surroundings.

“It’s the pride festival!” He announced. “We have to go!”

This made Jamil turn his head a little bit, if only to glare at the other boy. 

“No.”

“Jamil!” Kalim gasped, incredulous. Then he added in a low voice, almost as if he were afraid of the answer, “Do you…do you not support gay rights?”

“Do I-” Jamil spluttered, sitting up despite himself. “Kalim, I am gay!” 

“Really?” Kalim beamed, attempting to hug him despite Jamil’s best efforts to push him off. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you, Jamil!” 

“You saw me kiss Azul last month!” Not one of his finer moments, to be sure, but when Kalim had closed the closet door with a sheepish smile and “sorry!” he’d thought at least some hint would’ve parsed through his thick skull. 

“I thought you were just kissing the homies!”

“I was kissing the homies. Homosexually.”

“So you do support gay rights?”

Jamil resisted the urge to facepalm. “Yes, obviously.”

“Oh, great! So we can go together, then!”

“No.” Jamil said flatly. 

“But you just said-” 

“Just because I support gay rights doesn’t mean I don’t also support my right to sleep in,” he said as he flopped back onto the mattress. “If you really wanted me to go so badly, you shouldn’t have approved today as my day off.”

Kalim pouted. “Aw, but I didn’t know it was today-”

“I wrote it on the calendar with rainbow pen. I circled it twice. I set reminders on your cell phone. Exactly how you managed to miss it is beyond me.”

Kalim just laughed and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Okay, okay, but will you still-”

“No. Non. Nada. Nope.”

Kalim sighed loudly. He really wanted to go to the pride festival this year. “Pretty please? I don’t want to go alone….”

“Doesn’t one of your uncles own a bank? Ask if you can ride on his float.”

“He has a float?”

“Banks always have floats.”

“Huh.” Kalim frowned thoughtfully. He really wanted to be able to walk around and see all the vendors and shops and talk to people, but being on a float would lessen the chance of getting stabbed in the back in the middle of the crowds. If he didn’t eat anything, either….

“I still wish you would come, though.”

“You know what I wish for? Sleep.”

“What if I gave you the day off tomorrow? Would you come then?” 

Jamil huffed. “You are seriously misunderstanding the definition of day off.”

“But-”

“Kalim.” Jamil turned to look at him. “Why is this so important to you anyways?”

Kalim found himself squirming under the other boy’s intense gaze. 

“I just thought it would be nice to go together….” 

Jamil sighed. Of course Kalim would enjoy the pride festival, he loved any and all types of parties, but he’d never been so dead-set on going before. 

“And, uh,” he added in a small voice, “maybe some…other reason, now?”

Jamil’s eyebrows knit in brief confusion. He blinked. Then-

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “Are you seriously trying to guilt trip me into coming to the pride festival by pretending to come out?”

Kalim looked affronted. “I am not pretending! I really am coming out!”

“Kalim, I already know you’re gay, you made out with Leona the first week of school!”

“That was just-”

“Do not say ‘kissing the homies’,” Jamil growled. 

“Fine,” Kalim huffed. Then added, “And I’m not gay, I’m bi.”

“That’s great,” Jamil deadpanned. “I mean, uh, I’m proud of you too?”

Kalim beamed. “Oh, thanks! That means a lot coming from you, you know?”

“I’m sure it does.” Yeesh. 

“Okay, so what if I gave you the whole week off? And I promise I won’t ask you for anything, or talk to you, or even look at you-”

Jamil sighed longsufferingly. “...Fine.”

“Wait, seriously?”

He grimaced. He knew a losing battle when he fought one, and there was no way Kalim was going to leave him alone now. 

“But I’m getting two weeks off. Paid vacation. Far away.”

Kalim grinned. “Deal!”

[gongzhuyue]

Everything was on fire.

Every part of her burned terribly. Her blood was boiling as the temperature got higher and higher.

Yet not a single part of her was burning; not a single hair on her head had so much as a bit of singed or any part of her smoking. Such was the protection given to her by the man whose tongue she didn't understand.

Their screams were in her head, as they faded one by one, the connections she had made over the last five years. People who had become integral part of her being cut off, like rotting limbs that served no purpose. Like cancer cells being excised from her one at a time. It was painful and uncomfortable. After all, even if they were nothing more than tumors, it hurt. It hurt to have parts of you taken away, removed, until all that was left was just you and your own thoughts.

She'd sobbed and cried as she was carried away by the strange man, who tried to soothe her. In broken Chinese, calling her 'treasure'. Or maybe he had meant 'baby'.

Everything about her was being ripped off, laying her metaphorically bare.

The comfort of being connected to so many, of having their memories, their voices, their hearts -- all gone. And she was not able to convey anything to this man who took her out of that place that kept her locked up, other than simple pain. That her shrieks and screams were simply that of a frightened child.

And maybe, in the end, that was all that it was. The helpless cries of a child.

Little did he know, this was the lament of a child god, who mourned her lost kingdom. The people she watched over and shepherded according to the laws and rules of their closed off world within the tower.

It burned, as if he were dragging her through cleansing fire. And when they got to the other side, she was just a lost child unsure of where she belonged. Murmuring that this was all for her benefit. It was good for her.

Oh, how she had raged against him originally, set creature upon creature upon him and others in order to keep every outsider away from her closed off world. Made herself a monster until he finally breached the last wall, the last door, the final lock --

Until all he could find was a little girl, curled up with her dead dog, just wanting to be left alone to mourn. And even though she had done many evils within the walls of her tower, to him she had only been a scarred child unable to even remove his hands from her. Could only uselessly beat against his chest as he picked her up and pulled her away from the corpse of her dearest friend and family.

How he made sure everything that once belonged to her burned -- burned for her own good. No more connections. No more memories. No more of the world that had been built all around her.

She had to start again, rising from the ashes.

[hopefromadoomedtimeline]

Trunks loves his world, he really does.

It's a post apocalyptic world with decades of death and suffering, but it's a world that he calls his home. A world that he hopes could grow and bloom in times where its population would no longer be hunted by nightmares and monsters. A world that would never heal quickly, but one that would have the potential to repair that damage one way or the other over time.

There are worlds full of color and life Trunks had never thought possible, but he never once believed that the damaged state of the world was a permanent one. All he ever knew were shades of greys and browns, and yet he delighted in the idea of seeing brilliant hues of greens and blues. A world he would help heal, a world he would help fix, no matter how long it took.

It was a version of the world that many would've abandoned the first chance they got, but not he. He wanted the best for the planet, and the humans that remained upon it. It was his home, and he'd give his life for it a thousand times over.

[arcanaaa]

To @shinebrightlikealion, the love of my life, my partner, and my beloved friend, Happy Anniversary! Here's to celebrating 11 years of our friendship and the ship that we've built lovingly through blood, sweat, and tears. Here's my gift to you, and I hope to celebrate many more years together.

An argument between man and beast was not the scene Cana expected to encounter, and certainly not this late in the morning. For Cana, it was becoming a routine to wake to the sounds of the hustle and bustle in her small kitchen while the food was prepared for Loke and herself. But she didn’t expect her lover to berate their newest addition: Sol.

“Look, as a man with a certain familiarity with feline nature, I know you have instincts that you cannot control-- however, I will not abide by your wanton destruction of my plants!”

“Mrow!”

“I won’t hear any more of your excuses Sol, if I catch you biting my plants again, you’re going in the carrier.”

Cana winced in sympathy. Poor Sol. At this moment, the Seer chose this time to walk out into the living room and approach the irate Lion. She couldn’t quite contain her amusement, as it was apparent when her arms slipped around his waist from behind the chuckle that slipped past her lips. “Caught him chewing on the leaves again?”

“Yes!” The Lion responded with a terse sigh. “He’s already chewed one of the leaves off my Pothos-- which, by the way are toxic to cats-- and nearly killed it!”

Cana hummed sympathetically. “I take it Sol didn’t eat the leaf?”

“No, I took it out of his mouth before he could, the little--” Loke sighed. “I don’t understand why he’s so fixated on eating my plants.”

“Maybe he’s bored?” Cana said. “Or hungry?”

“I fed the beast this morning,” Loke looked at her, offended. “I might be annoyed with the little beast, but I still make sure he’s fed Cana.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Cana soothed, leaning up on her tip-toes to give his chin a kiss. “I know you take good care of him Loke.” She stroked her fingers through his hair, fluffing the signature ‘ears’ of his hair style playfully before flashing him a small smile. “Even if you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Loke corrected. “I’m simply establishing a boundary, as someone who is in charge.”

“Are you now?” Cana quirked her eyebrow, her lips ticking up in further amusement. “You think that you’re the man in charge, mm?”

Loke stilled. “Aren’t I not the man in charge?” He countered, a certain curiosity threading through the notes of his voice.

Cana hummed. “Well...if we’re being completely honest here...I think you’re forgetting who really runs things…”

Cana circled around him, her hands tracing around his back until she stood in front of him, her fingers lightly sliding up and down the silk pattern of his tie. Teasingly. “You might be in charge elsewhere, Loke,” Cana said softly. “But right now, the only person who is in charge right now…”

Suddenly she tightened her fingers around his tie.

“...is me.”

The Seer suddenly yanked the tie, pulling him down so her mouth could catch his, locking her lips with his in a teasing, passionate kiss. Cana may not be physically strong by comparison, but she can bring any man down to their knees without resorting to a contest of strength. With Loke, she didn’t need to exercise any physical tactics to prove she was the one in charge. All she needed was a soft touch and a kiss and he was all hers.

Their kiss lasted until she parted for air. But their mouths hovered close, as if they were on the verge of resorting back to their passionate kissing session.

“...mm...point taken,” Loke murmured huskily. “Forgive me for overstepping. I’m not sure what came over me,” His thumb caught her bottom lip and caressed the flesh, stroking back and forth in a teasing manner. “Though, I’m happy to receive another reminder...as many times as needed, if you would indulge me~.”

“First, you need to earn that reminder, starting with feeding me,” Cana retorted with a cheeky smile. “And second, not while Sol is watching. He might get jealous.”

“You’re worried he would get jealous?” Loke responded incredulously. “And not the man who’s making you breakfast?”

“Sol’s just a little baby,” She said defensively, turning to gather the disgruntled orange cat in her arms. “He doesn’t understand that what we have is not for his eyes.”

“On that we can agree.” Loke replied before smiling and shaking his head ruefully. Cana watched as he went to the kitchen to resume making breakfast-- a task he had been doing before lecturing her cat-- before she kissed the top of Sol’s head and carried him over to the spare room. With him safely put away, Cana could return to enjoy her meal in peace-- and perhaps the man who made it.

[offrozenmemoirs]

What Do You Fight For?

Seraph sits on the ground, exhaling softly. His spear and sword rest next to him, his eyes are closed, and the top half of his armor lay discarded on the other side of him. Meditation after his training sessions was how he grounded himself once more, working off stress from his duties, and the ever growing presence of Khorne within his mind.

He should be getting some sleep, but after his time with Soup, he was restless. He reluctantly climbed out of bed, redressing himself and heading out to the beachfront. The salty scent of the sea filing his nose, and feeling the sand shift beneath his boots. The moonlight itself looked rather beautiful, but bought him no reprieve from the thoughts in his mind. The beach is empty, given the narrowly averted catastrophe that just happened, Seraph understands their aversion to any midnight strolls along the beach. It was oddly quiet, aside from the sound of rolling waves.

He thinks of the future confrontation between the group and the leader of this tribe of Cetaceans. From what he recalls, they're big on honor and strength. He was banking on that to get a duel with the leader of this tribe, if he won, he would be acknowledged as strong enough to do as he wished. A duel doesn't need to end with the death of either combatant, but...

"Do you honestly believe such a proud creature like that would yield to you? How convenient would that be?"

The echo of the chaos god's words is still clear in his mind. He struggles with the urges that come with combat, to rend apart all of his enemies, and with how fiercely he can fight sometimes...To say that Khorne is pleased with that would be an understatement. Though, that's not to say he's the only one who apparently likes how Seraph gets in battle.

"Sometimes it scares me, a little... but you know what? I like it. I swear, when we were out cold... I was dreaming, wishing to experience some of what you unleashed near that lighthouse."

The words of his lover cause a faint smile to flicker across his face, before he steels his expression once more. It's odd, not having many voices in his head, to hold conversations with the Deathwatchers, or occasional conversations with his father. Seraph's mind has been mostly quiet, with the occasional comment from Khorne, or conversations with Freya. It's odd, and he misses the presence of his father and Pharasma.

"You were quite fierce in battle. Leaping into the skies to impale your foes and then scattering them...A spear suits you much better than that scythe you had. But then there's that sword of yours...What a marvelous piece of steel. Frigid to the touch, and it only seems to like you as its master. You've done well to christen it in blood as of late."

It was true that Skadi was temperamental about who touched her, giving people a nasty case of frostburn when they touched her hilt. Even Rok had spoken about how he never touched the blade after he forged it. It had been a comfort, to have a sword similar to Joseph, especially while his scythe was being reforged into a spear. It too, held a name, Susano'o, a Kitaian deity of storms, if he was recalling his studies correctly. He couldn't put his finger on it, but, it felt right to give the weapon forged from his very soul such a name. Susano'o was much like its master, seeking a purpose, to grow into what it was meant to be.

"What will you do if you cannot convince this 'Storm Thief' to stand down?"

Seraph frowns, knowing that in Cetacean culture, in some tribes, surrender was akin to being shamed. For someone christening himself as the Storm Thief, having stolen Rhalgr's trident, had the power to back up his name. Though it was a power that wasn't earned, and in a strange sense, perhaps he agreed with Khorne's assessment, another warlord looking to make a name for themselves.

"If he doesn't surrender, then I'll do what I must and end him. Nothing more, nothing less."

Khorne hums in acknowledgement of Seraph's answer.

"And if someone comes for revenge? If you kill him, you'll have to deal with the fallout."

The elf doesn't have an answer, and it's clear on his face, lips curling into a frown.

"If I can make a suggestion...Perhaps it would be better to kill him in such a way that any challengers would be petrified. Tear him apart, rip his throat out with your teeth. Bathe in his blood and let them know that challenging you is to court death itself."

Seraph opens his eyes, to see someone standing in front of him, he doesn't want to look up, knowing what he'll see. Yet, he meets the other's gaze, staring himself in the face, a wicked grin that was far too wide, filled with teeth sharpened like knives, and that damnable blazing, piercing red gaze. He wishes that Khorne didn't stand in front of him, the waves rolling past his ankles. The shadow walks forward, staring down at Seraph, meeting his gaze as he begins to speak.

"It's always better to be feared, Seraph. Many think of me as someone obsessed with killing, to see my enemies scattered to the winds. I enjoy my bloodshed, of course, but I know the power of a reputation as well. You know that you must do whatever it takes to protect the innocent. Even if they hate you for it, they will still be alive to do so. There's still honor in shedding blood for justice."

Seraph isn't naive enough to believe that. Even if he agrees that the innocent must be protected.

"I'm not foolish enough to believe that you have my best interests at heart. You tried setting Soup's blood on fire. You and I shall never be friends, nor allies. Not after all you've done to my family and loved ones."

A dark chuckle leaves the doppelganger's lips. Seraph hates looking at Khorne because he sees himself bulging with muscle, covered in ritualistic scarring and nails more akin to claws. He sees a vicious mockery of himself, and his once blue eyes are now entirely red, blazing with a crazed fury. Veins alight with an unholy glow, as if his very blood had turned to fire. Interestingly, Khorne didn't take his current appearance into account; instead, he had his original black hair, which was shorter, with daemonic horns. It's almost a mockery of his draconic heritage. It scares him more than seeing Makoto ever did. Perhaps it reminded him of the patient ward in Ingora, where that man begged him for forgiveness. It's a reminder of what he could've been had he continued on his path…Or what he could still become if he ever lost his way.

"Say what you will, Seraph. But you're a perfect candidate for my teachings. How many did you kill in that last fight? How many of your foes died screaming? Cetaceans don't often have fear struck into them, but you...You're something special. After all, I wouldn't have my eye on you if I thought you weren't worth my time. You have my favor...My blessings will give you strength beyond strength, if you would accept me."

Seraph says nothing in response, instead, grabbing Skadi. He unsheathes his blade, and cuts the mockery of himself down, watching as Khorne's form fades into the air. He almost expected blood and guts to spill out, but instead a black mist is the only reward for his efforts. He ignores the laughter leaving its lips, a deep, rumbling tone that he's come to associate with the god of blood. He would never accept Khorne's offers. Power always came with a price, no matter the source. He resumes training, not wanting to sleep any time soon, though he's sure he'll drag himself back to the shared hotel room, and get what little sleep he can...eventually.