#i hope this works!!

[noamuth]

The Grove (Dalamus & Belthan)

@roquenxnar

Why him? Why is he the one chosen to return to the Grove? How had they forgotten camp supplies while they were here last?

He could just take the money and run. Ah, but run where? None of this land is familiar, and none of these people are fond of drow. Once again, he is forced to concede that traveling in the group is best, at least while they all share a goal. ...And not all of his new "companions" are entirely insufferable.

Dalamus watches as the gate is raised for his entry, and steels his nerves against the creaking of rope and wood as it is lowered behind him. He now stands trapped in what could, at any moment, become enemy territory. He pulls his ragged piwafwi tighter around himself. While its invisibility magic has been destroyed by the accursed sunlight, it still has use in shielding his eyes and skin from the same fate as he follows the main path towards the merchant he seeks.

The halfling--Arron, apparently--is amiable enough, determined to offer help to all, even an out-of-place Lolthite drow. As long as he behaves himself. If only the tiefling children had gotten the same memorandum.

Dalamus turns swiftly and grabs the would-be thief by one of his budding horns, disguising the pain of the movement by snarling down at the tiefling child, red eyes glowing brighter under the shade of his hood. "Clumsy. You would have better luck stealing an eye from a Beholder. Now, return what you took."

The boy is crying, gripping at Dalamus' arm in a feeble attempt to pry the hand from his left horn. Dalamus has no intention of harming him, and yet everyone nearby begins yelling at him to let the child go. Is thievery not a crime here? Are children exempt? Is he just to accept that a child can shove their greedy hands in his pouch and he must allow it to happen even if he witnesses it?

[felteverywhere]

closed starter for @mccntower

even the fluorescent lighting of the police station made warner uneasy, as if it wasn't bad enough that he'd just stumbled upon a dead body with an ex-friend. they'd been given water and told to sit and wait to be interviewed. he could feel the officers eyes on them as they passed every few moments. some offered hesitant smiles but he saw through them. somehow stumbling on a dead body made you top of the suspect list. he'd intended to call the police and get out of there as quickly as possible, but they'd arrived moments after the call and iridescent had touched the damn body and well... he knew she hadn't murdered anyone, but she did a good job of looking so incredibly guilty. even now as they waited and he peered at her again, the look on her face made him clench his jaw. "hey," he hissed. "relax, will you? there's nothing to freak out about, you didn't do anything wrong."

[autisticlancemcclain]

Dude I’m pleading with you for a black paladin lance fic

sorry this took me a hundred years 💀💀

Chocolate Chip Chivalry

Keith & Lance (Voltron), Black Paladin Lance, 1.5k Words

Summary: Keith is struggling with Shiro’s disappearance and his own inability to be what he thought Shiro wanted. Lance, it turns out, is a big help.

———

“Alright, buddy, up you get.”

Keith doesn’t move except to roll his sore eyes. If Lance thinks he’s gonna get Keith up for anything other than a mission, he’s got another thing coming.

“I will lift you out of that bed, Kogane, do not test me.”

This gives Keith pause. Because while Lance is kind of scrawny, he has this weird ability to do things that seem out of the physical realm of possibility for him when he’s feeling stubborn. A month ago, for example, he suddenly sprouted the ability to hear a whispered conversation several miles away, because he wanted to go home and finish a project of his. Truly remarkable.

So, yeah. Keith might be bigger than Lance, but he also knows from experience that if Lance says he will bodily lift Keith out of bed, then he damn well means it, and Keith would like to hold on to what’s left of his dignity, thanks.

“What the fuck do you want,” Keith growls, sitting up and glaring at the Cuban.

Lance raises an eyebrow back, completely unfazed. “I want you to get out of bed. You’ve been locked in here for three days, and it’s making you feel worse, not better.”

“I think I’m entitled to some fucking self-pity, Lance.”

“I never said you weren’t. I’m just saying that the rest of us have been crying with company, and it feels marginally less shitty than sobbing in your room alone.”

Keith really looks at Lance for the first time since he barged in, noticing the red-rimmed eyes and dried tear tracks. He starts to feel guilty. He’s been spending who knows how long holed up in his room, throwing himself a pity party, as if he’s the only one who lost Shiro. God, no wonder the Black Lion chose Lance instead of him, he’d be a shit leader, he can only think of himself he’s such a fucking douche, he’s a fucking waste of space —

“Cut that out,” Lance orders, narrowing his eyes at Keith. “No one’s mad at you. No one’s disappointed. We completely understand why you’re camped in here, and we get it. I get it. I just also know that it’s unhealthy, and I want you to do something to take your mind off of it.”

Keith is quiet for a moment, looking down at his fists, clenched in his sheets. He doesn’t really want to get out of bed. All he really wants to do is sleep or cry some more, and every time he thinks of his brother his eyes tear up on their own.

But some training probably wouldn’t hurt. The endorphins will probably be good for him, honestly.

“I guess I could train,” Keith mutters sullenly.

“Um, no. You will not be doing that. That’s going to make it worse, because you’re gonna —”

“So what the fuck am I meant to do, then, huh, Lance?” Keith demands. “Just fucking sit around and get more weak and useless? Maybe I can fucking summon Shiro with my mind, and then I’ll have a purpose again! Shiro asked me to do one fucking thing, just one, and I couldn’t even —” Keith breaks down into tears, again, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

Fuck.

He feels the mattress dip to his left, seeing Lance kneeling next to him out of the corner of his eyes. The next thing he feels is Lance’s arm over his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. Keith cries into Lance’s neck, soaking his shirt and skin, for what feels like hours. Lance doesn’t complain or move, only running a gentle hand down his back and making occasional humming noises.

Eventually Keith cries himself out, tears dried, leaving only those horrible stuttering breaths that are the aftermath of a period of misery. Lance pulls away a little, moving his hands so his palms are pressing on either side of Keith’s face. His hands are blessedly cool on Keith’s overheated skin.

“Shiro is not disappointed in you,” he says firmly. “Wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he’s proud of you. He always is.”

“But I’m a fucking failure,” Keith argues, feeling his eyes burn again. “He asked me to pilot Black, and she wouldn’t open for me. She opened for you, which makes sense, but I still feel like a let-down.”

Something unreadable flashes through Lance’s dark eyes, and then a look of determination settles in his features. He grips Keith’s hands and pulls him off the bed, making Keith stumble a little. It’s been a hot minute since he’s really moved a lot.

“Okay, change of plans,” Lance announces. “To the kitchens.”

Lance marches them down the hall, turning into the big double doors that lead to the dining area. He drags Keith all the way to the massive, industrial Altean kitchen, depositing him by the counter beside the stove, and walks to the fridge.

“Okay, we need butter, and eggs…” he trails off as he rummages through the fridge’s contents, occasionally moving to set down a few ingredients or equipment beside Keith. Keith watches him in confusion.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Start sifting two cups of flour into the pink bowl,” Lance says instead of answering.

Keith thinks about refusing, but he honestly doesn’t have the energy. He settles for rolling his eyes and muttering petulantly as he complies.

Lance continues to call out instructions as he buzzes around the kitchen, messing with the oven settings and God knows what else. Keith continues to follow the instructions, getting into a sort of rhythm of whipping or sifting or mixing or measuring.

Eventually, Keith fully clues into what he’s been doing for the past half hour and realises he’s successfully made a batch of space chocolate chip cookie dough.

“Okay, now scoop a bunch of that onto this cookie sheet. About twelve balls, evenly spaced, a little more than a tablespoon of dough on each spot.”

Keith hesitates a moment, because he realises he hasn’t really registered jack shit since Lance made him start on this. Not Lance’s idle chatter, not the fact that he literally made cookie dough, and, most importantly, not the overwhelming sadness and desperation he’s been feeling nonstop for the past three days.

But he continues on, scooping the dough onto the baking sheet, and then he sits up on the counter and watches as Lance slides them into the hot oven and sets a ten minute timer.

“Why did we… why did you make me do that?” Keith asks after a period of silence. He’s surprised at his own tone — only honest curiosity, not an ounce of hostility or anger. Huh.

“You needed to do something creative and tedious,” Lance responds simply. “Not to psychoanalyse you or anything, but you were very clearly going through a depressive episode, and that kind of thing helps.”

“Oh.”

They sit in quiet, contemplative silence until the timer goes off. Lance hops off the counter and puts on an oven mitt, grinning a little as he takes the cookies out. Keith gets it. They look perfect, and certainly smell amazing.

Lance expertly lifts each cookie from the parchment paper onto a cooling rack with a spatula, except for three of them, which he puts on a plate and slides towards Keith.

“There’s milk in the fridge,” he informs him. Keith nods, heading over to pour two glasses. He carries them back over to the counter, where Lance is waiting.

They both grab a cookie, biting them at the same time. Keith feels his eyebrows raise. These cookies are delicious, and usually Keith kind of sucks in the kitchen.

“There are really good,” Keith says.

“You did a good job,” Lance agrees.

Keith makes a face, looking at Lance strangely. “I didn’t make them.”

Lance raises his eyebrows, looking amused, but Keith recognizes the knowing glint in his eyes. There’s something else at play here.

“I didn’t do shit. You put all the ingredients together. You measured them, mixed them, scooped them. All you, buddy. I talked the whole time.”

“No, you — wait,” Keith pauses for a minute, cookie halfway to his mouth (they really are amazing), thinking back to the past forty-odd minutes.

“Huh,” he says after a moment. He really did make these cookies.

“You made these cookies,” Lance reiterates.

Keith looks at him suspiciously. “Why are you putting so much emphasis on that?”

Lance shrugs, but his knowing grin from earlier has only gotten bigger.

“You said you were useless, earlier. That you didn’t make a difference. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think a useless person couldn’t make these bomb-ass cookies, and they certainly made a difference in my day, so.”

Lance lets that sit between them, as Keith processes.

Well, damn.

“…Point taken,” Keith says eventually.

Lance smiles at him, big and bright, and nudges his shoulder.

“I know losing Shiro has sucked,” he says softly. “I can’t even conceptualize your pain — I don’t know what I’d do if I lost one of my siblings not once, but twice. I’m sorry, Keith. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry that Shiro’s expectations weren’t right for you. But I promise you that we will find Shiro, whatever it takes, and I will do everything in my power to be the best leader I can be in the meantime.”

Keith smiles back, a little watery, a little emotional, but happier nonetheless. He reaches over to grab Lance’s hand, squeezing tightly.

“You’re already are, Lance. You already are.”

[imprvdente]

@conscriptur . Finnick gets to mentor Fish🐬

The Capitol train was taking her far from home, like a ruthless hand ripping her away from the waves. She found it hard to breathe; a proverbial fish out of water. Out the window, the landscapes were stretched by speed, blurring into nothingness as she stared mindlessly at the haze of green and blue.

She already missed the beach, the sailor's bar, and the smell of iodine at the port. What would the Capitol smell like? Ripping her eyes away from the window, she glanced at Finnick. He was famous in District 4, and she supposed she was lucky to have a popular mentor. Fish Monet was well aware that the Hunger Games were more than a fight to the death. They were a popularity contest, too. And she wanted to win.

She wanted to win more than anything else. It was like her mother had said before the peacekeepers took her to the train station. She had to come home, nothing else mattered.

"Where do we begin?" she finally asked out of the blue. "I need a strategy, right?" Her mind was already racing, her heart thundering in her chest. Oh, how she missed the ocean! She almost wanted to jump out the window, but knew that she'd get shot before she could even reach the shore.

"I can hold my breath for a very long time, I'm good with a trident and a net too. And I can dance. I don't know what's going to be useful out there, I mean, I know I won't dance in the arena, but..." She was rambling. Blush spread on her cheeks, and she looked away again. "...I don't know."

[voidfragments]

@guhamun (for nagayoshi!) | starter call

chaldea is, perhaps by its very nature, a chaotic place at the best of times. it's something ritsuka's grown accustomed to over the years--if anything, she finds it quite comforting, growing uneasy if things stay calm and quiet for too long--but even so, a brief respite from it once in a while isn't so bad.

most masters, she thinks, would look at her like she'd grown a second head if they knew she'd gone to a berserker for a peaceful break. but, taking a sip of freshly-brewed tea, she knows this was a great choice.

with a smile and a satisfied noise, she says, "man, you've still got the best taste in tea! what is this one? it's great!"

[full-tiltboogiearc]

@halfraw liked for a starter // set x reggie

Alright, she has had enough with rolling silverware into napkins. Set, always the antsy one, finished enveloping her last trio of spoon-fork-knife, and triumphantly set it aside before phew!ing like she'd just ran a marathon. There was still a mountain of silverware to go, but she needed a break; her fingers were growing calloused, she swore it. Besides, she was a bit more interested in getting to know Reggie—her new coworker as of last week, when their boss gave Set this job, and her trusted partner in the art of folding napkins.

"So... how long've you been working here? Is Chet always a fucking asshole?" Chet the Chef. You can't make this shit up!

[sixthear]

Second day in Isola and... Liu'er is already up to mischief. Just harmless fun! Normally, he wouldn't pass time doing something like this... But it's something Shihou would probably come up with.

He found this comfy little hiding spot in the park— he was delighted to learn that green spaces existed even in Fibonacci— perched in a tree with branches that reached across the paths. Every time someone sat down on the nearby bench, he'd quickly dart down to nab something. A hat, a pair of those strange dark-tinted glasses, anything small and seemingly easy to grab. He'd wait to see how long it'd take for them to notice. Some of the reactions were fun.

And now, from the stranger that seemed to have sat down in order to open his sketch book... The young monkey nabs his eraser before scurrying back onto his perch. And waits.

@kleinstar

[goldshadows]

@ensnchekov / new year, new sc.

" look, i get it - " a sigh, she doesn't finish the sentence just yet. she shakes out both arms as if trying to get rid of the excess life energy she had just absorbed from the two men that were now at their feet - both of them unconscious but not dead. she wasn't sure whether they were here for him or her but in the end it didn't really matter. " this is all super terrifying but it's okay now, i saved your ass. " or did he save hers ? again, she wasn't sure. either way, she wasn't going to stick around for them to recover just so they could find out. " c'mon, let's get out of here. i'm starving, we can get some waffles, they're on me. "

[goldenpeng]

@amemoire liked.

Xiao isn't...particularly suited to entertaining guests. He isn't chatty, for one, and he has been said to come across as stoic at the best of times. Still, he will try. Lord Morax will surely relieve him of this duty shortly, no? "...Would you like some tea?"

[hvbris]

@ofmentorship . Haymitch gets a starter

When Lucy Gray had appeared at the reaping for the first time, three years after her victory, she had half expected Coriolanus to send peacekeepers to her door. For weeks after the 13th Hunger Games, she thought he would kill her, somehow. But then, he didn't.

She kept his secrets.

37 years later, she was still alive, and he was still President. It was a strange status quo. She had children now, and every year she feared their names might get picked at the reaping. And every year, her relief was only short-lived. Yes, her children were safe, but she still had two tributes to protect. Somebody else's kids, who might never come back home. And for 37 years, she kept being the only mentor. How could the tributes of District 12 stand a chance, with their famished bodies and inexperienced hands.

This year, however, was worse than ever. Four children. Four.

"Hello there," she said gently, sitting down in front of the only tribute who hadn't run to their cabin as soon as they boarded the train that was quickly ripping them away from their homes. "You're Haymitch Abernathy, aren't you?"

[mutatedangels-a]

@thewolfruns // eli x ??

It was the best sleep he'd gotten in days. And shit like that seldom came.

Eli's eyes flickered open. His body and mind recalibrated as he took in his surroundings. He never really knows what takes them so long to click together; it's not like he ever wakes up anywhere different. Anywhere besides the crow's nest. Maybe in different spots each time but always within the same four-walled sanctuary.

If you could even call it that anymore.

Well, the good thing about hiding out from this whole world-ending thing in the lookout is that it's high above ground. (It's a detriment, too, but Eli holds on to the few pleasures he has in life.) Lookout towers are anywhere between 60 to 120 feet across the U.S. and he happens to work at one of the taller ones. Deadwood Peak. They call it Deadwood because it's full of redwood trees that should be dead by now, taken down by forest fires or maybe cut down by some poachers or by some other force of nature.

It's a lame story, but it's the only one he's heard from the locals, and the chances of anybody telling him anything different is slim-to-none. So he sticks with it.

During this whole world-end, Deadwood Peak Lookout A8 has only been broken into once. It's so far down the trail of lookouts that only a few hikers, real serious ones, have ever reached it throughout its lifespan. From up top Eli's only seen maybe one or two groups pass by; for some odd reason, they never tried to ransack the tower. Maybe they didn't notice him.

So when he wakes up from a long slumber, he doesn't rush to get up. He never has a reason to.

Until he hears the rattling of a doorknob. His mind stiffens but his body springs into action, as agile as one could after waking up. Bumbling limbs are activated and refined once more as he reaches for his rifle and points it straight at the door. He doesn't say anything, not yet. For a second he takes his eyes off the door to look at the sun outside the lookout, through the window. It's bright. Who the hell has got the guts to break into someplace in broad daylight?

Somebody who didn't care whether they lived or died, he bets. He takes a deep breath in and doesn't let it go until. Until.

[absta1n]

`　　　CLOSED　　▸　　reuven ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎/‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎@ofherbalisms　.

lingering behind a double storm door, she's had her open palm pressed to the resilient metal for five, ten minutes, doing nothing more than anticipating. the cat. the man. and always in that order, if they should come at all. it had been only this in the beginning — a perchance noticing man and beast wandered past the short stretch of her living room window. almost always around the same dusky edge of the evening. it was a short jump from scheduled curiosity to positioning herself in the four-by-six square of wild penstemon and yarrow. a selfish waiting. tending to her garden. to the cat, the harbinger of man — reuven, the name knotted in her throat, tangled in his unexpected gentleness. so like her father.

the cat, a disheveled, mottled thing, leaps onto the red brick garden wall that frames danielle's front door on either side. she catches the anticipation in her throat and pushes through the door, to the short wall — a half-finished project, begun and abandoned by a long-dead survivor. still, the cement binder, now solid, seems to ooze from beneath the last laid brick. danielle drums her fingertips on common burnt clay, enticing the stray to ram it's head beneath her attentive hand. " hello, darling. " it purrs, a quiet hum of a reward for routine feeding and care. feeding, she supposes, does much of the heavy lifting — to that end, the seamstress unfolds a square of cloth, scraps sewn together into a patchwork, to reveal today's picnic: scraps of meat and the crumbled yellow yolk of a hard boiled egg.

it eats voraciously. she gives an exhale of a laugh, stroking its coarse fur from nape to tail. how precious this small, half-feral life had become to her. and when she finally hears the crunch of boots on gravel — " i was wondering where you'd gone off to, " danielle lifts her chin toward him, followed by her gaze finally drawn from the docile beast. her smile softens, enthusiasm tempered by the nervous comfort that so often accompanies his appearance. " it's not like him to wander this way without you. mm? " the cat has settled, the egg half devoured, purrs replaced by the gnashing of canines on muscle. danielle cautiously withdraws her hand and folds both arms over her chest, skin prickling in the evening chill. now, observing him properly, her brows knit slightly. " was it a ... difficult day? "

[valiisthea]

@poeticphoenix || Dion

"I sense something of great power inside you." Dion observes, sizing up his new company with careful, scrutinizing eyes. Terence is stiff at his side, hand resting on the hilt of his blade. With a simple flick of his wrist, he signals for Terence to ease as to not pose a threat.

"Tell me, what is it you seek from me?"

[behrdara]

" you seem worried by something, lord azriel. "

it surprises even gwyneth herself, the fact that she has directly voiced her concern out loud. not because it is unlike her, but because she can read people well enough to know when not to do so. lord azriel is a distant man, or so she feels him to be, and she assumes he prefers to keep his problems to himself.

still, she moves closer, up on the balcony where he stands at the stone edge, and positions herself next to the male. conflicted by the part of her who feels he stole her away from her home ( which clashes with the deep grattitude she feels toward him ), gwyn remains silent for a second, as if collecting her thoughts before finally murmuring, " there is a saying in sangravah that goes 'divine burdens are never twice as heavy as the backs of their carriers ' it means whatever it is that troubles you, be sure it will be solved. " @prythaei ft. azriel.

[fenixburned]

@sanitatcm gets a starter !

"Oh this?" Monty raises a hand to the left side of his face, not quite touching it, as the scars are still a sensitive spot even after all these years. "Do you want the true story? I do have a variety of fake ones by now and I promise they are all worth it." One could argue that the truth was adventurous enough already, but he had made it a habit to spin his own tales about the injury and get some more fun out of those dreaded questions.

[corruptedforce]

     It had been a hard few weeks, and that was putting it mildly.  Everything had gotten so out of hand.  When they had been allowed to leave the Outer Rim and rescued the Chancellor, he truly thought things would be easier. He was a Jedi, so of course, he would always be going somewhere.  But, he wouldn’t have to be gone so much. Then, Padme had told him she was pregnant, and he just, he wanted out, even more than he already did. But, the night that his nightmares started, things changed. He had become a desperate man, who was desperate for a cure for her, and ultimately, he had fallen from the Jedi and participated in Order 66.  Anakin Skywalker was now Lord Vader, Sith Apprentice.  To make it worse, he was injured, by his former master.  He’d kept himself from getting dismembered, but he’d lost his other arm, in the process, was covered in more burns and scars. To make it worse, his new master had told him that Padme didn’t survive. 

He needed something from her penthouse, and he needed to get it.  He let himself in and he could still feel her force signature here, which was odd. He had so many regrets, but he couldn’t go back, not after everything.  He felt someone was there and he drew his lightsaber. “Who’s there?” 

@desireandduty​