#it's making me want to make my own Sleep Token inspired mask

[gothicflowers]

Nikto X GN!Reader

“Blood Sport” - Angst - SFW

Inspired by the song “Blood Sport” by Sleep Token. Would recommend listening before, during or after reading. Thanks for reading!

Warnings: SFW, character death, cussing, toxic relationship, song lyrics in italics.

I want to roll the numbers

I want to feel my stars align again

Even if the earth breaks like burnt skin

And the heavens just won't open up for me

Would you invite me in again?

Won't you pay for your arrogance?

Won't you show me your weakness?

It had been three years since he walked out of your shared home. Left all his clothes, toothbrush and his lucky coin. Three years of wondering why you weren’t enough for him. He was attracted to your caring nature and kind smile. Your small delicate hands fit perfectly into his destructive palms. Making your home as safe and comfortable for him as possible but he’d never let his guard down. Never letting you in. He loved you with his whole heart and soul but couldn’t let you in. But he kept you as prisoner of his love.

Returning from missions barely speaking. The occasional grunt in agreement or disapproval. It takes almost a week for him to start using words. You seen the hell that your father went through with war and knew that Nikto needed time to adjust back to normal. Your patience and kindness always unwavering.

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I can't win

His love was a game of tug of war. Just when you thought you had him you were back on your knees crying. He kept getting colder and colder. Shutting you out. The embraces became less frequent. It felt like kissing a stranger. Locking himself in a room only to emerge for meals. You tried everything to bring your love back to you but he wasn’t mentally here anymore. He was out there in the war. So angry at the world he couldn’t see what was in front of him.

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I can't win

So let's play

“You think that everything in your little world is perfect don’t you”

“Nikto please-“

“No, I can’t just come home and be a happy man for you. I have done terrible things that you wouldn’t ever come close to me again if you knew.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done, just who you are with me.”

“I’m a fucking monster, I have killed and ruined lives. I have a voice in my fucking head reminding me all day.”

“But we can get through it, therapy is an option. Maybe take some time off. I don’t care if you’re a monster, I love you.”

“I can’t change, I’m too far gone. Don’t you get it?! I’m fucked, you need to just leave me alone. I can’t be saved. Stop trying to fix me!”

“Nikto please just-“

You hoped this was something that he would come home from his drive and you two would make up and tangle in a hot passionate embrace. But he never came back home. He walked out, not looking back.

And somewhere

Somewhere the atoms stopped fusing

I'm still your favourite regret

You're still my weapon of choosing

And out there

Stuck in a quantum pattern

Tangled with what I never said

You say it doesn't matter

You never really moved on from him. His clothes even went from hanging in the closet to a box under your bed. Every date you when on couldn’t compare to the man behind the mask. You can recall when you first met. He stoped in his tracks when he seen you. The closest thing to heaven on earth his damaged heart will ever experience. He tried so hard to be romantic, flowers for every occasion. Jewelry for every holiday. Open doors and his arm looped around yours as you’d walk together. He wanted to be good for you. But he couldn’t get ahead of himself, ahead of the voices that started taking over.

I want to be forgiven

I want to choke up chunks of my own sins

Even if the sky cracks in the morning

And the heavens just won't open up for me

Would you invite me in again?

Let me pay for my arrogance

Won't you show me your weakness?

There was a nock at the door. It was one in the morning. You’re a night owl with little need for sleep. Grabbing your gun you walk up to the door. Slightly shaking knowing there shouldn’t be anyone visiting at this hour.

“Who is it”

“It’s me y/n” a thick Russian voice said. Your heart seemed to skip a beat knowing that raspy voice.

You opened the door slowly not sure if you were ready to see him.

“…Nikto” your frail shaky voice was barely audible. His face has been badly scarred since you last held him. But he was as beautiful as ever.

“Can we talk?” His voice was soft, scared almost. Scared you’d slam the door in his face and be lost forever to him.

“Come in”

Nothing had moved in the house since he left. Your favorite paintings, vintage furniture all stayed the same. It smelled like home still too, thanks to your constant need for a candle to burn.

“I’m surprised to see you, I’m guessing you want your clothes back? I have them under my bed, let me go grab them for-“ your voice was bitter

“That’s not why I’m here”

Just his presence made you weak. He always had this energy that pulled you to him. You didn’t know if what this could even be about. He has been gone for so long that you’re practically strangers.

“Then how can I help you”

“I need to apologize for what I have done”

“Nikto we don’t need to-“

“Please, just listen to me and I will be gone forever if that is what you wish”

“What is there to say? You just up and left three years ago. I waited days and weeks, months even hoping you would just come home to me. I was ready to fight for us, for you. And you just gave up on me.”

“I messed up, I treated you like a commodity when I should have treated you like a god. I didn’t deserve your kindness, your love and patience. And I know that now. After I left I got help for the voices, they’re still with me but they can’t control me anymore. I wanted to get better for you.”

“Nikto…”

“I’d like to try and be the man you deserve if you’ll let me.”

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I can't win

He was true to his words. He was a changed man. He opened up to you about what he’s done. He started embracing you the moment he walked through the door. Kisses were sweeter, the nights longer. A promise that soon he will leave the life of killing behind. A promise of a long happy life together.

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I made loving you a blood sport

I can't win

“Good afternoon. I’m a representative of Kortac. Are you Y/N L/N?”

“Yes”

“I’m here to deliver you the news of the passing of Nikto. He passed in battle defending his fellow soldiers. This box contains all of his belongings and his will.”

“No, please no no no” a gasp for the air that had escaped your lips exhaled with a scream.

“I’m very sorry. He wished to be cremated and we have his ashes for you.”

And somewhere (I made loving you a blood sport)

Somewhere the atoms stopped fusing (I made loving you a blood sport)

I'm still your favourite regret (I made loving you a blood sport)

You're still my weapon of choosing (I can't win)

And out there (I made loving you a blood sport)

Stuck in a quantum pattern (I made loving you a blood sport)

Tangled with what I never said (I made loving you a blood sport)

You say it doesn't matter

A urn now sits on top of the fireplace next to the dried flowers that Nikto had gotten you the day before his last deployment. There’s no music playing on the turntable. There’s no candles lit filling the home with a sweet aroma. Just you, a box, a letter and urn filled with the ashes of a man that should be holding you in his arms. The dreams shared about the future were ripped from your heart.

“My love,

If you’re reading this I’m already gone. I’m sorry it ended this way. There will soon be a large sum of money available at your disposal upon my death. It should be enough to last you and your future family a couple generations. All of my properties and assets will now be under your ownership. Sell or keeps whatever your heart desires.

I’m sorry for all the pain I have ever put you through. I’m sorry for all the cold and lonely night in bed while I’m out God knows where. I’m sorry for never kissing you enough, never holding you tight enough. Never having the worlds to express how much I love and appreciate you. My favorite memory will always be watching the sunsets with you. I never told you about how I find your eye color in the smallest of things. Or how your voice is that of angels. You could put my demons to sleep when you sing.

Thank you for always fighting me when I thought I was right. Thank you for the books I said I wouldn’t like, but read every page. Thank you for the warm meals shared over a conversation about our days. Thank you for the nights we tangled in the sheets as one soul. Thank you for the warm hugs on cold December nights. Thank you for the kisses that sealed my promises. Thank you for loving me when I couldn’t love myself. Thank you for showing me a life worth living for. I’m sorry I can’t be there for you from now and until the end of your days. But if god gives me the chance to wait for you at heavens gate, I will wait an entirety just to see your face.

Your love,

Nikto

[leonsleftbicep]

Morning Espresso

[HAPPY HALLOWS EVE!! this was inspired by something i saw on the sleep token archive account and then 3 am me said to write about it so i did]

mind you this is not about the actual people behind the mask this is about their stage characters

poly vessels, they are all gay and in love, tatted ii, iii doesnt like black coffee, iv knows all of them way to well, sleeps kinda mean(hinted), ever so slightly fast paced (beep is not a good writer)

ENJOY

a groggy Vessel walks into the kitchen immediately grabbing himself his large mug and pouring coffee into it, 2 scoops of sugar and no creamer. The first sip is always the best for warming up his body, a stark contrast to the cold morning.

II walks out of his room equally sleepy, in only his sweat pants and a pair of socks. “Do you want coffee?” Vessel asks as the drummer walks into the kitchen tattoos and all on display, “no i’ll just get my tea” he says with a rasp to his voice, turning the kettle on, grabbing a mug and tea bag.

‘He hasn't given me my morning kiss yet’ vessel thinks to himself as he places down his mug on the counter, he walks behind II holding his waist “are you ok sweetheart” Vessel asks II.

II just leans into his hold “sleep kept speaking to me all night. i woke up with aches, i must have been tossing and turning” he mumbles out not telling Vessel the full truth, but Vessel doesn’t pry for anymore information.

II turns in his arms so he can face Vessel finally giving him a sweet kiss, though he starts to deepen it, finding the bitter taste of the dark roast coffee on Vessel’s tongue quite enjoyable.

“Good Morning love birds” a gruff sarcastic voice was heard from the entrance to the kitchen, the two quickly separating. III stood there leaning on the door frame already dressed in his lounge wear for the day with slightly damp hair, smirking at the two before walking closer and kissing both of their lips.

“jesus Vessel, you need to start putting creamer in your coffee. i feel like i just kissed a mound of coffee grounds” III says after pulling away from Vessel’s lips quickly, grabbing the kettle and putting water in II’s mug for his tea as he grabs himself a mug for some coffee.

They all separate a bit from each other while they get their breakfast and morning drinks, chatting with one another about their nights.

IV finally comes along he's wrapped up in a blanket and immediately heads for II, leaning into him kissing at his neck, tracing the tattoo on II’s neck with kisses. III and vessel watch this unfold, a tinge of jealousy in the bottom of their stomachs but they are use to it.

After IV has gotten done treating II to his soft kisses he makes his way to III, letting their kiss have a bit of teeth clashing as III liked it.

After IV was done with III he walked in front of  Vessel, taking Vessel’s clothed waist in his hands and pulling him close to him, looking up into the singer's eyes before letting their lips caress the others. The taste of vessels coffee breath addicting to IV he always looked forward to their kiss in the mornings.

IV always tried and failed to keep it not as steamy as it would have been in the comfort of closed doors, but they were both fine with wanting more and more.

III cut them off with a loud clear of the throat, “your coffees getting cold Ves” he muttered quickly as he picked up his own mug of coffee and sauntered off for the living room.

the three that were left in the kitchen exchanged knowing glances, III was going to have a full morning 

[foxgloveinspace]

My 'simple' Sleep Token Theory:

I couldn't make this less then 7 points, oh my gosh. Maybe I can condense it down at some other point, But I Got To Do The Dishes. All this being said, I still like my old theory, and will talk about it if anyone wants to, I just think this is more.... likely of a theory lmao.

1). Each song is it's own isolated story that has themes and connections to each other. There are four types of sleep token songs: songs about sex, isolation, worship, and insomnia. All songs are Vessel's POV, and either something he wants to tell us or something Sleep/sleep wants to tell us.

2). Vessel straight up told us that each song is a token to Sleep, and that Sleep heightens emotions, so while something could be a simple emotion, for the song it is a Very Big Deal, so it can create a feedback loop and be a bigger worship moment for Sleep.

3). I think, after thinking about since I posted it, that my 'shit post' wasn't that much of a shit post, and that Vessel, behind the mask, is a person who suffers from insomnia, and that Sleep really does = sleep. Everything about Sleep the deity can be literal sleep deprivation symptoms. So while story Sleep is a god, their inspiration is just straight up Lack of Sleep.

4). I think the music videos are just vibes, not plot relevant, so the idea that Vessel has powers isnt really canon to me. They could also be visual representations of Nightmares Vessel has had in the past.

5). I think that if we are going off of Sleep = sleep, even in the story, then we have a slight Cult of the Lamb moment going on here, and Sleep Token has never been about collecting followers for sleep, but followers for Vessel (which at the end of the day, we are. We are Vessels followers, cause this is his persona and story and there is No Sleep. We are just this guys band cult while he sings about sex, and loneliness, and isolation, and worship kink).

6). I don't think Sleep is evil?? Like a lot of people, myself included, hear these vibes in the music and forget that it's a Heightened emotion, and that because of that yeah it can seem like maybe Sleep is not good. Yeah, they probably argue, or when Vessel is suffering from insomnia (both irl and in the story) it probably feels like Sleep has abandoned him. But why would the whole point of the band be 'Worship Sleep' outside of the music if that was the case? Wouldn't the vibes be different outside of those situations? So i think while Sleep and Vessel have a weird relationship, like an insomniac and the human suffering from it, I think that ultimately they can't be without each other.

7). I do not, never have, still don't, think Vessel will 'die' at the end of TMBTE. As stated above, Vessel dying makes no since to the narrative, even if Sleep is a god, why would they kill the person they have chosen to spread their message? Or even 'take over' the person? Sleep seems to love Vessel in their own, so this idea just makes no sense to me. 'Why did Vessel's mask change if he isn't a new Vessel?' why would you limit yourself to one mask if that's the only way people knew you?? It's an outfit change to match the changing of the vibes of the new album.

[minteyeddevil]

Hello, I hope you're doing well ! I was wondering if you could do a headcanon (if not problematic, or ignore my request) about Simeon x Fem/GN reader, inspired by The Hunchback of Notre Dame, where some kind of Frollo (Hellfire song) would be unhealthily attracted to MC and he prays to the saints and the lord that she/they must be his or she/they'll die. Simeon being an angel (must not interfere with humans) will he break the rules to save her? How? If not, how would he react to MC's fate?

(I...I kind of ran away with this a bit? I hope it comes out as you hoped anon, sorry for taking so long to get to it ;-;)

---

"Savior"

From his perch up high, he watches yearly when the festival occurs for the people down below. The bright colored streamers that they run from light post to light post, the bright tents and stands lined up together where they sell their many goods and delicious smelling food. A carnival of eccentric performers arrives and makes their point in the center, a stage set up for them to perform their tricks and dances.

A masked man juggles while another takes a swing from his jug to light the liquid on fire, eliciting oo's and ah's from the crowd now gathering. On a raised stand near the stage are seats for the council; the ones who allow all this to happen. They sit in the shade of their canopy, cloaks covering their pale bodies as they snicker and judge the lower class in their revel. The one in the center, Lord Peter, has his head held the highest and his nose upturned as he surveys the crowd.

Simeon knows this man far too well. He hears the false prayers of this so-called Lord, and he knows they will go unanswered. He is a jaded fool who finds himself holier than thou, belittling the people he overlooks and wants not but for himself. He prays, and at this time of year, much more often, as the token of his sick desire presents themselves on the stage.

A dancer, face covered by a silken sash, sways on the stage to the music being played by the band at their feet. Their steps move in time with the rythm, back bowing and hands twisting the band they hold. They seem to inch closer and closer to the council, and Simeon finds himself enraptured by their movements; he, too, is a victim of their existence.

The closer they come, the harder Lord Peter grips at the arm rests of his seat. If he were stronger than a normal human, the wood would surely splinter under his grip; but it seems to lapse when the dancer comes up to him, taking the silken band in their hand and places it around his neck. Their hand guides under his chin, tilting his face towards theirs, a smile gracing their features...only for their other hand to drag his hoos down over his face and run away from his grip as quickly as they came. They give him a cheeky smirk as they continue back into their dance; Simeon can not help but chuckle at their antics, until he feels the wave rush towards him.

Rage is radiating off of the Lord now, and a deep growl breaks from him. He stands quickly, a bony finger pointing at the dancer and her troupe.

"Guards! Arrest them, immediately! Do not let a single one escape you!"

In a flurry, armed guards are surrounding the lot, taking the performers, the band, and Simeon's beloved MC, into custody. Shackles are placed on their wrists, spears pointed at anyone who dares to try and flee. MC glares at the head Lord, standing as tall as they could.

"We have done nothing to deserve this! We simply come to perform for your people! You would lock us away for simply wanting to provide enjoyment?!"

The Lord steps down from his perch and steps up toe to toe with MC, his hand gripping their chin roughly to make them hold eye contact with him.

"You made a grave error in trying me today, pet. You will not leave me this time."

His words were for their ears only, but Simeon caught each one. Panic struck the angel as he flew back to the top of the tower, knowing that MC and the rest of the lot would soon be thrown there. His heart ached as he saw them dropped to the floor, each being strewn on top of the other as the door was slammed shut and locked tight behind them. They gathered themselves together, tending to those who were hurt, making sure everyone was still with them.

Down below at the center of the carnival, Lord Peter and the rest of the council addressed the people, declaring there would be no more celebration as such. The performers were secretly theiving criminals, whom they had been suspicious of for long, until they finally had proof. Many of the commoners demanded the said proof, but the lords word was law; they were to all be executed.

Once the announcement was over, the lords descended their perch, each returning to their respective home; Simeon followed Lord Peter.

The menace entered his house, discarding his robe and turning towards the fireplace where a small fire still burned. He kneeled, and began to pray. Simeon wished to cover his ears and ignore the plea of this horrid man, beginning to beg once again for his beloved dancer to open their heart to him. He did not wish to kill them, but if they rejected him once more, he knew it to be the "will of God" to destroy them.

It was the law of the angels to never interfere with the likes of humanity. Their quarrels were their own, and should be treated as such.

But Simeon...

He flew to MC's cell, his mind surely made up. He knew the consequences he was going to face. But he was going to free them. All of them.

The guards were set up outside the large locked door, keeping watch for anyone trying to get in or out, but he was untraceable by their naked eye as he willed it. He placed his hands on the lock, and it dissolved under his touch, as he pulled the door open wide. His powers helped to destroy their bindings, and before the guards could react, he simply put them to sleep. The powers of the angels was no match for that made solely by man.

The prisoners were reluctant to move, terrified at how it all happened before their eyes; but he tried to reassure them with the sound of his voice, urging them forward, to be free and never look back. Slowly they began to move, trickling out of the room and storming down the stairs, MC making sure no stragglers were left behind. They paused for a moment, seeming to look directly at Simeon, though he knew they could not see him.

A small smile graced their lips. "Thank you, my savior," they spoke to the room, before following their troupe.

He watched over them as they escaped the tower, stopping any guard who got too close to them. He ensured their escape, not letting a single soul be lost. Once he knew they were leaving the city, he gave a deep sigh, and turned towards the house of Lord Peter.

Each step he took, feathers fell from his wings, and his halo dimmed, then cracked. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, facing down the man who almost destroyed his beloved MC, onyx horns slowly protruding from the crown of his head, as he let the heavy door close behind him.

[mihidecet]

SBI d&d AU: Ph1lza

First of all, I want to thank each and everyone of you who's liked, reblogged and left a comment (even in private) on my last story! I'd never received such positive feedback and it absolutely made my day (and my week)! So thank you all so so much! <33

A special thank you goes to @whatimevendoinhere , who is an endless source of inspiration and honestly such a cool person to just hang out with akdgaha

Go check out their drawings! They made so much art for this au, and a stunning animatic!! Go show them all the love! <3

Despite what most would think, His Majesty, King Philza of the Greenwoods, does not miss the commodities that come from being royalty. He does not miss them at all, but it would be better to specify why.

He did enjoy sleeping in his wonderfully big bed, with as many soft as cloud pillows as he wished, with sheets made of the finest silks in the summer and of the warmest wool in the winter. But he very much prefers the current warmth of the campfire in front of him, as he moves around a log and watches sparks fly off into the night, and the familiar weight of the head resting on his lap - Tommy had insisted on listening to stories of his time back at the castle, and then he'd promptly fell asleep halfway through him talking about his horseback riding classes.

He did like taking care of his horses, endless stables with elven bred mares and elks. He remembers Roheryn, his first pony, a docile animal that grew up with him, and Firefoot, a fiery mare whose temper he could hardly match.

Still, they are no match for Milo, Barnaby, Peter and Fraiser, the four horses they managed to buy after successfully freeing a nobleman's son. Sometimes Phil catches Wilbur talking to his own as if he could respond; one of these days he'll tell the young bard that, being a druid, he'd be able to translate sweet Milo's answers.

Phil loved the food they would cook in the kitchens, how his nanny would sneak him sweets when he was a child, or how the head chef had caved in and started teaching him how to bake bread after years of insisting it wouldn't be proper for a king to spend his day in the kitchens.

These days he's especially thankful for all the recipes he'd been taught, as food is not that easy to find when you're travelling through endless enchanted woods. And nothing beats the joyful expressions colouring the faces of his companions every time he announces he'll be making his special soup.

The one thing he misses are his friends back home, the people he grew up with. His travels have brought him far away, but they still hold a special place in his mind. Under his linen shirt - once a pristine, perfectly clean thing, now stitched up with different coloured threads and forever stained on his right side where a wolf managed to bite him - rests a thin chain of mythrill, where he keeps what he holds most sacred: his wedding ring, the one he will wear once he'll come back, once his travels and trials have ended.

He never fiddles with it, never exposes it to the light in hope time and weather won't ruin its beauty. Not that its meaning would be lost, even in the hundreds of years Phil will hopefully live, but he did spend two whole years crafting each and every silvery strand - he's not about to let his hard work go to waste. Still, its weight is a constant source of comfort, and even in the worst moments it gives him strength.

A quiet huff of breath next to him catches his attention and, a moment later, Techno lets himself fall down at his side.

While it's good to see him so relaxed, less careful with every move - hands no longer constantly busy in order to keep his mind at bay - he can sense that the thief is anxious: his shoulders are set in a tense line and he seems to be trying to sneak glances at him before quickly looking back towards the rest of the camp. So, Phil waits. He can give him the time he needs, after all he's already slept the four hours he needs to survive.

A couple of minutes later, Techno's rough voice pierces the comfortable silence they'd fallen into.

"Give me your hand." Is not exactly what the druid had expected, but he extends his hand nevertheless, raising an eyebrow curiously. Not even a second later, there's a small green and golden bracelet in his palm.

"Listen, you've saved my bacon more time than I can count, and we've worked together a long ass time, so now we're friends. I just decided it, there's no take backs." Techno states, adopting what Phil has now learnt to know is the tone of voice he uses when he's trying to be intimidating due to his own nerves.

Phil looks down at the bracelet in his hand, picking it up in order to better study it. It's objectively beautiful, the multiple threads of coloured material having been woven by hand, with an added string of gold-like material and a handful of deep red beads.

But most of all- the most stunning thing is that he's holding something Techno made, for him, as proof of their friendship. It tugs at Phil's heartstrings, making his throat squeeze around his words.

"Techno, mate, this is stunning. I- I will keep it forever. Thank you."

One of the thief's eyebrows raises as he looks back at him, staring quietly as if expecting a joke or a quick negation - as if, Phil thinks to himself.

For a moment they're both silent as Phil tries to convince the man sitting next to him of how much he appreciates this token of friendship, after months of fighting side by side.

Techno's mask of impassibility breaks first. He huffs out and turns back towards the fire, but Phil's an elf: he can clearly see the crinkle in his eyes and the smile that breaks open his face, from how it glints in the feeble light, to how one of his tusks pushes up into his cheek.

"Alright, enough with the sappiness. Go to sleep or something, you're distracting me from keeping watch." Techno grumbles, using a stick to move around the embers in the campfire.

With a small chuckle, Phil nods and doesn't point out that he's the one who's supposed to be keeping watch, opting instead to figure out where to keep this precious gift.

While it takes him a while to make up his mind, once he's made his choice he knows it's the right one. It's almost surreal taking hold of the mythrill chain, because he's so used to it resting over his heart, but that is also why he's chosen to tie the bracelet there.

Phil has been travelling for a while - some years now. He has met many people, fought many fights and visited many places, but he knows this is it.

The brilliant thief next to him, the wonderfully talented bard sleeping on the other side of the fire, and the little maniac sleeping with his head in his lap.

These are the companions he will spend the rest of his travels with, for as long as they'll have him.

Next to him, Techno chokes on seemingly nothing.

"You alright?" Phil asks, turning a concerned eye towards him: the thief is a couple of shades lighter than usual and is waving a hand towards his chain.

"You're *married*?!" He yells under his breath, voice reaching a pitch that Phil didn't expect he could.

Tommy grumbles in his sleep, apparently disturbed by the sound of Techno's protest, but he seems to fall back asleep rather quickly once Phil places a reassuring hand over his curls. The boy mumbles something about bees before rolling on his side, head tilting up into his hand, and Phil has to quickly dodge one of his horns - still growing, but nevertheless rather sharp and definitely solid.

Once his movement has stopped, Phil turns to Techno with a small smile.

"Not yet. It is tradition in my family, that one must prove their worth before taking their spouse's hand in marriage." He explains, Techno's expression turning from confusion to understanding.

"And that's why you're travelling. Is it an arranged marriage?"

Phil can't help but laugh a little, despite the ache that burns deep into his chest, shaking his head as he clutches the ring in his hand.

"She is the love of my life. My light, my sun and my moon. I'll spend the rest of eternity with her, for as long as she'll have me. My heart is hers, as is my whole being."

A beat of silence passes, as Phil stares into the moonlight, looking into the same sky that hopefully his love is seeing too, feeling the weight of his affection lift him up towards her. One day, one day they'll meet again, and they'll be able to finally officiate in front of the whole world what is already true. And then, they'll be able to travel together - oh, how his companions will love her, how she will care about them.

King Philza does not miss anything but he does miss her.

"I- I'll take it as a no on the arranged thing, then. I guess."

This time, when Phil bursts out laughing, it's loud, joyous and brings tears to his eyes.

It also makes Tommy wake up with a yell and Wilbur throw his pack at him - a cursed protest for him to *shut the hell up, we're trying to sleep* - but that is absolutely worth it.

________

Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed!<3

I have plans for a Tommy part, once again regarding the friendship bracelets, which will hopefully arrive in the near future!

If anyone would like to see any particular scene or character, let me know! Even in private messages, or anon asks, I will absolutely not mind (I'm just an awkward nerd)!!!

[labyrinthof-fan-fiction]

Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside)

Bucky X Fem!Reader

A/N: Hi, me again, with another fic inspired by a song from my Vera Lynn Playlist….. I’m sorry. Should I be considering these Song fics? Does it count if I’m not directly quoting the lyrics through the whole thing….? But I love it. Dinah Shore’s ‘Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside) is our new muse. Recorded in 1946, made it to #3 on the Billboard Charts. Written by Bernie Wayne, Lyrics by Ben Raleigh.

Summary: You and Bucky had broken up a while ago, but who should you come across at a dance club, the night before he ships off to war?

Warnings: Angst, again. Alcohol consumption, minor swears. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky, Steve, any of the Marvel Universe. I do not own ‘Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside).’

Word Count: 2,920

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was the happiest man on Earth, at least to most of the people who saw him. There were only two people who could see through is mask, his best friend, Steve Rogers and you. But now there was only one, Steve. You had left him, for good reasons too. He was an arrogant prick, at times. And you had called him on it, he snapped. You  left him, something he never thought would happen. The ring he had stored in the top drawer of his dresser was proof of that.

To the whole world he was a carefree young man. Dancing and romancing all the women he could find. Each night there was a new dame on his arm. Women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be him, and he just wanted you. Steve had walked in on him holding your picture with tears streaming down his face. It had been months since you walked away.

“She’s gone, Steve. She’s not coming back.” Bucky muttered. “And I’m still in love with her.” His thumb brushing gently over the cheek of your photo.

“Buck….” Steve began, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He knew Bucky loved you, and he was still confused on why the two of you broke up. Bucky never gave him the specifics. And you had kept your distance from him to the point that he was sure you were avoiding him.

Bucky wiped the tears from his eyes, placed your photo back into his wallet, and turned to the blonde man in front of him. “How ‘bout we go out tonight?”

“If you’re sure…” Steve said warily.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine.” Bucky answered, running a hand through his short hair. A smile splitting his face, not quite making it to his storm cloud grey eyes. Steve was wondering if the blue would ever return to his best friend eyes. Bucky went through the door first, Steve paused, his eyes falling on the unmistakeable black velvet box on top of Bucky’s dresser. He was frozen for a second, surely, that wasn’t….. He shook his head. Buck would have told him if he was going to propose, wouldn’t he?

He scampered after his dark haired friend, who had already made his way into the street. A suave air surrounded Bucky, but Steve could feel the falsity of it. Even when Bucky ended the night with a girl wrapped in his arms, smile on his face as he walked her home, Steve trailing behind with the girl’s reluctant friend. When they bid the girls goodnight Steve could feel the shift in his friend. The carefree attitude melted away and he was left with a sulky Bucky.

More months passed and Bucky was out with a new woman each day and night. Sometimes there were even more than one on his arm. Steve was concerned for his friend. While the rest of the world saw him having the time of his life, “Just as a young man should.” One of Bucky’s neighbors said. Steve hoped they remembered that sentiment as he lugged his much larger, very drunk, best friend back to his apartment.

“Dammit, Buck,” Steve said as his friend leaned against the wall of his apartment building, swaying from the amount of alcohol in his system. Steve cursed his smaller stature, he would have thrown Bucky into his room if he had been able.

A chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips, “Dammit is right, Stevie.” He hiccuped. “Dammit, Barnes. Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Steve let a sigh escape his lips. He didn’t want to discount the feelings Bucky was having, but damn did he wish that his friend had a healthier way of dealing. “What’s going on Buck?”

“It’s her birthday, you know what I was going to do for her birthday?” Bucky asked, his hand going into his pocket. “I was going to give her this.” He pulled the black velvet box out. He opened it and Steve could see the diamond sparkling in the moonlight. “I was going to ask her to spend her life with me.” Tears started streaming from his eyes. A sob broke through his lips.

Steve’s heart clenched as he watched his friend sink to the ground, cradling the engagement ring to his chest. Full bodied sobs echoing in the alley. Steve sat next to Bucky, remaining silent.

“I’ll love her until I die, Stevie.” He said, his head resting against the wall as he stared up at the sky. “No one else will compare.”

“I know, Buck, I know.” Steve said, he knew that Bucky meant every word he said. If only he could get him to say them to you. But he doubted that was possible. First off, you had been avoiding him. Second, he had heard you had a new beau. He hadn’t brought it upon himself to tell the man next to him just yet. He didn’t know if he could, he feared that if he did it would break his best friend.

Bucky sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes, placing the ring in his pocket. “We can’t sleep out here.” He pulled himself up shakily, Steve quickly standing and throwing Bucky’s arm over his shoulders to give him something to lean on. Steve managed to help his friend into bed, Bucky rolled over and looked at Steve. “Do you think she loves me still?”

Steve paused, he had almost made it out the door. “I don’t know, Buck. You’d have to ask her.”

A dry chuckle fell from Bucky’s lips, “Yeah.” Steve heard soft snores from his friend and made his exit, not before he heard your name fall from Bucky’s lips.

A year had passed since the break up and Bucky was out on the town. He was feeling like no one could stop him, he was on top of the world. Confidence oozed from his pores as he walked down the street. Steve had been busy today, so Bucky decided to take a walk around the block. He waved at a few dames he came across, opened some doors, charmed an uptown girl. He stopped in his tracks when he rounded the corner and he came face to face with you.

“Watch where you’re……going.” You snapped, slowing down when you saw who was in front of you. “James…..”

“Y/N.” He said softly, before a grin fell across his face. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

You were taken aback by his smile, “You know I work here.”

He glanced around, “I guess you do, I forgot. Been a while.”

“It has.” You said softly, taking in the sight of the man in front of you. He seemed happy, or at least he wanted you to believe he was happy. But you knew better. It’s not your responsibility anymore, you made sure of that. You reminded yourself.

“Well, it was nice seeing you. Take care.” He said, giving you a nod continuing on down the street. You could hear him whistling down the street. You felt a small pang in your chest as you watched his retreating form, a small part of you wishing that he would turn around, but he never did.

As he walked away he felt his eyes stinging, but tears refused to fall. His heart felt like it was weeping. But he whistled as he walked, trying to distract himself from the tearing of the feeble repairs he had made to his broken heart.

Two more years passed before you found each other again. You were at your favorite dance hall. It was packed with men in uniforms, looking for a dame to dance the night away with, before they were sent to war. You were more than happy to spin around the dance hall, it took your mind off of him. At least, it did until a man who reminded you of him took you out onto the floor. A flash of dark hair or grey eyes were enough for you to imagine you were in his arms again. You found yourself wondering if he was going to war, was he there already, was he alive? You stopped yourself, you couldn’t think about that right now. The man whose arms you were in didn’t need you staining his uniform with your tears over another.

Bucky straightened the tie on his new uniform. It felt odd to him, standing in front of his mirror, looking at this version of himself. Sure, this was what he had wanted, but it still didn’t feel like him. He glanced down at the drawer in his dresser, the ring box still there. He opened the drawer and pulled the ring out of the box and tucking it into his breast pocket. He knew most of the boys took tokens of their girls with them. He didn’t have you anymore, but he could pretend, he thought as he placed his hand over the ring.

“Buck, c’mon. I’m not getting any younger.” Steve called, “If we want to go dancing you need to get out of your room and stop staring at yourself. Damn narcissistic bastard.”

“Comin’.” Bucky called to him as he made his way to the door, placing his hat upon his head. Time to dance the night away and pretend it was you in his arms.

Steve and Bucky entered the dancehall, Steve quickly felt uneasy. Something in his bones made him want to flee. Bucky’s eyes swept the hall, looking for his target. He stopped when he saw you in the corner, alone against the wall. This couldn’t be right, there was no way you were here. He pinched his wrist, he wasn’t asleep. This wasn’t a dream, but did it feel like a dream to see you standing there.

Steve followed Bucky’s eyes and realized why his best friend had frozen. “Bucky…”

“I’m not going to go die without telling her I’m still in love with her.” Bucky cut Steve off, the ring in his pocket feeling heavy.

Steve stepped in front of him, he may be smaller, but he was far superior in the stubbornness department, that was if you asked him. “Buck, think about this before you do something stupid.”

“Steve,” Bucky began, looking down at his friend in front of him. “I might not come home. And damn it all, I’m going to tell her everything. It might not change anything, but I will go over there knowing that she knows.” He pushed aside his friend and made his way over to your corner. Your back was to him, intently watching the band. He removed his hat and put it in one hand. “Hello, doll.”

You turned quickly, fearing that if you were too slow that voice, that man would disappear. But he remained behind you, nervously tapping his fingers on the hat in his hands. A smile came across your face.

“Is there room on your dance card for me?” He asked sheepishly.

“Always.” You answered, his eyes lighting up, he placed his hat on the table next to you and offered his hand. You took it in yours and allowed him to lead you onto the dance floor. His hand pulled yours to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close to him. You wrapped your empty arm around his neck. You felt his heartbeat pounding in his chest. You instinctively put your hand in his hair, massaging his scalp.

You felt a warm puff of air on your cheek. “Doll….” He murmured low into your ear. Your knees grew weak and you were glad for the grip he held on your waist.

“Darling. I’m so sorry.” You whispered. You could feel the tears falling from your eyes. He burrowed his face into your neck, breathing in your scent. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He remained silent for a moment. You stiffened, wondering what he would do, how he would react. His hand at your waist moved in circles along the small of your back. “I’m sorry too.”

You remained in each others embrace, lucky the band had chosen to do a slow set. “I still love you, doll. I always have.” Bucky stated abruptly, breaking the silence. “I had to tell you before I go. I don’t know what’s going to happen over there, but I needed you to know…”

You cut him off by pulling away from his embrace, causing a panicked look to come across his face. You ignored this and pulled him closer to you, pressing your lips to his. The world around the two of you faded away as you deepened the kiss, his left hand remaining on your waist, his right threading itself in your hair.

You broke apart for a moment to allow each other air before his lips crashed back into yours. You let out a small hum as he pressed even closer, you doubted that even air could be between the two of you. He pulled away, breathless and stared into your eyes. He didn’t press you for a response to his confessions, he didn’t ask for an explanation, he just stared into your eyes.

Neither of you said a word, continuing to remain in each others arms for the rest of the night. Last call was announced and Bucky held his arm out to you. “Let me walk you home, just one last time.”

You accepted the arm, noticing Steve out of the corner of your eye. A small smile was on his face.

The walk home was quiet, but comfortable. You had so much you wanted to say, but no words fell from your lips. When you made it to your doorstep you turned to the man in front of you. When you had broken up a boy was in front you. Impulsive and headstrong. Here was a man. Here is the man you love.

He glanced nervously between you and the door. Right now the only thought in your minds was the very really possibility that this would be the last time you saw each other. Your rational side begged you to think things through, but you threw caution to the wind. You could not send him to war without letting him know how you felt.

“I’m still in love with you.” You blurted out, at the same time he said, “I love you.”

You both chuckled. Bucky placed a hand on your cheek. “Some way, some how, I’m going to make it back to you, doll. I swear it.”

You leant into his hand, “Don’t make promises you don’t know you can keep.”

“Come hell or high water, I won’t spend anymore time away from you. I will not spend any more time pretending that I am not hopelessly in love with you.” He took his hand from his cheek and pulled out the ring. “I have carried this for years, holding onto the hope that I would give it to you. It is going to stay in my pocket until I get the chance to properly give it to you, when all this is over. I swear to you, that I will come back. I will marry you and will love you until my dying day.”

You were stunned into silence, you didn’t know what to say, so you pulled him in for another kiss. This one more urgent than those on the dance floor. Bucky pulled away, you stared into his eyes, the grey seemed to be breaking away into pale blue, much like the sky after a storm. You could feel the weight of Bucky’s promise in the air, but you would worry about that when, if the time came. You threaded your fingers through his and opened your door, dragging the new soldier in behind you. “Stay with me.” You murmured.

Bucky knew he could not refuse you, as you lead him to your bedroom. “Doll…..we don’t have to.” He started, stopping in the doorway.

“Buck, please hold me tonight. Like you used to.”

He nodded, stripping down to his undershirt and boxers as you changed from your dancing dress to a nightgown. Bucky pulled the covers back on your bed and burrowed under them, opening his arms for you to settle into. You placed your head on his chest as his arms wrapped around you. You felt his heartbeat begin to slow as gentle snores fell from his lips lulling you to sleep. You woke the next morning in his arms, his grip tightening before he was pulled from sleep. He placed a sleepy kiss to your forehead. “I have to go.” He murmured, tracing patterns on your back.

“I know.” You answered, tears falling onto his chest.

He shifted underneath you, and you knew this was your cue to move, you pulled yourself from his arms as he released you. He rolled from the bed and dressed himself in his uniform. When you were both dressed you stood at your door.

“I love you.” You whispered, putting a hand over his heart. “Please come back to me.”

He placed his hand on top of yours. “I promise.” He placed a gentle kiss to your lips before turning to the door and leaving. You watched his broad frame fade from view. Both of you oblivious to the fact that he would break his promise to come home to you. But neither of you ever broke your promise to love the other until your last breath.

[ron-stepupable]

So: fanfic about victor noticing Sarah and Nina’s similarities. The setting is after victor and sweetie confiscate the amulets but in this version Nina was wearing that pearl bracelet Sarah gave her after she died and victor also took that. Also FYI Nina came kind of overly aggressive in this so....warning? (I guess it’s not that out of character 😂) also format is shit I didn’t want to do a link.

During history, I could barely function. All I could focus on was how on earth would we get our amulets back from Victor, and fast. We could never find them mask with one amulet, it just wasn’t feasible. But Victor would never let the amulets leave his sight now, so the only way to get them back would be in plain sight.

I knocked on his door.

“Enter,” Sweetie granted diplomatically. On his desk, were several plastic bags with items of jewelry in them and student’s names on the outsides of them.

“Ah, hello, Nina, there should be a bag with your name on it somewhere...feel free to take a look.” Was this how we interacted now? Straight denial? Were we to pretend as if nothing ever happened, like he hadn’t just de-railed our entire quest. I perused the plastic bags and frowned.

“My name’s not here,” I gestured to parcels. Sweetie looked up and removed his spectacles.

“Hmm...Victor must have taken Anubis resident’s parcels. I’d check with him.” He seemed unphased, like none of this mattered, and to him it didn’t. I didn’t say a word in response as I left for the door. Then, halfway through the door turned around glared at him.

“You know what you are?”

He looked at me blankly.

“You’re a pawn,” I didn’t even feel guilty about saying it. “Victor is the chess master and you are his pawn. He is more headmaster than you are.”

And I left. He stayed behind spluttering pointless words. Someday I might harbor respect for that man, but certainly not now.

In Anubis house, I found two bags on the dining room table. One for Amber and one for Patricia, but not one for me. Damn him. He was a thief. That’s what he was, a manipulative, lying thief. How dare he pocket something like that? Something Sarah had given me—the last thing I had as a token of her love and care—and he pocketed it and acted like it was meant for him. It made me want to scream. He could steal the amulets, he could act like nothing had happened. But not that. Sarah gave that to me and not Victor for a reason. All the way to the top of the stairs I huffed, and then realised he wasn't there. So I huffed all the way to the bottom of the stairs and found Vera in the kitchen with her hands in a bowl of mashed peas.

“Vera?” I asked. She sighed exasperatedly but plastered on a seemingly genuine smile.

“Yes, dear?”

“Has Victor gone out?”

She thought for a few selective moments.

“Yes, I believe you just missed him, I should think he’s headed into town for some supplies.”

My face could have done one of two things: either gotten softer or harder and more murderous, I honestly have no idea. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, but I’m sure it’ll keep,” I lied and promptly left the room. Victor had crossed the line and now I would too.

Like a ticking bomb, two hours later, the front door to Anubis slammed open and in stormed Victor. I jumped at once from the sofa and hurried toward the foyer. Victor beat me to it.

“Nina Martin? A word in my office.” He turned and left. Let’s just say I followed. In his office, Victor was in his prime, he held authority in this postage stamp office. There was no way I’d ever win an argument here.

“I have something of yours,” he said calmly, putting his hand into his trench coat pocket. My spine tingled and only intensified as Victor retrieved the small pearled bracelet from his pocket. He cradled it like a priceless artifact and lifted it slightly into the air, but carefully as not to risk any chance of dropping it. A slight wave of guilt washed over me. I didn’t treasure that piece of history like he did. I didn’t hold it close to my chest and appreciate the artisan. He held his wrist out and gestured me to do so. I held my arm out cautiously and kept still while Victor fastened the clasp around my wrist with his wrinkled fingertips.

“Louisa always wore this.” He said with just a slight hint of bitterness. “I never saw her without it—ever. She was talented like that, with art. But that wasn’t what was so great about her.” He smoothed his thumb over the glass charm and dare I say he smiled? “She was ridiculously brave and I’ve never met anyone who loved as much as she did.” He let go of my hand and I returned it to my side. The bracelet now felt like a led weight. Victor’s eyes held memories too painful to comprehend. Somehow I needed to lighten them.

“I have something for you,” I blurted. “Wait here.” The door clicked behind me and I hurried off to my room. In the box of Sarah’s things hidden away in the passage, I retrieved a small leather bound notebook inscribed with RFS on the spine. I thumbed through the pages until I made sure this one had what I was looking for.

November 11th, 1919,

I am freed. We are all freed and soon we will go home. I count the minutes until I will be reunited with Louisa, and Sarah. You, non-sentient journal, couldn’t possibly fathom how deeply I miss them. It has been two years since I saw them last. I do feel some guilt my brothers fought for six long years while I served only two. But when these bouts of guilt come I should remember I was doing more important things than fighting for some land and a new democracy.

Sarah has written me about the boy who now occupies my house. And she writes so vividly of who he is, I feel as if I already know him. Of course I know of his father, though I haven’t spoken to him in years. Often I wonder if I’ve made the right choice in asking him to help care for Louisa and Sarah in my absence. Louisa has written that she dislikes him and would rather live with Satan himself. But how could I leave his little boy, Sarah’s new found “soulmate” so she says alone with the man Louisa has described? I have a duty of humanity to that little boy. No, the Rodenmaars will not be leaving Anubis house anytime soon.

It astonished me how much Robert cared for Victor before he had even met him. I do wish I could have met Robert, his writing mesmerizes me and his love for his family struck the same chord I lived on. I picked up a second journal and flipped to the end.

December 9th, 1921

I want Rodenmaar out of my house. I offered him all the money in the world to leave this house and never return, leaving Victor behind. I assumed a man of his stature would jump at the chance but he refused. What an arse. He is not the kind of man to nurture even his own son. What ties could he have to a seven year old who’s birthday he doesn’t even know? He must be onto us, otherwise he would have no reason to stay. To make things worse, the other night Rodenmaar spoke with Victor in his office again. Victor left crying. When I asked what had been said to him, Victor shook his head and ran outside to the park with Sarah and Rufus. On the face of that little boy I see such strength. I haven’t decided whether it is because he is a child and problems of this caliber sometimes lose their weight, or because he has learned and adapted to such power. Either way, he inspires me. I want to tell him that whilst trying to sleep under the weight of this daunting duty of mine or when my heart begins to flutter with the fear I know I shouldn’t feel I think of him and how indestructible he is, even at age seven. He doesn't deserve that man, especially not after all he’s done for us; making Louisa and I cry with laughter or give us the opportunity to to tack our crack at raising a son. And he’s so very good to Sarah. That boy is the heartbeat of this household. And his suffering breaks my heart into a million little pieces.

Ps: Rodenmaar, if you are reading this, know that you will never find what I have hidden. No matter how hard you seek. Give up now and leave your son with me. Also, you sir, are an asshole and I hope you burn in hell.

I had read this entry before and it never seemed to resonate with me. Maybe because I thought it didn’t resonate with Victor, but clearly I was wrong about that. And if I was wrong about that, what else was I wrong about?

I snapped the journal closed and hightailed it back to Victor’s office where he waited with an intensely confused look on his face. I handed him the journals.

“I think you’ll find page 15 and 29 interesting.” I turned to go but he waved his hand and I stopped in my tracks. He read each entry carefully, about three minutes each. I had trig homework calling my name but I didn’t dare rush him, and I didn’t dare leave. Finally, he sighed and closed the journals.

“I am sorry,” was all he said.

“For what?”

“I have judged you harshly, chosen one. You are more like her than I had thought.”

I was about to open my mouth and ask who but then I noticed where his eyes were focused. On an old brown photo on the right side of the wall. It was on the front porch of Anubis. There was a man there, and a woman too—Robert and Louisa. On Robert’s knee was a little girl with a fierce stare and ribbons as long as America itself attached to her braids. On Louisa’s thigh, hidden by a flowered skirt (appropriately ending just past the knee) sat a tiny, skinny little boy. But that little boy was smiling to his ears, looking at the little girl to his left. No one else in that photo smiled, but he did. There was so much joy in those round brown eyes. And yet four months later it would shatter.

“I miss her,” I couldn’t help but say. I cursed myself for speaking. Victor stiffened and cleared his throat. It was the wrong door to open but there was no turning back now.

“I…” his hand hovered by his collar. The string of an amulet was poking through his shirt. My heart beat four times faster. If I keep this ball rolling could I manipulate his focus into giving them back? Never, but it was a nice thought. His fingers latched around the black string and he began to pull up, then he froze.

“She gave so much of herself to help me find my path,” I cut in. It might have been the wrong door, but boy would I knock it down.

“I—” his fingers let go of the string and his hands returned to the side. “You may leave now, miss Martin.” My fingers crunched like my parents' car around that telephone pole. I swallowed a mouthful of rage and nodded curtly. Then I left. How The Frobisher-Smythes ever held adoration for that man-boy is the greatest mystery this house has to offer. But then I think of moments like that—where he let his humanity take control. For a moment he was real, and for that moment he was something other than just the enemy—he was, like Robert had said, the heartbeat of the house.

[jinsai-ish]

Welp, I guess I'm gonna start posting all the things. It's all old, from when I actually had, you know, free time. I also have no idea how tumblr works in terms of stuff like cuts so if people want to read the nice formatted stuff it's all up at jinsai.livejournal.com.

Any complaints can be forwarded to the otter.

First up, Pet Shop of Horrors drabbles:

Title: Imprisoning the Elements

Rating: G

Word Count: 100

Pairings/charecters: DxLeon

Notes: Response to challenge #6 (elements).

You can pick up earth, hold it in your hands. You can shape it, toss it into a box. But the wind will flow through your fingers, laughing at you. Water flows, but it will hold shape in a container. It can be imprisoned, remaining water. But fire…

Only one of two things can happen to fire enclosed in a box. It will die out, smothered for lack of nourishment. Or it will burn down the sides of the box, flickering merrily at your futile attempts to catch it. 

There are days when D can’t stand to look at Leon.

Title: Of Lizards and Rats, Mirrors and Hooks

Rating: PG

Word count: 100

Pairings/characters involved: Robin Hendrix, Medusa, Despair

Notes: Cross-over with the Sandman, response to challenge 7, bystander pov.

She looks at her mirrors, the rats scrabbling around her feet. Ah, there. Platinum blonde hair, blue eyes. Rich, handsome, talented, and utterly apathetic save for his reptiles. Drowning in the shadow of the prince, Robin Hendrix is one of her favorites. 

A new development, that lovely young lizard. She sees Robin creeping out of the frame of the mirror, step by dreamy step. Digging her hook into her cheek, she nearly smiles. The rats scamper in fear. 

Nice try little god.

Despair is patient.

When Robin looks into Medusa’s eyes, he almost misses the hook behind the prince. Almost.

Title: The Price

Rating: G

Word count: 100

Pairings or characters involved: the Chief, implied Leon/D

Notes: response to 8 "Beneath the Mask." I wanted to focus on the chief, wondering what his job costs him. Rather understated I think, but please let me now whatyou think.

Wrenching open his door, the chief gestured for the ranting detective to take his leave.

“Out! Leon, it’s Valentine’s Day. All the criminals are off romancing their mistresses. Why don’t you take off a bit early? I’m sure you can think of somewhere to go.”

Leon blustered a bit, a faint red tingeing his cheeks. But he grabbed his coat as he did so, brushing past a winking Jill. The chief humphed.

“Finally, some peace and quiet!” 

Left alone in his office, the chief twisted the gold ring on his left hand and stared at a phone that wouldn’t ring.

Title: Einstein's Truth

Rating: G/PG

Word count: 100 (not including quote)

Pairings or characters involved: D/Leon

Notes: This one was a pain to cut down to 100 words but it's done. Response to challenge 10 on the theme of time. Inspired by raison d'etat's wonderful fic "Unwilling Sleep" and the following passage from "Properties of the Light" by Rebecca Goldstein.

The passage of time is nothing real. It is a chimera spun out of gauzy consciousness, and nothing more, a frightful apparition tossed up by our mixed-up minds. We know this from Einstein's physics, which shows us a time as stilled as spread space. Time is static, the flow unreal: it is Einstein's truth, and it is the truth, falling straight away from the conditions of perfect symmetry imposed on the geometry. The ebb, which seems so terrible and real, which seems to carry off one's every treasure, leaving one like a chest spilled open on the waves: unreal, unreal.

“Einstein’s Truth”

At forty-five, calluses have long since formed on once-smooth palms. This is the choice he made. 

The aroma of hothouse flowers manages to cover the hospital smell, signs of the respect the officers at the precinct held for their chief of ten years. Leon’s resting now, the bullet that had tore through his chest no longer paining him. Eyes shut, D rests his head above a stilling heart. Somewhere he knows that he is pouring tea for a loud-mouthed, loving detective. As Leon drifts away, into past and future, D knows that this time, it is his turn to search.

"The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion. (Albert Einstein, shortly before his death)

Title: Sakura

Rating: G

Word count: 100 

Pairings/characters: D/Leon (implied)

Notes: Reply to challenge 12 (seasons). Post-series, with D in Tokyo ala Nemuki special. Inspired by the latest "Flowers and the Detective" from volume 6.

It is summer in Tokyo and past-time for some rigorous spring-cleaning. D assigns tools and tasks, arming himself with a duster.

The denizens of the pet shop are winning against dust and dirt when D stumbles upon a box stashed in the corner of his room. Within lay the gifts his grandfather sent from his own visit to Japan: the rake, the fan – and the kimono. D reaches for it, his hand unsteady. Suddenly chilled, he wraps himself in the kimono, trying not to remember widened blue eyes and blossoms falling to the ground in rushes of color and scent.

Title: Just Another Part of the Job

Rating: PG 

Word count: 100

Pairings/characters: The Chief (anyone know his name?), Leon 

Notes: response to challenge 13, waiting. Just a bit of fun at Leon's expense.

Fingers the color of rich chocolate milk tapped impatiently on the desk. The hollow thuds landed in counter rhythm to the ticking of the clock. The chief scowled at a stack of files, then back at the time piece. Ten more minutes. If those reports weren’t in his hands by then he swore he’d – The phone rang, interrupting his mental threat.

Nine minutes and twenty-one seconds later a panting Leon burst in the door, shoving a large folder at the chief.

Orcot was a damn good detective, but he was the absolute worst when it came to completing his paperwork!

Title: Statistics

Rating: PG

Word count: 140 (sorry!)

Pairings/characters: the Chief, Leon (implied D/Leon)

Notes: Response (albeit too long) to challenge 14, numbers. Takes place right after the first "Flowers and the Detective" story. 

Yesterday they had posted the annual report for the 14th precinct: 1,038 cases of robbery, 69 rapes, 700 vehicle thefts, 1,065 aggravated assaults, and 19 homicides. That wasn’t counting the officer who had lost his life in the line of duty.

“Dammit Leon…”

“Chief?” Awakening for the second time, Leon’s bleary vision picked out the chief’s face, focusing on his eyes, red and dry as the Martian surface. As red as the petals from -

“Gattolotto...” Leon winced in pain. “Where’s D?”

“I made him go home; he was here all night.

“We caught the dealers. You’ll probably get a promotion out of this. But don’t think this means you’re not an idiot for getting shot.” 

But the chief smiled. Last night they hadn’t known if Leon was going to make it. And he had already attended one funeral too many.

Long I know. But I did research! lapdonline.org and http://www.losangelesalmanac.com/topics/Crime/cr03ea.htm

I'm assuming the 14th to be under Central of Central Bureau as they service Chinatown, among other areas. And anyone else notice that before getting shot Leon is "Officer" and "Detective" after? Maybe just a translation error but it worked. *shrug*

Title: Selling Vinyl Siding

Rating: PG

Word count: 100

Pairings/characters: Leon, Sofu (implied D/Leon)

Notes: Response to challenge 16, family. 

“Selling Vinyl Siding”

Since meeting D, Leon had suffered a lot of weird-ass dreams. Man-eating rabbits, and all that crap. But that last one had really taken the cake.

“If you leave my grandson alone, I’ll give you anything you want.” 

Leon had recognized the man, nearly a mirror-image of D, save his eyes matched and lacked the glimmer that always hovered in his D’s. 

He had said this out-loud and D’s creepy grandfather glared.

“What is it you want? Riches, power, immortality? Never see him again and I’ll give you an immortal life!”

Leon had never laughed so hard in his life.

Title: Father's Day

Rating: G 

Word count: 100 

Pairings/characters: D/Leon

Notes: Response 2 to challenge 16, family.

“Father’s Day”

Leon only spoke of his father once and he held very still while he did so. His lips moved, but the shadowy blue eyes blinked slowly, the rise and fall of his chest barely discernable. D gently pried the tea cup from his fingers and refilled it, his hand lingering over the Detective’s as he returned it.

D never spoke of his father. But sometime at night, when the darkness seeped from the corners of his room to surround, he’d tremble slightly. That’s when Leon would hold him, clutching D tightly and mumbling soothing words that had no real meaning.

Title: Odile's Spring

Rating: G

Word count: 100 

Pairings/characters: Jeanne La Croix (from vol. 5, Dance)

Notes: Response to challenge 17, cold. I would have to say that of all Count D's one-shot customers, Jeanne and her story "Dance" are my favorite. :)

"Odile's Spring"

March in St. Petersburg is cold in a way that L.A. could never understand. Jeanne clutches the freshly-made bread close to her chest, the warmth soaking through her gloves to chilled fingers. Her parka is thick enough but still she envies the thick fur of the husky that runs past, chased after by laughing children. Jeanne smiles, loving the sound of the language, the thick accent that warms her ears. Her leg muscles loosen and her feet begin sweeping gracefully over the frozen ground. In Russia, Jeanne La Croix dances amid a flurry of snow, falling softer than swan’s down.

Title: "A Token of my Esteem"

Rating: PG

Word count: 100 

Pairings/characters: Leon/OC, implied D/Leon

Notes: With D gone, someone had to try and pick up the pieces. Post-series. (#31, token) 

It was raining the night she met Leon. Drunk as he was, he held the umbrella steady as they walked to her apartment. Sometimes, when she was too caught up in a client’s portfolio, he’d bring coffee and donuts. They were the only sweets he could stomach. He never talked after sex. They never made love. When she told him the company offered her a prestigious job in Tokyo, he shrugged. She left him the apartment.

She recognized him the second she entered the pet store. She strode out, fighting back tears, a red palm print marring D’s perfect complexion.

Title: "And a Pocketful of Raindrops"

Rating: G 

Word count: 100 

Pairings/characters: D, Leon, Chris (implied D/Leon)

Notes: Reply to challenge 33, dance. 

“And a Pocketful of Raindrops”

Walking out of the restaurant, Count D, Leon, and Chris strode directly into the downpour. Puddles dotted the sidewalks and a heavy, slow rain was falling. Chris seized the moment to puddle-jump, soaking the Count and his brother in the process. 

“Christopher!” D glared at him, brandishing an armful of wet silk.

“Aw Count, live a little!” Leon joined Chris, swinging him around in an odd little jig.

“Detective! If you must dance, at least show him how to do it properly.” 

Brushing droplets out of his hair, Chris gaped at a bewildered Leon, roped into waltzing in the rain.

Title: Trick or Treat?

Rating: R

Word count: 165 

Pairings/characters: T-chan/surprise

Notes: #35 -Trick-or-treat. A new pairing for me. Let's see how it goes.

"Trick or Treat?"

Tetsu thrust hard into the pliant body beneath him. Finally the Count had seen the light. Sure, it was a bit sudden and completely out of the blue, but the toutetsu wasn’t about to protest. Not with the writhing body beneath him, the long nails digging into his back. He growled at the scent of his own blood, moving faster and deeper. As the Count arched up his back Tetsu leaned down and licked the sweat droplets off of one blushed nipple. The Count tasted of fresh peaches and cinnamon spice. At climax two cries echoed in the room – a loud howl and a shrill scream.

The toutetsu allowed his lower body to rest against that of his lover. Slowing his breath, he meet the Count’s mismatched eyes, only to stare in shock as black hair grew and shaded into red. A pair of sly golden eyes glittered up at him – a fox’s eyes.

Ten-chan leaned up and nipped the frozen man-eater’s nose. “Trick-or-treat T-chan.”

Title: Kindred

Rating: PG

Word count: 100

Pairings/characters: the Chief, Leon, Jill, other

Notes: Challenge #36, instinct

“Kindred”

Leon depends on his instincts while Jill prefers research. He’s hotheaded, she’s too trusting. Ted’s a joker, Marianne’s a cynic, Phil’s always late. But they’re all good cops. All the men and women who serve under him are. The chief won’t tolerate a dirty cop, or a lousy one. If that keeps him from the coveted promotion to commissioner, so be it. 

As long as officers like Orcot and the others are on the force, he knows he’s not the only one kept up late at night by the dead’s silence, names slipping from his lips in a broken mantra.

To be continued...

[tacogoats]

I wrote a thing

huge thanks to @rhaemaya-valwynn for the inspiration :) 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021077

Under the cut if you’d like to read it here! Obvious Shadowbringers spoilers ahead, do not read if you’ve not finished! Tumblr did murder the format, though. 

The door creaked open loudly, the lack of use made apparent through the awful drawn out noise. 

How long had it been since she had last been here? A year, maybe two? Time's passing was becoming increasingly difficult to track now that she was making regular trips to the First. Thinking about it made her head hurt sometimes. 

He chuckled softly beside her, amused at the heavy sigh that escaped her once she closed the door behind them.

"So all this is yours? I didn't take you for someone who would want for this." Emet-Selch, no... Hades scanned the mansion's main hall with an amused smirk.

Twelve forbid he would say anything that wasn't just dripping with sarcasm or mildly condescending. She sighed again, and he placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I jest, I jest. T'is… Quaint, compared to the Imperial Palace. Perhaps I will find it a pleasant change?"

"Oh, the pampered Emperor has to live like a savage. How terrible for you." She grins up at him, meeting his tone from earlier in kind. Now it was his turn to sigh.

But after the sigh, he matches the playful jab, "Oh, woe is me" he lifts the hand from your shoulder above his forehead, making a mockery of fainting as he slumps his shoulders slightly, "whatever will I do without my servants and my-"

She swats his arm gently before he really goes off. "The Maelstrom actually did send people to tidy up before I got back. And cook… and so on... I'm never here, so…"

He raises an eyebrow, "Too busy saving the world and all that, hero?" 

"Gods don't start calling me that again. Ugh."

He laughs softly, and while they could stay there all night going back and forth, he is the one to suggest a quick tour. 

He would never admit it, but he wants to see what she does with a space of her own. What would he find, hidden away from the eyes of everyone else? 

As Solus zos Galvus, he'd admittedly collected frivolous things. But then, he'd been an Emperor and had long grown bored with the world as it was. Having riches above and beyond what a lonely adventurer ever had meant he could have whatever he very well wanted. But she was not an Empress. 

Did she collect tokens of her many adventures? How many ancient ruins did she visit and keep mementos from? She was friends with every single Leader of the Eorzean Alliance; would they gift unto her riches? Would she accept them?

He followed her, inspecting every inch of the mansion he walked through. She had begun talking about how she disliked decorating, how it was far out of her comfort zone to dictate what looked pleasant or not. What if she had guests and they thought she had no style? 

He laughs softly, "Well, I could help."

She blinks in surprise and looks at him for a moment, then, "Maybe."

Her answer is unexpected, he merely shrugs to hide the surprise he feels. 

She goes back to talking about the mansion - as she starts showing him rooms. Many of them are simply guest rooms with some beds, a bit of furniture and little more. He asks who she would house with this, and she says servants were welcome to sleep here. 

She was always kind like that.

There is one question he wants to ask that tugs at his curiosity, but he waits for the right moment. For now, he follows her to what she calls the trophy room - that, her friends insisted she have. She leads him down a set of stairs, to what must be the basement. The trophy room is far from where it should be for the desired effect of one. 

She was always modest, too. 

"I don't much care for it, honestly. It feels like I'm physically gloating. Worse yet was when I started receiving things from fans! The worst thing I got was-"

One thing in the back of the room catches his eye, and all the attention that was focused on listening to her evaporates; an idea pops into his mind and he grins.

She stops when he makes his way to the grand piano she was given after her time in Haukke manor. With a tilt of her head, she speaks, watching him walk to it, "Do you want to know how I got it? I could never, ever hope to play the thing…"

He hums approvingly, still with his eyes locked to the piano. Once he reaches it, he begins to inspect it; running his gloved hand along the wooden frame and leaning closer into it.

"After I liberated Haukke Manor from the Lady… who… Well, let's just say she turned into some kind of voidsent after doing horrific things…" She pauses for a reaction, and he gives a 'mhm' - he's still listening. 

"After I defeated her, the Order of the Twin Adder recovered whatever they could. They asked if I wanted anything, y'know, Slayer of Ifrit and all that apparently gets-"

She stops when he sits down on the bench accompanying it and lifts the cover over the keys, watching him.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, that smile he always sports when he speaks in that overly confident tone. When he would speak to her of things she had never known of the world that came before - and yet, it was so much softer this time. He turns to her, and it widens, and then… He plays.

The song he plays begins slow, just a few keys in repetition. It warms her heart, it is soft and calming, slow and beautiful still. She had never truly been one to appreciate the arts, there was never time to do so in her busy life. 

And yet here she was, sharing her new experience with Hades. The thought crosses her mind, that it is with an Ascian, of all things, but it fades when the song suddenly changes. 

He is playing faster now, his fingers gliding across the keys - the song remains gentle and with a hint of sadness to it, but now more uplifting. Like remembering happier times even through sorrow. It brings a sad smile to her face. 

And then, with what must be the song's peak, she gasps as a white light strikes her vision.

She sees images- no, flashes of… memories-

Two robed people, like the shades that walk the ruins of Amaurot, stand together, hand in hand, but there is a black nothingness that surrounds them. She pushes against the memory, what lay beyond them, why can I not see the room- 

The memory snaps for but a second, another burst of white covers her vision- but she hears a voice, of who or what is speaking, she cannot be sure. It sounds feminine, in that strange but familiar singsong voice the shades spoke to her in. Yet, the Echo cannot help her hear it. 

Then another answers the first, and this time even though it is in that language she cannot speak, she knows who it belongs to. 

"Of course, my dear. How about your favorite, hm?" Hades answers, in a tone laced with love. Even with a mask on, something tells her he smiles as he speaks.

The Amaurotine that must be him raises a hand and snap-

White floods her vision, and Hades is looking at her with a sad, knowing smile across the room, still hitting keys, still playing that lovely song even as she disappeared for that moment - lost in something that she knew she once had…

He plays the last part of the song, his eyes never leaving her, and she knows now it is the ending, because he's played it before-

The song ends, and his smile never leaves his lips.

"I hope I may find other ways to help you remember, my dear."

She thinks on it a moment, before she knows what her answer will be. There was no magic involved here like the memory she saw. He learned this, and for what? She had a million questions for him, now. And yet…

With a smile to match his, she says...

"I look forward to it, Hades."

[cedarmoons]

heal my soul

so i saw @nipuni​ ’s absolutely gorgeous art and got inspired, because i just really love angst, apparently.  (; ︵ ;)

His transformation is unwelcome, but not unexpected.

The first orb he had found had been Dirthamen’s, buried deep underground, in one of his lost temples. When he had taken its power with the Anchor, fueling himself, he had woken the next morning to crystalline, snowy irises that reflected the light. There had been two sets of slits on his forehead, connected by thin, shadowy lines, resembling the closed eyes of his mosaics.

He reaches into himself, and finds what he had feared most. The ancient being within his soul, the first spark that had shaped his nature, is stirring, feeding on the power he gorges like a glutton yet needing more still. There is no Mythal, no Inquisitor to calm that part of him, now, to soothe and humble, and shrink back into himself.

His attention makes it stir, and its stirring awakens it.

There is nothing he can do, save watch, as his skin turns grey, as hard nodules of scales begin to creep along his elbows, the back of his neck, over his scalp. He watches, despairing, and remembers words he’d once spoken to her, so long ago: I would not have you see what I become.

The worst comes after he finds a way to reach Arlathan. The Fade is close against his skin, teeming with power, though the city itself is blackened by its fate, nothing more than a husk of what it had been. Floating palaces had fallen, crushing the slums they had hidden in their shadows; the colors that decorated the streets have faded, gone grey, drained without magic to fuel its art.

He finds his brethren where he had locked them away, each in their own palace, and takes their power for himself. He rends their sleeping souls apart and drinks the golden ichor that spills across his skin, tasting electricity and dragon fire in every greedy gulp. He takes their symbols, what they had loved most; he takes Andruil’s bow and arrows, Ghilan’nain’s horns, Elgar’nan’s staff, Dirthamen’s ravens, Falon’Din’s mask that allowed its wearer to see both Dreaming and Waking worlds at once. He consumes Sylaise’s irrepressible heat, and the ancient spirit of Ingenuity that had once sparked June feeds his own soul.

The Mother is greatly pleased. You have done well, she whispers in one of his lucid moments, and his Pride swells.

He keeps the physical trophies displayed like trinkets in his war room, where his generals and advisers gather. They admire the tokens, of course, and his Pride is appeased.

He sleeps that night, and is awakened by a searing pain in his skull. The eyes are open, glowing a dull red, and his scalp has cracked in four areas. Solas casts a silencing barrier over his room and curls into himself, screaming as the curved, twisted horns break through the skin and grow.

His nails are bloody from clawing at the ruptured skin by the time the pain subsides, and when he looks in the mirror, he sees a monster. Four slitted red eyes, four curved, twisting black horns. A creature of fear, of glory.

No, he thinks. No.

He casts a permanent glamour over himself, so the others will not know; but it is a half-hearted effort (I want them to know me, fear me, his Pride croons, weakening his will), and more and more of his agents become disconcerted as his state worsens.

Solas cannot blame them, but he has already set upon the path, and he must see it to the final, blissful end.

With the false gods dealt with, he can now deal with restoring the world as it should be. He had thought, at first, to simply tear down the Veil and rebuild from the ashes; but that would bring too much death. He will instead do as Dorian and the Inquisitor had, and turn time back, to when the Mother was alive and all was well. From there, he will take steps to ensure this world, this abomination, would never come to pass.

It will be a painless death for the little mortals. They will not even know. It is good of him to do this, take the kindest route, rather than focus on the death and destruction and pain. It is wise. He is wise.

The next orb he seeks, Elgar’nan’s, is somehow destroyed by the Inquisition before he can reach it. He knows its loss instantly, for the hunger in his bones aches at the waste of power, a pain so sharp it steals his breath and makes him ravenous. That night, the Dread Wolf flies into her dreams, screaming at her impudence. He does not harm her, but he bloodies her spirit, her Pride, her faith in her cause. She deserves every pain he inflicts upon her, because in her impudence she has dared to interfere with a god.

A pretty little mortal, who must learn her place.

Solas wakes from that nightmare and promptly vomits. I am losing myself, he thinks afterwards, wildly, and cannot stop his sobs. Vhenan, vhenan, forgive me.

He writes a thousand different notes, begging forgiveness, but none of them are good enough for her eyes, and there is nothing he can say that would excuse his behavior. Every note he writes is burned.

He sends her roses and Andruil’s bow, instead. His Pride roars at him for giving such a treasure to a little mortal child, and Solas hopes that the golden arrows will find his heart before he can complete his task.

The next orb, Ghilan’nain’s, is stolen from his agents before he can consume its power, and his ravens soon locate it in Minrathous. His ravens see the human armies gathering there, the world’s best and strongest mages preparing rituals to prevent him from reaching the orb. Pride hears these reports and laughs.

“I will go to Minrathous,” he says, allowing a small, smug smile. The generals look at each other, disquieted, and it only amuses him further. “Perhaps my presence there will demonstrate my previous kindnesses, and they will finally see my plans for the gifts they are.”

His ravens come to him in his dreams that night, and tell him of the city. There are seven defenses between him and Minrathous. Six armies, and the seventh, he cannot see; perhaps it is simply a long stretch of land, meant to be a buffer zone between him and the city.

Pride laughs, and laughs, and laughs. When he wakes, he takes the nearest eluvian, ending up a hundred miles from Minrathous. Electricity crackles around his ankles and he draws the shadows of the land around himself. It is effortless, drawing this form; a mere few years ago, he had been too weak to even change his Elvhen form.

The thought is both amusing and despicable.

He hunches forward, and a wolf consumes him, rising up to be larger than the grandest castles, taller than the forest canopy behind him. He shakes his head, adjusting to the rarely-used form, and heads for the city.

When they see him, men gasp and cry out to their absent gods, as the black wolf’s six scarlet eyes open. Black oil drips down his coat, shining his fur. Red smoke trails from his eyes. His Pride is laughing in his mind; it is never silent, never peaceful.

The mages do nothing to him. Their power is a breeze attempting to move a mountain. The soldiers are equally helpless, and thousands get crushed under his paws. He walks through the armies like padding through a shallow creek, smoke trailing behind him, his fur dripping black oil and staining the ground. His ravens circle him, cawing.

He crosses a hundred miles with twelve steps. Each of the six armies fall underneath his paws. When he passes the sixth defense and sees the seventh, he cannot stop himself from laughing.

The seventh defense is not a stretch of land after all. It is a mortal woman, unarmed and dressed in gold, watching him. Pride gazes upon her, and is amused; her stand against him is brave, yes, but stupid. She is a little mortal, just like the others, and she, too, can be crushed under his might.

He lifts his paw, and sees her gazing up at him. Her eyes are... eyes he knows.

Eyes he loves.

Stop! Solas screams. He scrambles back, paw just avoiding crushing her, but a thousand tonnes of earth are pulled up by his frantic treading. Canyons are carved by his claws, and new hills are formed from the mounds of dirt he had kicked up.

She does not move, and the sight of her has Solas pulling the shadows back into himself, where they cannot hurt her. The wolf shrinks, and shrinks, and shrinks, until he is kneeling at her feet, shivering in the cold air despite his golden armor. His thoughts are disjointed, Pride roaring in his mind, why is he kneeling? All should kneel to him, for he is a god, the savior of the People—  

She touches him, fingertips brushing his too-sharp cheekbone, and his riotous mind quiets at last. He knows what she sees; a horned man, skin metallic, black scales replacing the skin on the back of his scalp and his neck. He is not what he once was. The tenderness has been scoured from his heart; the artist and scholar she once loved has been killed, supplanted by the general and god.

I am not a god, he thinks, just as his Pride wonders aren’t I?

“Solas?”

Her fingertips are gentle on his face. He does not resist as she lifts his chin, tilting his head up toward her, but he keeps his gaze downcast, too ashamed of what he has become (for the People, all for the People) to look at her. She is draped in gold, a sun too bright and beautiful for a creature such as him to look upon.

“Solas.” The sound of his name, his true name, takes him someplace quieter. Someplace softer. He finally brings himself to meet her gaze, only to see her staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh, Solas, what’s happened to you?”

His lips part, but he cannot bring himself to answer. Help, he thinks. Please. Vhenan. It is a word he has not spoken, not thought, in some time, but the endearment soothes something broken within him. He lifts his hands, an oblation; too late does he see the sharp, curved nails, that of a demon’s. Unworthy of her.

He shrinks away, but then she is there, her arms around his shoulders, the warmth of her almost burning him. Solas clutches at her, eyes squeezing shut, willing his nails to blunten so they do not hurt her, his precious heart. He bows his head, a supplicant, and his forehead presses against the juncture between her throat and shoulder.

She whispers his name, over and over, and every repetition reminds him of what he was. What he used to be.

What he wants to be, for her.

Her nails scratch at his scales, and they begin to flake off as he remembers what he should be. Who he should be. Solas, not Pride. He can sense the others surrounding him—the soldiers who had avoided his destruction—and he does not move, even when he hears the sound of a sword being unsheathed behind him. She is holding him, whispering her love, still steady even now, even when she beholds what he has become. For the first time since taking Dirthamen’s power, his mind is quiet. At peace.   

His Pride protests. But the People—

Silence.

  (silence.)

[dippedanddripped]

“I exist in the gray areas,” James Flemons, the designer and founder of LA-based unisex label Phlemuns, says about being Black, queer, and sexually-fluid in fashion — an industry where those who don’t fall under the categories of cis-gender and white are often overlooked. But it’s being a part of these marginalised communities that makes Flemons the designer that he is: one who creates clothing for everyone, no matter who they are or what gender they identify with. Flemons founded his eponymous brand in 2013 directly after graduating with a degree in product development from the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising. In the years since, he’s released five collections, starting with a small denim capsule and culminating in a line of sustainable and gender-bending ready-to-wear that’s been praised by the likes Lil Nas X, Kelsey Lu, and Paloma Elsesser, among other fashion favourites.

 “Any little thing I come across during the day can spark in me some random thought and birth a new concept or evolution of a design,” Flemons says of his inspiration over the years. “There are so many parts of life and different world experiences that I have not gone through myself that I can dive into and find inspiration from.” According to him, he’s also been known to dream up design ideas in his sleep, as well as utilise sketches from his time as an amateur designer. “The inspiration is constant and appears in various forms,” he says.

.According to Flemons, his goal for the brand is not about critical acclaim, but rather to make those who wear his designs — himself included — feel good. “Phlemuns evokes a raw and genuine feeling of inclusivity and personal expression,” he says. For instance, instead of following “categorical figure body types that aren’t even the same for everyone,” Flemons prefers to look at clothing from all angles, playing with different proportions and fabrics that work for all bodies. His ability to design across genders, he says, has a lot to do with his own experiences as a queer and sexually fluid person with “eclectic tastes and interests.” He says that being a Black man in the fashion industry, where he’s constantly having to “break the mould of the stereotypes that have been placed upon [him] without [his] permission,” has also influenced him as a designer. But while Flemons is exactly what he sounds like — a beacon of positivity whose designs invoke a sense of confidence that is difficult to find in an industry based on false ideals —behind-the-scenes, the fashion industry has taken its toll oh him. When asked about fashion’s recent interest in the Black Lives Matter movement, Flemons calls it “a very double-edged sword.” “I love it and hate it,” he adds. On one hand, the designer is grateful for the changes that are being made and the fact that Black designers are at last being recognised “as they should have been this entire time.” On the other, as he points out to me, it shouldn’t take a revolution for these designers to be noticed. “As someone who has talked about these injustices for years, I’m a bit tired of the conversation,” he says. “I just want to evolve and thrive — I’ve gotten to where I am without any of these fashion peoples’ help, and I will continue to do so.”

From the very beginning, Flemons says that his career has been “a constant battle,” one during which he’s had to work tirelessly just to be free to create his own narrative. “I’ve had to fight against using the race card,” he says. “But a majority of the time, that was the only answer I could come up with for a lot of my mistreatment.” Sitting by and watching as other non-Black designers who are less qualified and less talented than he is being given advantages that he’s never been privy to — from retail to production to design — has been one of the biggest challenges throughout the course of his career in fashion. And it doesn’t end with a lack of recognition or opportunities for Black designers. “I found in many cases that I was the token Black person,” he says. He also says that his brand is constantly being referred to as “urban” and that he’s been subject to ridicule regarding the use of Black models over white models for his campaigns. “So much of my world and experience is a diverse mix of Black people,” he says. The Black community also makes up “the largest percentage of people who purchase my clothing,” he continues, “which I have found to be very ironic since we are the least catered to, but [the ones who] spend the most.”For Flemons, all of these forms of mistreatment can be tied back to one thing: “Fashion has never been a space for Black people,” he says. “Our history in this industry has been about breaking down barriers and creating our own worlds because we weren’t accepted in the other.”

Despite working in an industry that wasn’t built with him in mind, Flemons continues to be a leader in it. In February, when most brands were too consumed with Fashion Month to switch focus onto the pandemic looming overhead, Flemons and his team were busy at work designing face masks. “Yet again, I saw a void and worked to fill it,” he says. The Phlemuns masks, which are designed to match the label’s latest collection and printed with neon green and aqua blue clouds, lemons, butterflies, and leopard spots. A month later, every brand had to shift to selling face masks.When asked what was next for Phlemuns, the designer brushes off the question, instead saying this: “I have acknowledged and accepted that I am not just a designer. I am a clothing brand, a creative entity, an experience, a voice for the unheard, a conversation, a world all of my own that has pushed outside of the limits of this box I was placed in and have now entered the endless limits of infinity.” And just like that, our hope for fashion is restored.