#kw: blood

[insinirate]

puppy puppy puppy

[animepopheart]

★ 【KWS】 「 Alice in Battlefield 」 ☆ ✔ republished w/permission ⊳ ⊳ follow me on twitter

[zerthblades]

finally drew something i can post on tumblr

[saintsurvivors]

“No,” Torian says distantly, and he thinks Fhreyja can see the difference as She flicks her eyes from Skadge to him. Beneath her heavy brows, Fhreyja’s pale eyes stare up at him, questioningly but with utmost assurance that whatever Torian wants or is going to say, it would be worth it. Torian wants her to look at him like that every day. “No, leave him be for the moment; we’ll see how everything goes.” For the longest moment, Fhreyja only stares up at him. Torian watches her in turn, noting the curve of her cheekbones, the curl of her hair as it slips from her mussed braids. He wonders if she’ll allow him to wash it; to thread his fingers in the pale strands until pulling it taut, to comb it through with hand or brush, lay her head upon his thigh so he can braid the twin plaits she’s so partial too. Torian can’t think of anything more intimate. He wonders what she’d look like with it loose when she wakes in the morning, sleep soft and unhurried. Then, Fhreyja smiles up at him, a vicious hint to it that has Torian grinning in return; a glimpse of canine visible behind her upturned lips.

anyway mandalorian thinks of nothing but his riduur every single second of every single day even when plotting murder for her

[biolumien]

hi hi!!! i love ur hoshina fics so much wooaagh you write him so well and each fic has me thinking !!!! i like how characterized him here!!!!

this one doesnt have to be an x reader but fans self Wuah id like to ask hoshina + kaiju no. 10 with like a symbiote sorta deal with the combat suit ?! i was rereading the bit when he got deployed with the suit for the first time and their dynamics clashing was so wuoaah and im jus a sucker for vice captain and how cool he is in his suit kw

notes: wahhh!! thank you so much... i have often thought about kaiju no 10 and hoshina as well... i hope this is what you were looking for....!

with 10

not quite an x reader. a reader is barely mentioned... hm. there's a bit of phrasing that can come off as ideation kaiju no 8 spoilers, too! word count: 911

there’s something different about you.

hoshina’s brow furrows when he hears the voice of kaiju no. 10 sneering in his head. as he grew to synchronize with the suit more and more, he found that the suit almost seemed to sink into his skin, form a secondary membrane around him, the almost scorpion-like tail as natural as anything. 

“i don’t know what you mean.”

you know exactly what i mean.

back when you fought me last, you were just like me.

swept up in it all.

hoshina remembers. fighting kaiju no. 10 was difficult, brutalizing–horrible. out loud, he’d said he’d never want to fight a numbered kaiju like that one-on-one again. but, in his head–it was exhilarating in a way that he’d never be able to describe in words without sounding insane. it was the adrenaline, right? it was the adrenaline, the blood-pumping feeling of finally being alive in a fight.

no. 10 had been right.

there was nothing quite like fighting an enemy that was just as powerful as you–or possibly more powerful, even by a fraction. it was that constant back and forth that got the blood pumping, made you feel truly alive. hoshina knew it well. every fight he lunged into against a bigger, tougher kaiju was him throwing all his chips onto the betting table, a smile on his face as he declared himself all in.

he’d said he’d never do it again.

and yet he’d donned kaiju no.10 like this for the express purpose of fighting more numbered kaiju. 

and it was horrifying how comfortable the suit was. how in sync he could be with kaiju no. 10. he focuses, commanding kaiju no. 10 to coalesce around his hands–and the suit responds, shifting across his body to form concentrated, claw-like shapes. it felt right, like he and kaiju no. 10 were always the same person.

he laughs.

he’d be just like kafka if he thought that.

“i can still be swept up in all of it.”

hoshina’s voice wavers at the last second, and he winces. 

you lie.

kaiju no. 10 doesn’t sound angry.

it was cliche to say it sounded disappointed, but that’s what it seemed to be. quietly, quietly disappointed. as quiet as an angry, speaking kaiju could be. the kaiju’s intent pulsed across his arms, and hoshina watches as his hand moves upwards, flexing his fingers for him. he can hear kaiju no. 10’s quiet displeasure.

hoshina should be terrified that kaiju no. 10 had such control over his body like this–two beings sharing the same body, practically, each fighting for control of his form. 

but he was calm. all too calm. 

there’s something else in your heart now. it’s not the thrill of the fight anymore. 

you didn’t care about anything else before.

but now you’re worried. you’re worried about coming out of this alive.

“you’re saying i can’t value my life?” hoshina draws his katana, feeling the weight of it. it almost feels alive in his palms, humming with electricity as the suit responds, pulsing with power. he can almost feel kaiju no. 10 burying its way deeper into him, pulling into his chest, trying to find the thing that’d make him tick. and he watches as his hand does the same, moving towards his chest.

you don’t value your own life.

kaiju no. 10’s voice was frank.

i felt that. your revulsion at me saying the truth. but it’s true. you don’t value your own life. why else would you search so fucking desperately for something that proved you alive? you swing the sword because you know it’s fun. because it makes the blood run through your muscles, expands your lungs. it’s as easy as the most fun breath you can take.

but that’s not my point.

kaiju no. 10–soshiro hoshina’s–hand presses at his chest.

something else beats here.

you want to live. not because you think you need to.

but because you don’t want to hurt the one person you love more than anything else.

“...”

you’d even give up fighting for them. isn’t that so?

“that’s not true.”

but it is.

hoshina’s heart pounds.

it was true. when he thought of fighting, he thought of your face. he’d wonder what you’d say if he showed up in front of you littered with wounds, and the terrifying thought of appearing as an unmarked corpse in front of you terrified him beyond all words.

but mark my words, hoshina. you and i are the same. so believe me when i say, you’d find a white-picket fence life boring. devoid of all value and color.

but i’m fucking stuck with you.

kaiju no. 10’s voice is venomous.

“hoshina.”

okonogi’s voice sounds in his ear.

“you’re deploying.”

“you hear that?” hoshina says to kaiju no. 10, trying to keep the panic out of his voice–the utter and sheer panic that he had been found out completely, all his secrets laid bare and open for the taking. “we’re going.”

fine.

hoshina couldn’t get used to it, kaiju no. 10’s form rippling across his, lines of muscle and sinew forming atop his own arms, crawling across his torso. it was like diving underwater–but not into a pool, where you could at least see the bottom–no. this was diving right into an ocean canyon, only being able to trust your own strength to pull yourself back out. 

but someday you’re going to come back to this conversation.

and you’re going to realize that i’m right.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): crime scene clean-up, swearing, grief & difficult conversations, discussions around canon-typical violence, smoking, brief suggestive themes, brief drinking, angst

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Three of Ink & Needle

Price and Simon make a pact. Simon talks to Evie and Amelia. Walsh dispenses a clue.

Chapter Twenty-Two // Chapter Twenty-Four

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Come and find her. – KW.

Come and find her.

Come. And find her.

Find her.

Simon stares at the little piece of paper in his hands. It’s so small. Confetti in his palm. Something that could be easily overlooked like trash that collects near a storm drain.

But it’s not trash.

It’s a taunt. A warning.

And it’s all for Simon.

Instinct tells him to crumple the note in his fist—to dismantle by destroying. Burn it. Maybe. Shred it into even smaller pieces until it truly resembles confetti.

But what party would he throw to sprinkle the remains? There will be no cake or gifts. No sunshine or clear skies. It will be a funeral, and the shredded paper is the dirt tossed by the mourners.

Dust, really. Like the soul. Smaller than dust. Insignificant.

“You need to go home, Simon.”

Captain Price’s voice used to be a balm to Simon—a place of safety. The words from Price’s mouth do nothing but drag Simon back to reality even as Simon attempts to claw back to the darkness that are his thoughts.

“Go home and do what?” replies Simon, not looking in Price’s direction.

Come and find her.

“It’s not healthy to stay here,” sighs Price.

Simon snorts. “What part of my life as ever been healthy.”

Price flinches, and Simon immediately regrets his words. Captain knows every horrific detail, every open hand and closed fist, of the fangs and masks and gore and screams that are Simon’s history.

It is ugly and foul.

Price used to fuss over it, trying to drive Simon to talk to someone about it all. He did—once. More than once, but it didn’t do much but reaffirm everything Simon already knew.

That life can be cruel, and we are only defined by our choices.

And Simon has always chosen to be different.

“Staring at that note won’t help things. It won’t help us find her faster,” says Price, his voice low and soothing like it always is when he’s trying to be gentle.

Simon takes a deep inhalation, calming the raging desperation thudding around in his chest.

It’s a torrent. A downpour.

“I want to help,” is all Simon says in reply.

Price takes a step closer, and leans in a bit, lowering his voice. “I know you do, Simon. And I value that help. But trying to figure shit out here isn’t the place.”

Simon stares into Price’s face, frowning. He lingers there a moment before glancing over Price’s shoulder.

There are new people in the room. Price called them up after Johnny found the note and presented it to Simon. They move about the space like phantoms, their eyes cast downward, minds geared toward the task of cleaning up the mess that is Evie’s home.

Evie, who came to Simon’s door rain-drenched and desperate. Simon is glad she didn’t try to seek out the authorities. What the fuck are police going to do about this? Nothing. That’s what.

But Price will do something. And so will Johnny and Kyle.

They have his back. They fucking care about you because they care about Simon. He has people in his corner.

“Excuse me.”

Simon and Price glance toward the man addressing the two of them. He’s a little younger than Simon. In his hands are a broom and dustpan. Beside him stands another man holding a trash bag. Simon scowls and the man blanches slightly.

“The glass,” he mutters, nodding at Simon’s feet.

The glass. The broken patio door. Blood.

Simon clears his throat and steps back, glass crunching under his boots even as he and Price move to a different part of the room. The two men start sweeping it up while two others lift and deposit the bodies of the estate agent and her assistant into body bags.

All the color from their faces have melted away, leaving behind a grayness that only comes when there is nothing left to salvage. While neither of the women currently being placed in body bags are you, Simon is grateful that you’re not one of them. That is enough to hope even if everything inside him doubts.

Positivity isn’t Simon’s thing. But the fact that you’re not here could only mean that Walsh wants you elsewhere. He wants Simon to come seeking. He wants Simon to have hope, and for that reason alone, Simon still clings to the idea that you’re not gone.

But maybe you are.

Time is crucial. It is scare and fleeting and slipping away as the seconds tick by.

“This is my fault.”

“Simon,” chides Price, ready to defend him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” growls Simon. “Walsh is after me, and I know that. I kept—” Simon stops, his unoccupied hand forming a fist.

Price frowns. “You kept what?”

Instead of shutting down, Simon trudges forward. “I kept seeing him. Or thought I did.” He glances down at the note and then at the darkening pool of drying blood. “Should have trusted my gut.”

“You can’t linger in the past, Simon. It happened. You made choices. Walsh made choices. That control is gone. We can only move forward.”

Simon remains silent. Price is right, even if Simon doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Shit happens. Plans go wrong. You can’t always predict what the enemy will do or how they might deviate from the information you have. You have to go in with the knowledge that things might change at the last second.

Adjustment is crucial.

Adjust and survive or stay stagnant and die.

“By moving forward, that means I go home,” says Simon slowly.

Price inclines his head. “It is.”

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t accept it.”

“And what will you do, Simon? Search every building in the country? And what will you do after? Head for the continent?”

“I’d destroy everything and everyone if that means I get her back safely.”

Price’s jaw twitches. “Or you might just get her killed.”

Simon’s head snaps in Price’s direction, venom on his tongue, but it’s Price’s glare that stays his harshness. Even though he’s no longer under Price’s command, the training doesn’t leave. Instead of lashing out, Simon takes a calming breath, but it does little except settle the sharpness that wants to emerge from his lips.

“I’m helping with this. I won’t budge,” affirms Simon.

Price nods. “I know, Simon. Didn’t say you wouldn’t be.”

Simon turns toward him fully, lowering his voice. “You told me to go home.”

“For now,” corrects Price. “We need to clean up here, and then we can talk. This isn’t the place.” Price shrugs. “Not like I have all the information in front of me.”

True, but Simon isn’t happy. His body desires movement. It desires action. The storm inside him wants to be released, and its target is Walsh.

“I have to talk to Evie,” murmurs Simon, almost absently.

Price clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Want someone to go with you?”

“I can.” Simon and Price glance up as Johnny comes to a stop in front of them. “I’ll go with you, Lt.”

Simon nods as Kyle approaches with a couple of binders. “She might want this. It’s all paperwork.”

Kyle holds the stack out to Simon but Price reaches for it. “We should make copies. Take a look just in case.”

“I’ll do that now,” nods Kyle. He turns toward Simon and lightly punches his arm. “We’ll find her. Bring her home.”

Kyle departs with a brief nod toward Johnny.

Price clears his throat. “Go home. Take Soap with you. I’ll call when we’re ready to meet.”

“You got it, Captain,” says Johnny, all confidence.

Simon appreciates it. He does, but his heart is close to exploding—a volcano in his chest that he isn’t sure is heartburn or an incoming heart attack.

Price says goodbye by giving Simon’s shoulder another squeeze before walking away to chat quietly with the woman supervising the cleanup.

“Come on, Lt.”

Simon used to correct Johnny after retirement, but he no longer has the heart to. It almost feels normal—like Simon is back in the field and not a tattoo artist with awards and accolades. It is a strange sensation, and Simon is surprised by how his mind and body are at odds with the feeling.

They step around shattered glass and overturned furniture. They walk around the darkening blood that’s starting to congeal. Simon doesn’t even glance at the hammer or the gloved hand that lifts it from the floor.

And it’s not Simon who drives. All the control he likes to have his gone, and it is Johnny that takes the wheel, guiding them back to London as if they’re just two mates on a weekend holiday.

It’s not until Simon is stepping into his flat and Bravo greets him that reality comes crashing into him like a hollow point on impact.

Johnny sighs heavily and drops onto the sofa. Bravo doesn’t go to jump into Johnny’s lap or to seek belly rubs. The German Shepard takes up post next to Simon. He sits rigidly, one paw tapping at Simon’s thigh as the dog tries to get his attention.

“I’m ace, Bravo,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

The dog whines softly but he drops his paw, accepting the scratches before padding over to Johnny. He jumps onto the couch and starts stomping all over Soap until Johnny is laughing and aggressively rubbing Bravo’s belly.

As Bravo settles, Johnny turns his attention to Simon. “You good, Lt?”

Simon shifts in Soap’s direction. He glances around, realizing that he hasn’t moved away from the door. He lingers like a ghost who can see everyone but no one sees them.

“Yeah. I’m good,” coughs Simon, his legs moving mechanically. He plops down onto the sofa next to Johnny and then sighs heavily. “I need a smoke.”

“Have some sitting around?” asks Johnny.

“Nope.”

Soap nods. Keeps nodding. “I’ll go grab some. There a shop around here?”

“On the corner,” answers Simon, eyes closed as his head tips back to rest against the top of the sofa.

“Up for a walk, Bravo?” asks Johnny.

Bravo barks and then jumps out of Soap’s lap, padding over to his leash.

When Johnny returns, the two of them sit on Simon’s balcony facing the back street between the buildings. Bravo is below them, sniffing the little stretch of grass there. He’s a dark spot amongst the green, moving back and forth as if he smells something interesting.

Johnny bought enough packs to give them both lung cancer. Soap isn’t one for smoking, but he joins Simon in it anyway. The two of them sit in the cold silence, the chilly air unable to penetrate the inferno that burns within Simon.

“When do you want to talk to the friend?” asks Johnny, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Tomorrow,” sighs Simon.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say to Evie. Looking her in the face is going to be difficult enough, but explain? No. Fucking no. That shit is a mess.

Johnny’s foot taps absently like he’s listening to a song in his head. “You want me to talk? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” replies Simon immediately.

This is his mess. You are his woman. And you are Evie’s friend. This has to come from Simon or no one at all.

Johnny inclines his head and takes another drag on his cigarette. He grimaces. “These are fucking nasty, Lt. How do you do it?”

“Rage,” replies Simon dryly.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and then bursts out laughing, falling onto his back as he clutches his stomach. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with amusement.

Coughing, Johnny turns on his side in Simon’s direction. Bravo comes to a stop in the grass, his noise pushed into the dirt like he’s stumbled upon a scent.

“What is it, Johnny?” asks Simon as Soap stares at him but doesn’t speak.

“She cute?”

Simon blinks. “Who?”

“The friend.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I’m only asking,” replies Johnny, all innocence.

Simon shakes his head, this time smiling naturally. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You know I like a pretty face,” says Johnny, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t make me blush, Johnny,” teases Simon.

The fire beneath his skin dims from an inferno to a small campfire. This banter is comforting to him—a reminder that there are people out there who care for Simon as more than just a previous coworker. Johnny cares. Kyle cares. And fuck—Price cares to the point that sometimes Simon thinks he has a loving father.

“Oh, aye, Lt. Been lusting after you for ages.” Simon glances at Johnny before snatching his cigarette from his fingers. “I’m smoking that!”

“You hate cigarettes, Johnny,” chides Simon, taking a long drag and finishing it off. “And you’ll have it off with anything that moves.”

“Not anything,” mutters Soap, sitting up fully.

Simon puts out the cigarette and takes another from the pack. “When did you last get your dick wet?”

Johnny’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Johnny,” says Simon, almost sing-song.

Soap mutters something and Simon punches him in the arm.

“Fuck, Lt. Yesterday.”

Simon shrugs. “Knew it.”

“If you’re gonna fucking ask about it, you’ll listen.”

“I’m good, Johnny,” replies Simon, holding up a hand for silence as he goes to light the new cigarette.

“Kyle and I were—”

“Not interested.”

“This beautiful blonde cornered me and I couldn’t say no. Lips like that—”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“She pushed me up against the wall. Dropped to her knees—”

“Johnny—”

“Never finished so fast in my—fucking hell Simon!”

Johnny clutches the back of his head where Simon lightly swatted him. “Said I didn’t want to know.”

“Then why’d you bloody ask!” exclaims Johnny, this time grabbing Simon’s cigarette from his fingers. He tries to puff on it but promptly grimaces, offering it right back to Simon.

“Absolute wanker,” mutters Simon.

“Favorite wanker, Lt.”

Simon snorts and reaches behind him, grabbing the whiskey bottle and setting it down between them. There are no glasses, but it’s not necessary. Johnny grabs the bottle and removes the screw lid, taking a swig directly from the bottle before holding it out to Simon. He takes the offered whiskey and Simon gulps down more than he should in one go.

He offers it back to Johnny. “Don’t fucking flirt with the friend, Johnny.”

Soap inclines his head and raises the bottle in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Simon.”

The two of them sit on the balcony until the whiskey is gone and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. Bravo stays in the living room, curling up on the sofa with Johnny.

Simon stares at his empty bed. It’s still unmade from when he hastily got out and answered the door.

Sighing, Simon heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He cranks it until it’s scalding. The heat is a nice distraction, and for a while, Simon pretends that you’re not gone. That you’re with him underneath the spray.

From memory, Simon plucks out his favorite moments, lingering in your sweetness. It’s not just the physical Simon smolders in. Everything about you is like a drop of lifeblood. Simon lingers on your smile, and on the calmness you bring him when you’re nearby. He dreams of your touch and the way you wrap your arms around him. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils.

That only leads to lustier thoughts, and Simon has to pull back before he goes too far.

When the water grows cold, and your hands are not there to warm his skin, that is when Simon breaks.

Everything is a flood. Everything fractures.

What are dying stars but beautiful confetti. Dust. Specks bursting outward to settle in forgotten places.

Simon is dust.

No—less than dust.

Atoms.

But lesser than that.

Nothing.

Infinite nothing.

His tears become one with the cold water. His shaking becomes one with the icy chill that makes his skin shiver. Simon’s nails dig into his skin. Blood blossoms in the moons. Drip onto the tile.

Simon sits on the floor of the shower until every tear is down the drain.

He doesn’t recall falling into bed. Or when he drifts to sleep.

It isn’t until Simon wakes that he’s realized he slept at all.

There were no dreams. Just blackness. Hardness.

But he hears Johnny, and Bravo’s nails against the wood floor.

It is reluctant duty that drags Simon from bed.

“Made breakfast. And tea. And coffee,” shrugs Johnny, offering a greasy piece of bacon to Bravo.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” sighs Simon, loading his plate with a little bit of everything.

Johnny ignores Simon and talks to Bravo like the dog is human baby. Bravo eats it up like it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Simon drops into a chair. His stomach grumbles and then he’s eating. The eggs are still warm, and the coffee is still hot. He zones out, grabbing seconds and then thirds.

“Have appointments today?” asks Johnny.

Simon shakes his head. “I rescheduled everything back a week. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

Usually, Simon hates leaving his shop and moving bookings around, but it can’t be helped.

Johnny nods and inspects the empty skillet that held scrambled eggs. “Still planning on chatting with the friend today?”

Simon swallows down a half-chewed piece of toast. “That’s what I said.”

“Just checking, Lt.”

Simon’s fork pauses. His tone was harsh. “You still coming with me?” asks Simon, softening his tone this time.

“Aye. I’ve got your back.”

Simon clears his plate and finishes off the last of the coffee before he and Johnny head over to Amelia’s. They decide to walk, bringing Bravo with them. Simon fiddles with a cigarette the entire way but never lights it.

“You still want to do this today?” asks Johnny, lingering at Amelia’s door.

No. He’d rather turn tail. Be a coward in this.

Instead of answering Johnny’s question verbally, Simon knocks three times on the door. It’s mid-morning, and Evie’s daughter should hopefully be up by now.

For a moment, there is no sound on the other side, but then Simon hears footsteps—then the turning of a deadbolt.

The door opens, and Simon’s heart falls into his stomach.

Evie stands there, Lillian in her arms. When she sees Simon, her expression changes from neutrality to hopefulness. Her gaze lingers on Simon before shifting to Johnny. That brightness—that joy—fades as time passes.

She is looking for you. And you are not there.

The whites of Evie’s eyes redden, and Simon knows what comes next. As if sensing her mother’s changing mood, Lillian begins to squirm, her own tiny face bunching with a coming tantrum.

“Oh shit,” mutters Johnny, reaching for the baby just as fat tears begin to slide down Evie’s face.

Evie surrenders Lillian to Soap immediately as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs. She deflates, one hand grasping the doorframe like she’s about to faint. The baby starts to whine, and Johnny panics, holding the infant out before him like he’s never held one before.

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Support the head,” mutters Simon as Evie takes a step back, her other hand pressing to her chest.

“Evie?”

It’s Amelia. She comes rushing forward, grasping the woman’s shoulders. She glances at Simon. Then Johnny. Then little Lillian.

“Give her here,” instructs Amelia, reaching for the infant.

Johnny passes Lillian off and sighs with relief. Amelia cradles the child in one arm and uses the other to support Evie.

Evie is gasping for breath. Chest heaving. Nearing a panic attack.

“Is she…” but Amelia trails off.

Simon understands.

“We don’t know,” replies Simon, because it’s true. And the truth is best, even if it cuts deep like sharpened steel.

Evie chokes and Simon continues on, wanting to crush the rising panic on Evie’s face. “She wasn’t there. Which means that she’s probably still alive.”

Evie is shaking her head. Amelia’s face reveals nothing.

“Go on,” prompts Amelia.

Lillian still wiggles and whines but she’s not nearly so loud now.

“Your estate agent and her assistant are dead. Nothing appears stolen.”

Except you.

“But she’s gone?” asks Evie. Her voice is so strained Simon is surprised the woman can talk at all.

Yes, is what Simon wants to say. It’s what he should say. But all of his words are stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” answers Johnny for him, and Simon could sigh with relief on not having to say the words out loud. “But we’re looking for her.”

“She’s alive?” asks Amelia. She places a hand on Evie’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Until we know otherwise,” replies Johnny. “Yes.”

Amelia and Evie both relax even if the tears remain. Johnny was always better at talking to people than him. It’s why Simon rarely did it. He was either too blunt or didn’t know how to comfort. Johnny knew how. He always has.

“We should tell them,” murmurs Amelia to Evie.

“Tell us what?” asks Simon, curious.

Evie shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Then I will.” Amelia steps back and gestures for them to come inside.

Bravo stays next to Evie’s side all the way to the couch. When the woman sinks down on it, Bravo rests his head on her knee. Soap remains standing, as does Simon.

“British Intelligence came,” begins Amelia, and Soap’s eyes widen.

Simon doesn’t look at Johnny, but from his peripheral, he notices the slight turn of Johnny’s head as his friend glances at him. Price has to know by now. Simon didn’t tell him, but he’s likely putting all the pieces together once he looks at the documents Kyle is making copies of. Archie’s name is probably all over them.

There isn’t any hiding now.

Amelia sighs. “They were asking about Archibald. The circumstances around his death.”

“When did they arrive?” asks Simon.

Johnny remains quiet, his gaze still darting between Simon and Amelia.

“Yesterday,” answers Amelia.

Evie slouches forward, dropping her head into her hands.

“Is that it?” asks Simon, cautiously.

Amelia glances at Evie, her mouth turned downward into a frown. It’s not one of disappoint. It’s stress that’s creeping into her features. With a sigh, Amelia places Lillian into a rocker. Amelia grabs the edge and lightly presses down, the contraption moving in a slow bounce that quickly soothes Lillian’s irritation.

“Asked about potential enemies.” This time, Amelia’s sigh is much deeper. “It’s a strange question. Archie is incredibly kind. There isn’t anyone I know of that holds any ill will toward him. Everyone liked him. Everyone admired him.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t understand.”

Evie sniffles. Rubs her hands over her face. Glances up. “Why her?” she rasps. “What did she ever do to anyone?”

She didn’t. It’s all me.

The muscles in Simon’s shoulder tense. Walsh likely killed Archie because it suited his goals. If anything, Walsh executed him and moved on without another thought to the bloke. Walsh might have no idea that you are Evie’s friend or that Evie is Archie’s widow. The connection might not be there for Walsh at all.

The only person Walsh cares about is himself. The man has goals, and he fulfills them to whatever ends necessary. If that means taking out one or many, Walsh will do it without thinking twice. Evie might not even be on his radar.

But you?

You are.

All because of Simon. Not because of Archie and his connection to Evie. Walsh wants revenge. He wants Simon to suffer.

It is Simon that betrayed Walsh. Because of Simon’s actions—because of everything he did to take the man down—Walsh only wants you to for the simple goal of getting back at Simon.

When Johnny says nothing, and Simon remains silent, fresh tears fall from Evie’s eyes. “Maybe we should call the police, Amelia. We can’t handle this.”

“The police—” interjects Johnny but Evie continues on like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you for going. But we need to get the authorities involved.” Her hands are shaking even though she tries to hide it.

“No,” says Johnny sharply, one hand slightly raised.

Amelia and Evie both jump, turning toward him.

Johnny closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. When he opens them again, his tone is softer. “Simon called the right people to handle this. Local police can’t do anything.”

Both women frown, but Johnny continues.

“Simon,” begins Johnny, lingering for a moment before continuing, “used to be military.”

Amelia nods. “I’m aware. Known for years.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you know what he did?”

Amelia blinks. Shrugs. “A bit.”

She doesn’t know much. In fact, Amelia knows very little. What she does know is that Simon sustained a bad enough injury for them to force his retirement. Amelia doesn’t know why or how.

“Johnny here used to be on the same team as me. We were sent all over the world on international missions. Our targets weren’t grunts on the ground. We went after those who wanted to do terrible things to a lot of people in the worst ways possible.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate. Amelia and Evie don’t ask for clarification.

“I’m no longer in, but Johnny is. I called our captain, and he’s the one handling this.”

“Why?” asks Evie. “Why would you need to call someone like that for this?”

“Does this have to do with Archibald?” asks Amelia.

“No,” says Simon sharply before Johnny can answer.

He has to put this right. He needs to speak the truth even if it pains him. “It’s someone from my past. Someone I made an enemy of.” And then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

An apology is all Simon can offer. He has no comforting words for them because he has none for himself.

Evie glances away, her hand a fist that she presses against her mouth. There are no words spoken after that. She places her head on Amelia’s shoulder and the four of them lapse into silence.

It is Johnny that eventually wanders into the kitchen. He makes tea—poorly—but Simon accepts it anyway. He sits in an armchair, staring out the window as Bravo comforts Evie.

The two women don’t ask or tell Simon and Johnny to leave. Simon doesn’t know if Evie blames him. He wouldn’t mind. It’s deserved. But Amelia? That might hurt. Simon is loath to ask so he stays quiet.

Johnny carries the conversation. He speaks quietly to Evie and Amelia, asking them all sorts of questions that he’ll take back to Captain Price. Simon wants to suck it all in, to absorb the questions and trauma and hold it in his stomach to digest.

He’s seen worse. Done worse.

It is late by the time Simon and Johnny depart. It’s not true night but the sun is lowering, the sky awash with a reddish-purply glow. The walk back is utterly silent. Johnny and Simon linger with the sounds of passing cars and the occasional bark of a nearby dog.

Simon’s thoughts are elsewhere. Everywhere but his own head. His mind is there—processing, but there are no connections. It’s spinning static.

But Johnny is present. He is a solid presence beside Simon.

And it is Johnny that grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt before they reach the exterior door to Simon’s building.

Frowning, Simon glances up, scanning the street, muscles poised for action. He expects someone to fall from the sky or for Walsh to appear with weapon in hand. Simon will take that if it means getting you back.

“Stay here, Lt,” murmurs Johnny from the corner of his mouth.

The crease in Simon’s brow deepens but Johnny is already moving, leaving Simon on the pavement as he approaches the door. Simon’s gaze follows every step, and when Johnny reaches out to grab something white off the door, Simon doesn’t know he’s moving until Johnny turns toward him, a bit startled.

“I told you to stay,” snaps Johnny but there’s no venom in it. Only concern. Pity. And Simon hates that.

Simon’s response is not to speak but to snatch the thing out of Soap’s fist.

It’s another envelope. White like the last one. No postage like the last one. And there on the front in handwritten scrawl is Simon’s full name.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home.

Was Walsh here? Has he been watching Simon all this time? Is he here even now, lingering in a nearby building to watch Simon’s reaction to whatever is inside?

“Simon,” warns Johnny, but he’s not listening.

He needs to know—to fucking know.

Simon tears open the envelope and withdraws the small piece of paper.

It is thin. Wispy. Almost translucent.

The words are even thinner—as if the paper was kissed by smoke.

There are seeds that cannot sprout unless they are burned first. A friend told me that.

Simon told Walsh that—when Walsh thought Simon was an ally and not an enemy. When Simon was a plant and gaining information that would turn Walsh’s entire operation upside down.

I think of it often. I think of you. Isn’t it interesting that some living things must first burn before they can grow? What a gift that friend gave me. What a garden you and I are.

“Simon,” comes Johnny’s voice, but he’s not listening.

Everything is narrowing down to a point. He is fracturing all over again.

It rained that night. I burned like the seed. The sky watered my skin. I germinated. I flowered. I grew. What a gift. We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Call Price,” whispers Simon.

“Lt?”

“Call Price, Johnny.”

Simon knows.

He knows.

taglist:

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[potatocancer]

KW blood

A bit strange work, I wanted to depict Sebastian as Jesus

Ps: I didn’t want to offend those who believe in God, don’t hit me

[simplysummers]

What songs make you think of your faves?

Ooo this is difficult because my brain is basically a big jumbled mess of songs and story/character relations, and I haven’t made a proper character playlist in a while, but I’ll do my best!!

These are just for my current or very recent faves, and the songs are just the ones I know off the top of my head have correlation in my head.

Alex Summers:

- X Men

These are on vibes alone, not as much storyline

I Saw Her Standing There - The Beatles

Leaving On A Jet Plane - John Denver

Don’t Stop Me Now - Queen

I Know Places - Taylor Swift (shut up I know 😭)

Cough Syrup - Young the Giant

I’ll Stand By You - The Pretenders (this one is specifically a Charles and Alex father-son esque song.)

Monster - Caissie Levy

No Surrender - Bruce Springsteen

Teenagers - My Chemical Romance

The Way I Loved You - Taylor Swift

We Built This City - Starship

Iris - The GooGoo Dolls

I have a lot more on hc based storylines but I haven’t introduced that version of Alex to the public very much yet.

Shout out to You Belong With Me as that makes me think of Alex simply because of Lucas Till, and You Are My Sunshine for being the main plot point in my first Alex fic.

Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr:

- X Men

Andante, Andante - ABBA (Mamma Mia version) (CE)

As If We Never Said Goodbye - Barbra Streisand (C)

Can’t Fight This Feeling - REO Speedwagon (CE)

Confrontation - Jekyll and Hyde (mostly E but could be CE depending on the AU)

Dos Oruguitas- Sebastián Yatra (CE)

Evermore - Dan Stevens (CE)

From Now On - The Greatest Showman (C)

History Has Its Eyes On You - Hamilton (E)

How To Save A Life - The Fray (E/CE)

If This Was A Movie - Taylor Swift (CE)

Just A Man - EPIC: the Troy saga (E)

Knowing Me, Knowing You - ABBA (CE)

Make You Feel My Love - Sleeping at Last (CE)

On My Own - Samantha Barks (C)

Our Last Summer - ABBA (Mamma Mia version) (CE)

Pieces - Ella Henderson (CE)

Slipping Through My Fingers - ABBA (Mamma Mia version) (C)

Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye (CE)

To Sir, With Love - Lulu (C)

Treacherous - Taylor Swift (CE)

Turning Tables - Adele (CE)

Wild Uncharted Waters - Jonah Hauer-King (CE)

Writing’s On The Wall - Sam Smith (E/CE)

Sebastian Smythe:

- Glee

Some of these will be KB labelled

All You Wanna Do - Aimie Atkinson/SIX

Applause - Lady Gaga

Bad Reputation - Joan Jett

Bad Blood - Taylor Swift

Bejewelled - Taylor Swift

Blackbird - Beatles

A Boy Like That - West Side Story (KB)

Candyman - Christina Aguilera

Crazy What Love Can Do - Ella Henderson + more (KB)

Delicate - Taylor Swift

Gee Officer Krupke - West Side Story

Glad You Came - GCV

How To Be A Heartbreaker - Marina and the Diamonds

I Never Dreamed Someone Like You - Katie Irving (KB)

I See The Light - Tangled

I Want You Back - GCV (KB)

King Of My Heart - Taylor Swift (KB)

Make Me Feel - Janelle Monráe

Paris - Taylor Swift (KB)

Shut Up And Drive - Rihanna

Speak Now - Taylor Swift (KB + B)

Patricia Thornton:

- MacGyver

I don’t think you people understand the chokehold she has on me. She’s barely in the show and yet she has me by the neck with those manicured fingers.

Literally so many songs from Reputation by Taylor Swift

Ready For It?

I Did Something Bad (this one is the most Thornton song that’s ever written)

Don’t Blame Me

Delicate

Look What You Made Me Do

Getaway Car

Dancing With Our Hands Tied

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

Okay other than Reputation:

No Body, No Crime - Taylor Swift

Rabbit Heart - Florence + the Machine

Skyfall - Adele

Thumbs - Sabrina Carpenter

Trust In Me - Scarlett Johansson

Yours - Ella Henderson

AHS: James March and Kit Walker:

- Asylum + Hotel

No don’t worry I don’t ship these two. They’re just the only characters I care about besides Sister Jude.

Until I Found Her - Stephen Sanchez (KW)

Insane - Black Gryph0n & Baasik (JPM)

[queengurako]

So apparently from the Hakuouki official book I have (from the original game not the reboot KW/EB) Sen's oni form has three corns because she is a female. And Chizuru has only two horns because her statue is under Sen's one.

I'm not sure of the translation but it seems even if Sen has a human in her lineage, she is a little bit more "pure blood" than Chizuru just because her family exists since Japanese Antiquity.

Edit : Also male oni have four horns if they're pure blood. But I need to do more researchs.

[myrmyrtheorca]

Curious anon returns! Another question about the pallid flame if I may...

The info sheet mentions the user of the pallid flame being able to shape weapons out of their blood, right? I was wondering if someone who fully mastered the pallid flame would be able to pull the iron from that blood to create an iron weapon on the fly? Cause that would be a cool skill to have!

Ding ding ding ~✨🎉 exactly! That's one of the most common uses I imagined for the Pallid Flame! I'm glad to hear the explanation was readable enough and very thankful for your interest in speculating about it 🩵

Anything in your system can be used, so yes! A rough explanation of what would happen is: you take iron from your reserves, force it to move up to a wound (you still need some sort of aperture if you want to create a tool outside the body, otherwise it will pierce the skin, which would still work but hurt much more), and from there you manipulate the "stream" of iron into the shape you want.

That's something that would need a high level of training to pull off, it's much more common to freeze the blood and keep your body temperature low so that you can keep the tool frozen while wielding it.

If anyone has any suggestions about potential pallid flame uses, I'd love to hear them! The concept is always evolving and developing so I'm always open to new suggestions, it helps me in shaping KW one step at a time. And if something isn't clear, as always, I'm here to explain! No question is a stupid question 🩵

[lyriumpulse]

19 (@waxedwiings)

19) things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

The fire is warm in the hearth, and Anders is warm at his back, nestled against pillows and the headboard while Fenris sits comfortably between his legs. His own legs are bent to prop up a book spread open on his thighs.

"--but he had... ap- appoi--" Fenris reads aloud, laboriously, trying to force the letters on the page to form words in his mind. Slowly, he drags his fingertip along the unfamiliar word, and finally comes away with, "Appointments... to keep."

"Good," Anders says behind him, casually.

The praise thrills through him like an electric shock. He swallows.

Continuing, he drops to the next paragraph. He clears his throat. "The... kw-kways?" Another unfamiliar word. Fenris hates how unsure and vulnerable he sounds.

"Oh, that one's tricky. It's pronounced keys." Anders's breath fans over the back of his neck. Fenris's spine goes straight; his skin tingles, but not, for once, with pain.

"Quays," Fenris repeats. "The quays at midnight exchange the... ca-co-pho-ny," he says slowly, and at Anders's pleased hum of approval, warmth spreads like melted butter inside of him. "The cacophony of swearing sailors for the mournful sound of distant bells in the harbor."

He continues like that, confident until he trips across a word he doesn't recognize, at which point he stumbles over it like a newborn fawn. Anders radiates patience and calm behind him. One hand occasionally helps with the pages, and the other rests innocently across Fenris's middle.

When he gets a new word right on his own, Anders tells him, "You're doing great," and Fenris cannot force coherence into his thoughts, his brain overpowered by the desire to have Anders's praise and approval.

"You are doing this on purpose," Fenris tells him after the sixth time.

Anders's lips brush the back of his neck. His tongue is wet and warm when he lavishes kisses to the bare skin just above the neck of his tunic.

"Yes," he admits. "You're blushing."

"I am not."

"Your ears turn pink when I tell you how well you're doing." Anders's mouth is on his ear then, takes the pointed tip into his mouth, nips gently with his teeth. When Fenris writhes, breathless, he can feel the evidence of Anders's desire for him pressed against his lower back. "But you are doing well. I promise I'm not just trying to rile you up."

In an act of defiance, Fenris presses back against him. Anders's breath catches and a tiny moan escapes his throat, right into Fenris's ear. Any blood Fenris might have had to spare for supply to his brain rushes south at the sound.

"Fenris," Anders whispers, a question, but whatever he had been about to say is gone, swallowed up by Fenris's insistent kiss.

The book falls forgotten to the floor.

---

A one-off offer to have Anders stay over if he ever felt the Templars closing in on Darktown has turned into weeks of Anders slowly filling the manor with his things. Clothes, at first, and then books, and soon Fenris was finding trinkets, bottles of lyrium potions, herbs.

It hadn't been offered lightly, the awkward invitation. Fenris values his privacy and needs long stretches of time alone. As a slave, he had been surrounded constantly by other people, whether that be his master, his master's apprentice, or other slaves. Occasionally Danarius would reward his good behavior with a private bath, the only time in which Fenris could relax on his own entirely unsupervised. Even with the Fog Warriors, everything was communal, done in close quarters in sweltering heat. Their acts of affection, their bathing, their cooking, their hunting, down to their sleeping, all of it done a scant few meters from one another.

Surrendering part of his hard-earned personal space to Anders is huge, for him. He doesn't think Anders realizes that.

Fenris also does not cook -- he was never required to in Tevinter. Danarius had kitchen slaves to make his meals, the same as he had garden slaves to trim his topiary, house slaves to polish his windows, and body slaves to tend to his more physical needs.

(The body slaves stopped being of use after Fenris's first year serving Danarius. Why would he waste time with them when Fenris could service him just as well, and took instruction like he craved it?)

Even in the years since his escape, Fenris had never bothered putting effort into things outside of his sole mission of killing Danarius. His coin went unspent with the exception of basic necessities and weapons. He could buy whatever dish he wanted with the amount of money Hawke gave him as his portion of the pay, and before he had the funds available, he had just stolen whatever he needed.

He sees the way Anders eats like he will never see another meal again. It makes him want to learn.

The Amell estate is about as large as his own, but full of things that give it life. Fenris is greeted at the door by Bodhan, and Hawke's mabari, Bubbles, attempting to knock him over in excitement. It's a warmer welcome than he's used to receiving anywhere, and it reminds him of how far he's come, that he can have friends and not fear their imminent betrayal.

"Fenris!" Hawke greets him as he enters the main hall. She is dressed in just her house robe, smiling, and Fenris diverts his gaze politely. It helps nothing that she runs up to him to gather him in a tight hug, armor be damned. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Yes. Well."

Fenris pulls away from her, remembering a time when such casual closeness would have him sweating about being near Hawke for days. While he respects and admires her -- and even still finds her attractive, because he isn't blind -- he does not want her as fiercely as he used to.

"I apologize. I came to ask a favor."

Hawke's smile dims. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," Fenris says. "No. More than fine. I... was wondering if I could borrow Orana."

Oh, that sounds terrible, like she's an object to be traded. Hawke raises her eyebrows.

Horrified with himself, he amends, "Her time, I mean. I would double her pay."

"Finally going to clear out all those pesky slaver corpses?" Hawke teases. "Dust off the cobwebs? Fix that hole in your bedroom ceiling?"

"Something like that."

Orana follows him obediently back to his home -- and when did he start thinking of the place as home, rather than just somewhere to stay? -- and he has the opportunity to really see her for the first time since her rescue. Her blonde hair, once thin and weak, is bright and healthy. Her cheekbones are less prominent, her eyes less haunted.

Hawke is taking excellent care of her.

She still struggles to look him in the eye. A lifetime of training will do that to a person. Orana fumbles with her words, calls him messere, a title not only unearned, but uncomfortable to wear.

(He tells her, "I was a slave like you, once." But the implications of that are not entirely true. If they had both served their respective magisters simultaneously, she still would have been forced to show him the same reverence she is showing him now. He could have been ordered to whip her, beat her, possibly even kill her for any minor inconvenience and entirely at his master's discretion. There is a hierarchy even among slaves, and he would have outranked her. Worse still, he would have found her beneath him.)

By the end of the day, when his kitchen is messy with the efforts of her teachings, when he has stained his tunic and has caused her to burst into a fit of apologetic giggles, he has convinced her to call him Fenris.

---

Anders comes home -- and apparently it's not only his home, but the mage's home now -- to a table of pork, sweet rolls, and apple cabbage stew.

It is the result of several days of effort and several more botched experiments, but Fenris is proud of this simple meal because he made it himself, alone, with his own two hands. He had spent over a week inviting Orana to his home, asking her questions, and making mistakes. Each morning, he had gone to Hawke's estate, paid double the rate for nine hours of work, and eventually Hawke stopped trying to guess what he was doing. When she came by to ask him to come along for some errand or other, she eyed the untended hole in his ceiling, the flour on his own clothes, and one of Anders's few coats hung over the back of a chair, and for once said nothing.

Fenris had cooked the entire meal in secrecy when Anders was working at the clinic.

"You made this?" Anders asks, astonished.

"Yes." Fenris pours them both a glass of chilled wine. That's another thing that's different -- using glasses, as opposed to swigging it straight out of the bottle. "I have been practicing."

Anders shrugs out of his long coat and hangs it on the back of a chair. They don't use this room much, a dining area that he's made the effort to clean up. As Hawke had joked, the cobwebs are gone from the hearth, which now blazes warmly, and the loose floor tiles have been moved to sit tidily stacked in a corner.

"Is that why I've been smelling bread every time I come over? " Anders takes a seat at the table. He takes an offered glass of wine from Fenris's hand; their fingers brush in the process. "I was wondering why your neighbors have been so enthusiastic about baking suddenly."

Fenris smiles. His attempts to tuck it away fail him, and when he meets Anders's gaze, he finds the mage smiling in return. Warm, affectionate.

"I hired Orana to teach me how to cook. It... seemed like the time. I never had reason to learn before coming to Kirkwall, and then simply never bothered."

"Hawke's servant?" Anders sounds surprised.

"Yes. Like you, she is an excellent teacher." He motions to the spread on the table. "As you can see."

Fenris had even found a red tablecloth tucked away in a cabinet in his search for cutlery and drinking glasses. It wonderfully complements the fire and the golden tones of Anders's hair. He finds himself staring at Anders as he takes a long drink of the wine, and remembers himself only when Anders sets the glass down.

He sets about cutting the pork. Anders reaches to serve himself and Fenris playfully bats his hand away, instead taking his plate and filling it with meat and bread. A smaller side bowl he fills with stew.

Anders eats with the same passion and focus that he brings to everything else in his life. Fenris recognizes his own habits in the way Anders approaches food; it is a learned behavior, and can be unlearned, though Fenris is still working on that himself. He tries now to luxuriate in what he's made, to really taste the flavors of the savory pork and the sweet stew, rather than merely wolfing it down.

It is behavior learned from a life on the run.

As a slave, Fenris had meals provided to him, but had such a short amount of time to eat it. Danarius did not starve him the way Hadriana did. He needed Fenris to be fit and healthy, and so Fenris was given the nutrition he needed to be the tool his master wanted. Sometimes Danarius found entertainment in asking Fenris to taste different wines, chuckling at Fenris's ignorance when asking him about flavor notes. On one particular occasion, at a dinner party, Danarius had called him over with a snap of his fingers and had him kneel by his side, then ordered Fenris to lick his fingers clean in front of his Senator friends. Fenris can still hear their raucous laughter in his dreams.

He had walked Kirkwall for years with nothing but those memories of trauma and humiliation swirling in his head.

Here, comfortable in a spacious dining room with a man he cares deeply about, Fenris finds himself relaxed. He eats, and watches Anders eat, and they talk about their friends, about games, about their respective tastes in food. Fenris is learning what he likes, now that he has the freedom to choose. He enjoys wine. He enjoys fruit.

He enjoys Anders.

---

The night grows late. They talk and drink for hours after their food is finished, and when Fenris grows warm with the wine in his belly, Anders remains unaffected, Warden stamina and a spirit of Justice preventing him from experiencing alcohol's more pleasant effects. Anders helps him clear the dishes. They spend another hour in the kitchen, scrubbing the remnants of their meal from their plates.

"What inspired you to start learning, anyway?" Anders asks. "The rolls I could understand, but that was... basically a three-course meal. Not exactly beginner level."

Pausing to consider his choice of words, Fenris says, "I... have noticed that when you are particularly distracted by the clinic, or by your... cause..." He keeps his tone carefully neutral. "You will oftentimes forget to eat. You are no good to anyone if you are not well fed. And seeing as how the clinic is a free service you provide, and how little coin you accept from Hawke, I felt this was one way I could contribute to your wellbeing."

Fenris keeps his hands busy scrubbing at a small soup bowl in the washbin, but he can feel Anders’s eyes on him.

Anders states, "You learned it for me." His voice is a reverent whisper.

It's overwhelming. Anders speaks like a man unaccustomed to being anyone's priority, and Fenris thinks of all the conversations they've ever had and how little Fenris had actually listened to anything he had to say. At least he can make up for lost time now. He can let Anders speak of the horrors he's lived with, always in the abstract, the hypothetical, and he can parse the words he's saying rather than simply waiting for his turn to deal a verbal blow.

"Yes," he admits.

When Anders kisses him, he tastes like sweet rolls and chilled wine. His jaw is stubbly and it scratches pleasantly at Fenris's smooth skin. Fenris finds himself pressed between Anders and the wall, but also finds that he doesn't mind it, being surrounded by Anders, the way he smells like elfroot and Fenris's soap. When he cups Anders's face in his hands, his fingers are still wet from washing.

Anders doesn't seem to mind.

[insinirate]

the hand that feeds you

[he-is-so-stupid]

howdy fellow otome gamers. I play way too many of these games and I need to get things off my chest. feel free to ask me anything, gush about games you know I've played, gush about games you want me to try, ask my opinion about games you haven't tried yet, et cetera.

Games I've Completed

storm lover, sweet fuse, amnesia, hakuoki (kw + eb), code: realize, collar x malice, psychedelica of the black butterfly, psychedelica of the ashen hawk, 7'scarlet, norn9, london detective mysteria, bad apple wars, cupid parasite, variable barricade, olympia soiree, piofiore, cafe enchante, even if tempest, princess nightmare, taisho x alice, nightshade, bustafellows, nameless, yojinbo, dandelion, tmgs 1-3, mystic messenger, cinderella phenomenon, lover pretend, starry sky in spring, arcana famiglia ancora, arcana famiglia fandisk*, charade maniacs, code : realize~ future blessings*, birushana, nekopara catboys paradise, jack jeanne, code:realize~ wintertide miracles*$

*=fandisks, $=unfinished

Games in My Backlog

ephemeral, anniversary no kuni no alice, starry sky after spring*, ayakashi gohan, dot kareshi 1-3, fashioning little miss lonesome, re: birthday song, ozmafia, palais de reine, the second reproduction, bakumatsu renka shinsengumi, my vow to my liege, backstage pass, taisho x alice heads & tails*, brother's conflict, period cube, hakuoki sweet school life, collar x malice -unlimited-*$, piofiore: episodio 1926*, dairoku: agents of sakuratani, steam prison, amnesia: later x crowd*, butterfly's poison: blood chains, the crimson flower that divides, winter's wish spirits of edo, paradigm paradox, arcana famiglia 2*, radiant tale, norn9 last era*, shuuen no virche

Platforms I Play

Switch, PS Vita, 3DS, PC. (I have a phone but I don't play many mobage.)

My Top Favorite Games

Bustafellows, Psychedelica of the Black Butterfly, Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk, 7'scarlet, Taisho x Alice, Sweet Fuse, and Charade Maniacs. I have a big love for games with deep mysteries that get unraveled through the course of the story.

My Favorite LIs

Impey (Code:Realize), Mineo (Collar x Malice), Alice (Taisho x Alice), Chigasaki and Dazai (Charade Maniacs), Levi (PotAH), Yamato (PotBB), Yamazaki and Shinpachi (Hakuoki), Suzu (Jack Jeanne), Heishi (Norn9), Watson (London Detective Mysteria), Higa (Bad Apple Wars), Peter Flage (Cupid Parasite), Gilbert (Piofiore), Limbo (Bustafellows), and Liberta (Arcana Famiglia). I have a bias towards dumb boys, basically.

[zerthblades]

filthy boys

[khiota-kleffi]

Khiota Kleffi

Extra info below

Strife Specibus: 

BatKind

Pankind 

Fistkind

Knight of Blood

Indigo blood

Derse

11 Sweeps old

Land of Flesh and music

Light grey skin

Pesterchum:kozmikWafflezz (kw)

Scratch over left eye

Lusus: cat mom

Right arm is a robot arm

-{TypingQuirk}-

Extra:

Likes to collect little trinkets

Will go feral to get a slinkie

Collects bones

Very sensitive to dead meow beasts

Feels uncomfy when people dislike each other

Will not accept something they could earn themselve

Prefers to earn things instead of being given

Never gives up on a grudge

Does not care wether they win or lose as long as they go unharmed

If you harm them they will make sure to harm you back

Usually laidback unless triggered

very autism much Stim

gatekeep gaslight girlboss

does not care about blood colour or royalty they will treat you the same

anti spider puss puss

[qiqicharlotte]

[KW/TW] - blood hello again! how are you? how is your mood? I have a new artik here for you [by the way, you can write to me with whom you want art:I will definitely take this into account!] and so good night and good luck to everyone