#this chapter was entirely self indulgent-

[thickenmyblood]

I'm in love with HIUH!! Your brain is amazing for coming up with this!

When you edit your drafts, do you keep what you cut out? Because I would happily read 100k+ words of whatever you come up with :)

hello!!

sometimes i do keep things that i cut out because I know I'll need them for future chapters or future projects, but most of the time I delete them forever. i know it doesn't look like it because the fic is massive but I have trimmed it so much over the years you wouldn't believe what the og draft looked like. trust me, you wouldn't love those 100k words of scraps!!

[egginfroggin]

*Slams this down* chapter 7 is out!

Thank you all for reading this far! We're almost done!

Have a great day! ^^

[jellymish-art]

Genderqueer Sam Vimes incoming in 3... 2... 1...

*radio voice*: "In a different trouser leg of time..."

[raayllum]

three more scenes and then the next chapter of "teach me how to name the bigger light" is done, so i'm gonna aim for a scene a day this week

in the meantime have the broyals playing chess:

“I’m sure it’ll work out,” Callum said, swiftly moving his knight to better protect his queen from Ezran’s bishop. Chess was all about exchange and sacrifice. “I—” “Checkmate.” “Huh—what?” Ezran’s queen had taken one of the pawns diagonal from his king, a bishop aligned with each black and white square, cutting off Callum’s remaining options to try and wriggle out of defeat. If his king took the queen, Ezran’s bishop would finish the job. Callum sighed, smiling a little. “Since when did you get so good at chess?” “Maybe if you hadn’t gotten distracted,” Ezran acknowledged, gathering up his pieces to reset the board. They traded the ones they’d captured. “You spent too much time protecting your king and queen that you forgot about your other pieces. And you really should use your queen more, you know.”  “Yeah yeah yeah. Best two out of three, then?”

[jackwolfes]

Hii<33 will you tease us with hints of your current projects?

hello! 👀 due to a number of things happening off-screen for me i would say that i'm currently in "fucking around" mode without a huge number of actual tangible projects going on? like im doing a lot of "open new doc > write down vague idea > add 1,000 odd words > don't finish the project" which. doesn't feel great. but hey ho.

the biggest thing is that i'm doing a merlin big bang and am trying to wrap up the details of that project because i've committed now, except i can't give any details about because it all needs to stay anonymous 😅 either way that'll be out in like, august!

yeah in terms of other fandoms that i have written more stuff more in the past im just sorta,,,, languishing i guess??? like i'm still writing but it's really hard to be excited about WIPs and tell people & have them get excited and then just never finishing anything 🤷

[jamiesfootball]

I have loved all the comments I’ve gotten on my post season three fic (like you don’t even know how much I have reread all of those bad boys they give me oxygen), but by far one of the most gratifying ones I’ve gotten has been:

“you made that last episode seem so much more reasonable”

THAT WAS THE GOAL

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

I tell myself I have to write (assuming that I will get some work done on chapter 34)

my brain currently:

instead it’s decided we’re going to script out Herald au/Role Swap au cage visit between Sheriff Seed and cult leader Kit...because I definitely need another project under my belt

Girl help!

[ssukidesu]

Inextricably Knotted (An Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 10]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

tag list: @heynikkiyousofine @xanthippe-writes

Chapter 10: Full and Hearty

It seemed there would never again be a time in which the house would only hold its rightful residents. It had been three weeks since Lady Yura and the other demons had come, and the spring had fully ripened its fruits and was indeed inching toward summer. There were bugs everywhere—bees, dragonflies, caterpillars, little ants, and flies. For every type that agitated her, there were three which coaxed out her affection. 

Shippo was nigh unteachable. Kagome wondered if he was seldom permitted outside before she became his teacher—for at every break of day, there he was, begging her to hold his lessons out of doors so that he might find a caterpillar or ladybug to hold while she taught. She could never deny him. She was beginning to gain color to her face, neck, and hands, and she grew concerned that she would have to find dresses with shorter sleeves and lighter fabric. She understood that having tanned skin was unattractive on a woman, but she did not have the audacity to care.

After the incident with Suikotsu, Mr. Taisho seemed more dour than ever—at least, with Kagome. With Lady Yura, he was all flirtation and ease. He stopped demanding that Kagome sit up in the drawing room every night; or, rather, he stopped speaking to her entirely during these times, and after a single instance in which she abstained and he never came beckoning or scolding, she took that as an informal exoneration. During the days that followed and the rare times that he did speak to her in passing or at a meal, he never said anything about it.

There was one day during which she shared the courtyard with him and his guests, who were playing birdie. Kagome sat on the grass with Shippo a firm distance away, which the guests seemed to appreciate. Though, by the periodic glances of disgust that some of them—mainly, Lady Yura, Lady Kagura, and Sir Naraku—offered, she figured they would prefer her full absence even more. 

Kagome was teaching Shippo some basic algebra. This was something with which a human child of proportionate age would struggle immensely; however, Kagome found that Shippo had advanced in mathematics (and no other subject) faster than she expected, and she figured she might as well teach him more advanced calculations. They had his notebook and nothing else, and Kagome would write a problem on a page before handing it to him, after which he would compute with the steps she taught him, and he would trade it back for her checking. 

It was during a moment of Shippo’s handling of the notebook that Kagome heard the demons’ conversation switch. Lady Yura, who had paused to break with water but was otherwise unfazed by the warm sun, admired the floral landscaping of the courtyard and mentioned that she had a dress inspired by one of the blossoming trees. 

“It is a soft pink, perfect for a spring ball. Say, Inuyasha—would you ever hold a ball in your house? You could certainly fit one of moderate size.”

Mr. Taisho kept his focus on the birdie game with Sir Koga. Kagome could not see his face, as his back was to her, but she could hear his voice. She could always hear his voice if he was even remotely nearby, the sound breaking through all other noise and flowing to her ears like river water through a valley of rocks. 

“I suppose I could. Would you be my dance partner?”

Lady Yura giggled and clutched the half drained water glass to her breast. “If you impressed me well enough.”

“Well, then I shall consider it a challenge. I will look into hosting one in the next month before the heat peaks.”

The ladies squealed in delight. The men kept at their game, uncaring. 

Kagome came back to herself and found that Shippo was trying to return the notebook. She accepted it with a wince, and he turned his head to gaze up at her.

“Are you alright, Miss Higurashi?” he asked softly. He had learned without her telling that he must speak softly when around other demons. Whether he spoke softly enough to avoid their ears was uncertain to her.

“Yes, I’m only beginning to bake like a pastry in this sun. I have a few more problems for you, and then we will go back to the library.”

“Okay,” he smiled submissively. 

A few moments later, Kagome rose to her feet and stretched her neck and shoulders. Mr. Taisho was now conversing with Lady Yura off to the side of the party, and it appeared everyone had taken a break. Kagome considered waiting to catch a moment of Mr. Taisho’s attention so that she could signal her departure, but a half minute of waiting unsuccessfully only proved to make her self-conscious, and she decided to head inside. 

The cooler air of the house was an immediate relief to her heated skin. Kagome dismissed Shippo for lunch, and upon entering the dining room, Lady Kaede intercepted her.

“Oh, my dear! I’m so glad you’ve come. Would you mind helping me take some new bed sheets to the guests’ rooms after you eat?” asked the woman. Always so nearly out of breath. 

“Yes, ma’am. I should not be long; I’m only eating a little.”

“Why is that, child? Are you ill?” 

In that second, Kagome dedicated much effort to adjusting her countenance to reflect health and normalcy. She had no wish to hint to anyone that she was feeling negatively, as servants’ idle chatter almost always worked its way back to the master.

“I am perfectly well, Lady Kaede,” she began with an assuring smile. “I’m only tired from the sun, and I don’t wish to add to my lethargy by bloating my stomach.”

“Indeed, madam. You’ve gathered some freckles on your nose from the sun,” she said lowly, scolding. “You’d better do more to protect your skin. It is normally quite fair—you’d rather not blemish it.”

Kagome giggled genuinely. “Yes. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see if I can find an umbrella to shield me.”

The woman nodded in approval. 

A few minutes later, Lady Kaede was piling up folded sheet after folded sheet atop her extended arms. She gave Kagome instructions and, with a final thanks, sent her on her way.

Kagome slowly worked her way through the second floor’s bedrooms, replacing bed sheets and towelettes as she went. She had no notion of whose room belonged to whom, with the exception of course of her own, Lady Kaede’s, Shippo’s, and Mr. Taisho’s. The dozen other rooms littered throughout the level all blurred together. 

Kagome was coming around the hallway’s corner, the final four sheets still piled in her aching arms, and the sound of feminine giggling halted her steps. Kagome immediately recognized the women as Lady Yura and Lady Kagura. Kagome did as always upon meeting them in the house: she stopped walking, edged to the side, and stood silently with bowed head. The women were indeed coming her way to pass, and Kagome did not wish to garner their special attention.

This wish was only half granted.

The women did not halt their steps, though they did mutter to each other as they came.

“There is that ghostly governess. Always so freakishly watchful,” said Lady Yura with a poorly masked whisper.

“Hush,” urged Lady Kagura, “or she’ll hear you.”

“Human senses are so terribly dull, Kagura. And even if she did, what would she do? Tell the other servants? They’ll be turned out of the house alongside her when I have my way, in any case.”

Kagome’s fingers clenched in the fabric of the sheets. The women passed and turned the corner, and Kagome released the breath she was holding. She needed to breathe. Breathe. Her eyes were turned up toward the high ceiling, and she felt them fill with stubborn tears. Her throat stung.

But she would not let herself sob.

She urged her feet forward, and she moved toward the next room. When she was still a few meters away, the door swung open.

Mr. Taisho stepped out, a small stack of envelopes tight in his grip. Kagome guessed he was delivering letters that had been sent to his friends during their stay. He did not need to notice her; his eyes were on her from the moment he opened the door. He had known she was out here, no doubt, either by smell or sound. 

Kagome was not quite startled by his sudden appearance. Rather, she immediately directed herself to school her features and behave distantly, as they had done all week.

But when he came to pass where she was standing, he stopped and offered her a blank look.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Good afternoon.” She did not look at him. She buried her focus in the sheets she carried.

“Are you well?” 

A desultory question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I was worried you may have melted from the sun earlier. I looked away for a minute, and you were gone.”

Kagome almost furrowed her brow, but she stopped the expression, her head still bowed low. “My apologies. I meant to communicate with you, but I did not wish to interrupt.”

He was silent for a moment, and Kagome felt his gaze roaming about her face. “I see,” he began slowly. “And all is well with your pupil?”

“Of course.”

“I heard you teaching him algebra.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would not have anticipated such quick advancement in that subject.”

“Nor I,” she began, the talk of Shippo coaxing her into finally meeting his golden eyes. This was the one subject about which she should have the right to speak with him without shyness. “But he has learned quickly.”

“That is good.” He smiled a soft smile, and Kagome wondered about his sudden endearment toward the fox.

Her arms were growing weak beneath the weight of the sheets that still burdened them. She was about to excuse herself, but he spoke again, “Did you hear of the ball I’ve obligated myself to plan last minute?”

Would it be strange for Kagome to lie? She felt the urge for an unknown reason, but she snuffed it. “Some of it, yes.”

“I hope that the house will be able to host with no problems,” he said.

“The house will have no issue; it is the servants who deserve the most concern.”

Inuyasha smiled curiously. “Admittedly, I am not in the habit of being concerned about my servants.”

Clearly, Kagome thought, arms shaking. He seemed to read the quip on her face—his smile grew ever so slightly. 

“It will be a lovely occasion, anyhow, with the partner I’ve acquired.”

Kagome’s breath stuttered in her chest. “I’m sure lady Yura is a lovely dancer.”

He seemed distracted as he passed over her comment. “Do you dance, Miss Higurashi?”

Kagome could not feign humoring the question she perceived was only a nicety—and one he already knew the answer to. “Not even a little.”

“Perhaps I could teach you some turns.”

She started, pulling finally her gaze from the hallway’s various points of interest to his grinning face. Was he truly so ignorant of her feelings? Or did he simply care so little that he didn’t mind jeopardizing them for his own afternoon amusement? She sighed—an act of composure rather than expression. “Your instruction would be wasted on me.”

“Nonsense.”

Forgetting herself at his absurdity, she scoffed in jest, “What, has sir Koga inquired about me?”

There was a twinge of hurt in her voice, and Inuyasha’s face hardened.

“It was a joke.” An unfunny one, apparently.

Inuyasha spared a glance to the hall, she supposed to check if anyone was watching. Then, he took the sheets from her arms, set them down on a nearby bench, and grabbed her hand. 

“This way,” he said, pulling her around the bend.

“Sir—I’m in the middle of an errand—” she managed from behind. 

He tugged her further. “So was I,” he said, holding up the letters in his hand. “I’m sure it can wait a few minutes.”

He kept on his shepherding, and only once did he halt hastily—after which Kagome unceremoniously hit his back with her face—to linger unseen behind a corner and allow a servant to pass through the other bend. They resumed their journey afterward.

They reached one of the small studies, seldom used. There was an open area before the desk, a circular rug of various dainty colors and patterns covering the hardwood with a mid-sized circumference. He released her hand and moved to pick up a couple of chairs that rested on the rug. After moving them to the margins of the room, he turned to her with a smile and an outstretched hand.

“I’ll teach you a basic step. Come to me.”

Kagome gave him an incredulous look, to which he merely raised a brow. She swallowed, peaking behind her at the cracked door, and obeyed. He took one of her hands and held it at a heightened arm’s length.

They remained still at first, Kagome’s body stiff and hesitant. His direct gaze fell upon her face, and she could not bear its weight for longer than a couple of seconds at a time. Before speaking, he squeezed her hand to attract her undivided attention. “Have you heard of the minuet?”

Never before had Kagome been so frightened by a word that she did not know. “I’ve never been taught anything about any dances. Ever.” She hoped this would discourage him enough to make him give up on this sudden pet project. 

It did not.

“No matter. It is easy, I promise.”

“Do not underestimate my ability to make easy things difficult.”

Inuyasha laughed heartily at that, fangs and all, and Kagome noticed for the first time how lovely the sunlight streaming in from the window was. 

“I could make a joke about that, but I won’t.”

Kagome scrunched her nose in half-feigned offense. “Wise choice, sir.”

He cleared his throat, still smiling. He turned their bodies so that they stood beside each other and faced the same direction. “Mirror what I do. Start by stepping forward with your right foot and bend into a bouree—”

“Please understand that you will have to pause and explain every dance term you use,” she warned.

He considered her with his sideways glance. “Then doff the damn names. I’ll tell you in simple terms.”

“Thank you, your majesty, for humbling yourself to my level.” She couldn’t help it—matching his friendly energy. No matter how hard she fought it, she would always be at the mercy of his positive attention. No matter how angry and hateful toward herself she felt afterward.

“My pleasure,” he rebuffed. “Now close that mouth of yours and watch. Pupils should not interrupt their masters’ lessons.”

“Forgive me,” she said, half giggling.

The lighthearted sound seemed to bring even more elation to his wild eyes. “Now, start by stepping your right foot—but bend your knees slightly as you do so. After you rise again, you’ve completed a bouree.”

“I thought we tossed the terms?”

Inuyasha’s ears twitched, and he nearly growled in annoyance, “I’ll toss you over my shoulder if you don’t quit smartmouthing me. Or worse, I’ll make you learn the most complicated dance I know.”

She smothered her laugh, and she succeeded in banning the image from entering her easily flustered mind. “Neither will be necessary. Please, continue.” As a sign of good faith, she completed this first step, syncing with his stance.

“Now, take three normal steps,” and they did so together slowly, ending on their left foot. “Now, you’ll dip your knees again.”

“Another ‘bouree’?” she mocked absentmindedly as she followed the instructions beside him. 

“Actually, it’s called a—”

She whipped her head sideways to raise her brows expectantly at him, but he stopped short.

“Never mind it,” he said, turning to unsubtly roll his eyes toward the window.

“And then what?”

“And then you repeat it. Over and over again,” he said, demonstrating the fluidity of the repetition, which she mimicked a second later. 

“That doesn’t seem too hard,” Kagome observed.

“It can be made as complicated as you like. The steps can be performed sideways and backward, faster or with irregular rhythm. Depending on the music, the dance may be difficult to perform.”

“I see.”

“Let’s go from this end of the rug to the next a little faster this time, and then we’ll turn inward and return.”

Kagome gulped. “Don’t laugh at me if I stumble a bit.”

Inuyasha’s fingers toyed with hers in the air, and he smirked down at her. “Miss Higurashi, I hope you know that the reason why I’m doing this is in part to laugh at you a little.”

She pouted. “You’re a cruel master, you know?”

“Of course I know that,” he said, and they began their attempt. 

Kagome managed to reach the end of the rug with no hiccups, and though she almost turned the wrong way, their hands indeed met—the other ones, this time—warm and natural. They returned to the opposite side.

“There you go. You’ll be a ballroom dancer, yet,” he said, retaining her hand.

“Yes, perhaps at a circus one day.”

“A circus?” he began, ushering her to repeat the turn again with him. “If you performed in a circus, I would sooner imagine you a snake charmer. Or a lion tamer.”

“Now, there’s a riddle,” mused Kagome as they switched hands. She paused for a moment to regain focus as he began changing the tempo and angle of their steps ever so slightly. Once acclimated, she directed her gaze out the window again, partly to hide her smile, which had grown incessant. “Does he mean it as an insult or a compliment? And who is the snake or lion? Surely he cannot mean Shippo, the little angel.”

Instead of satisfying her questions, he directed them toward himself. “And what would I be? If I were in a circus.”

Eyes returning forward to the ground, she hummed. “I’ve never been to a circus, but from what I do know, perhaps you would be a magician.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes—I’m quite sure now. A magician.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve some faded memory of a trick I once heard about that reminds me of you, but I cannot recall its details.”

“You are a tease.”

“And you are calling the kettle black.”

They were looking at each other again, having returned to their starting point. A beat passed, and Inuyasha changed the subject yet again. “Would you like to learn one specialty move?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“My chances of surviving it.”

“Oh, I’d wager a solid ninety to ten.”

“For my survival, or my demise?”

His grin was wide. “I’ll tell you after you’ve tried it.”

Kagome sighed deep. “As you wish, sir.”

He immediately grew electric beneath the skin, nearly bouncing on his toes in anticipation. He took a half step from her and released her hand, facing her fully. “I learned this one on the continent. Do not ask from what sort of establishment—what matters is that the move itself is elegant, even if its creators were not.”

Kagome’s mouth opened wide in shock. “With that sort of disclaimer, I have no need to ask what sort of establishment it was!”

“Forget about it. The move itself is nothing that would be recognized as such, so it doesn’t matter,” he argued with a vicious grin.

“Well, I certainly won’t be learning anything unless you describe it to me first,” she said, crossing her arms.

Inuyasha filled his lungs, his broad chest puffing out, and explained carefully, “From being at my side, you start by taking my shoulder at the same time that I hook my arm about your waist. Then, I’ll lift you up until you can put your arm fully behind my neck, and I’ll spin you for a full turn until you’re facing the other direction.”

Those were a lot of words, many of which were distractingly about her arm around his neck and his arm around her waist. A different image than what he articulated invaded her mind’s eye, and she felt her cheeks run hot. “That sounds rather…” She trailed off, unsure of where she was going. 

“Do you need to hear it again?” he toyed.

After a moment of internal mortification, Kagome nodded. “Perhaps just my parts.”

He smiled—and not so patiently, either. He resumed his place by her side, only this time, they were only a few inches apart rather than an arm's length. “You’ve only one part, really. Just place your hand on my shoulder,” and here, Inuyasha gripped her closest hand and placed it accordingly there. “Then, as I reach to grab you—” he snaked a timid hand around the small of her waist, his face drawing closer to hers, “—slide your arm so that my neck is in the crook of your elbow.”

She did so, her fingertips gliding under his loose hair and toward the collar of his jacket, as she kept her eyes on his face. His own arm continued its progress, her waist settling into the crook of his own elbow. He was squatting slightly now, and he was looking up at her, assessing her features. To Kagome, time had stopped. He was so close—closer than he had ever been. He licked his lips, and her gaze stayed fixed on his mouth. 

“Then, just…” 

Instead of elaborating, Inuyasha pushed himself back to a full stand, taking her feet off the ground. Her breath left her lungs in an involuntary shriek as he spun her a full rotation. Along the way, her arm clenched around his neck, and her free hand came to grip the fabric near his chest, disrupting the momentum of the move. As soon as he stopped, his grip around her loosened enough for her feet to touch ground, and he towered over her again. They held each other outright now; her hand remained on his shoulder, but her other was splayed out against his chest, and both of his hands were hooked behind her waist.

“See? Ninety to ten.”

Flustered, Kagome laughed aloud. She thought about saying that it was still unclear which percentage reflected which outcome, but he spoke before her with a warm glimmer in his eye and an impossibly soft expression on his face.

“There’s that laugh of yours, full and hearty. You too rarely bless me with it.”

Kagome herself couldn’t recall the last time she had laughed like that—and it felt deliciously good. Her shoulders felt looser, her lungs freer, and she wanted to keep laughing with him, again and again.

“Let’s try again,” she said, stepping to return to his side but keeping her hand on his shoulder.

He followed her movements intently, almost trance-like. “Yes ma’am.” He put his hand on the small of her waist. “On the count of three: one, too, three—”

And then she was soaring, his heavy arm circling her fully until his hand was splayed out on her stomach and hers on his opposite shoulder. She did not shriek this time; rather, she kept her eyes on his and let him carry her full weight. Even with his lowered position as the base, she was still only a few inches taller than him now. 

Once he reached the end of his turning, he placed her back down gently. Their hands lingered—his behind her waist and hers atop his shoulder—and they exchanged breathy laughs a second time.

“Miles better,” said Inuyasha. “I didn’t feel like you were on your way to choking me.”

“Yes—because I didn’t feel like I was on my way to a broken leg,” she argued.

“What?" he exclaimed. “It would take far more than dropping you from that height to break your leg!”

“Ah, that’s right. You would know, after all,” she mocked.

Inuyasha gaped at her, mouth half open in a frozen, aghast grin. “I refuse to validate such villainy with a response. There will be no changing subjects here; you were afraid because you didn’t trust me. Admit it,” he accused, tickling her side with his claws.

Kagome nearly squealed at the sudden movement of his fingers. He had only tickled her for half a second, but she shot both of her hands down to cover his to halt any further assault—yet she knew this would not be enough, as revealed by the greater size of his hand even compared to both of hers together. “Please, Inuyasha—” she began to bargain, her voice sounding almost whimper-like in her simultaneous attempt to grasp air. He brought himself closer—or perhaps he tugged her closer?—and she could almost feel the male arrogance radiating from his smirk. She repeated between giggles, “Please, don’t.”

He kept his fingers still, but only to negotiate: “Say you’re sorry for not trusting me,” he said lowly. His smile was malicious.

Kagome gawked at his incessant audacity, and forgetting herself, she shied her face away by placing her forehead on Inuyasha’s shoulder. Her voice was sardonic and exasperated: “I hereby apologize.”

He could not see it, but she was still smiling. 

“There. I see I’ve taught you how to dance and how to repent.”

Kagome returned to her full stature and raised a brow at him. “One I already knew how to do—and the other cannot be judged until there is some occasion to test it, and I doubt that will ever happen.”

Her latter comment seemed to humble him slightly—or at least, he seemed to remember himself again, and to remember her. He spoke, “This has been good for me. I was rustier than I thought, and now I won’t have to worry about embarrassing myself in front of lady Yura.”

She knew it was coming, but she still stiffened, fingers clutching the fabric at his shoulders. Her smile had vanished.

“Tell me,” he began, and she saw a foreign look fix itself in his eye, the distant one that she had seen take him over more than once before. “You’re a lady—what manner of proposal would you like? I’m struggling with my plan.”

A lightning bolt laced her spine; she was paralyzed. And she was also angry, more angry than ever, at herself—as she had seen the lightning curling and rearing in the sky, and she had not fled for shelter out of naive hope it would not strike her. She felt the blood flee her cheeks. “I’ve never given it any thought. You… might be better served asking someone else.”

His expression was inscrutable. “Nonsense—surely you’ve thought about an ethereal, faceless man getting on one knee before you one day.” 

No—not a faceless one. “Sir, even if I had, I’m sure my tastes would differ too much from Lady Yura’s for my insight to be worth anything.”

His brow furrowed, and his ears flattened slightly.

“I really should be getting back… I’ve been gone too long as it is; I’m sure Lady Kaede has been seeking me.”

She released her grip from him and bowed her head a little lower than what her habit was. “Thank you for your instruction. I hope that I’ll find a time to use it one day, so that it isn’t neglected.”

[bambino1294]

An Upright Tower

Part 1 of the A Jungle’s Bloodied Deck series — Playlist

36 Chapters | ? Words | Rated M

The Tower Arcana (Upright) • Sudden Change, Upheaval and Chaos

“For once, she wants one of her gut feelings to be wrong, to just be post-disaster anxiety and fatigue, but this one lingers heavily with the feeling of isolation, leaving her with the uncomfortable impression that they won’t be found anytime soon.”

OR

When Oceanic flight 815 crashes on an unmarked island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, survivors must band together to live through the dangers and the mysteries of the environment around them. Ellie Adams, a PhD graduate with more blood on her hands than she'll willingly admit, and Mari de la Fe, a flight attendant with more than one reason to keep running, are among those who remain, left to navigate a land intent to either kill them or keep them. With their respective skills, the women must work with the enduring few left to keep a lid on conflict and protect people from the monster in the trees and each other.

[pinksparklelps]

Heehoo funny cat reader story :)

[orcelito]

ngl im falling more and more in love with Vash the longer i write ITNL

he is just so. soooooooooooooo... <3

[iwakitsune]

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Fandom: Splatoon Relationship: Frye & Big Man Characters: Big Man (Splatoon), Frye (Splatoon), Original Splatoon Character(s) Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Childhood Friends, mostly focused on the canon characters, tags to be added if I write more to this

Summary:

Where you can play and hide, warm and happy like fond memories. (And maybe you get sunburned, but that'll be fine too.)

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

How come nearly everytime I have a oneshot idea I think “Oh! This could be short! Maybe I’ll even be able to post it in a couple days!”

And then like boom! overnight it gains 11k and I’m Still Not Done and just kidding this might be a multichap fic like??? What is this curse????

[fictionallyinparadise]

A sequel to this bc I feel self indulgent in this Chili's

Trigger warning for mention of blood

Something was wrong. The glass broken, the lights dark. Pierce opened the door, positioning himself in front of Bonnie. She huffed at the action but he ignored it. Nobody approached them, and just from a brief scan of the place...nobody was here. He stepped deeper inside, taking the lantern from his belt.

"Rather dusty here." Bonnie commented in a mutter, stifling a cough. Pierce looked over at her and gave a small nod, noticing a shattered bottle on the ground. Not from a struggle, likely the unwanted guest's own clumsiness.

"Something doesn't seem right." He murmured, peering into the room behind a counter.

Bonnie laughed at the statement, sounding like she was in a different part of the store. "When is anything right on this island?"

She had a point. Pierce didn't respond, looking around the room. A painting on the wall and things scattered about. He frowned and moved back out. Figuring out what happened to the bugler seemed more important.

He noticed his companion flipping through a book, approaching closer to see it was a book about the history of Darkwater. "Anything interesting in there?"

She didn't look up, closing the book and offering it to him. "Nothing I could find. Then again, this place gives me the creeps so I'd rather not learn more about it."

Pierce nodded in response, flipping through the pages himself. He remembered the promise he made to himself. Telling her how he felt after the bookstore, but that was before it became finding yet another missing person.

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, staring at the endless titles for a moment. "...Bonnie. There's something I want to tell you." It felt like there was a cannonball in his stomach and a flutter in his chest. Strange how being nervous before telling someone of romantic feelings never changes from the younger, innocent days.

"Yes, detective?" He could feel her warm brown eyes on him. They were so beautiful, a beautiful dark shade. Most would dismiss her eyes since they weren't a bright blue or gorgeous green, but he preferred her Earthy colored eyes.

Pierce bit his tongue, scrambling to figure out words. "I...we should figure out what happened here." Damn fool, he cursed himself mentally.

Bonnie raised a brow and chuckled. "Alright, no more history lessons. I'll take this room, you search any others!" She sounded so enthusiastic about working with him. Perhaps it was naive of her but it was so charming.

Pierce watched her step away, before realizing she didn't have a light source. He hurriedly put the lantern handle into her hands, feeling her soft skin on his. As stereotypical as it would sound, just that touch felt like lightning going through his body. She smiled in appreciation and continued. He pulled out his lighter and entered another room. A Phonograph and a chess table, becoming more clear as he walked further inside.

Nothing that gave clue to the bugler.

He left the room, checking on Bonnie. She was doing well, inspecting the broken glass he'd spotted earlier. He continued to look around, beginning to understand the series of events. It was easy to get lost in picturing the scene, almost forgetting Bonnie was there.

"A safe behind a painting...hey, what's that symbol?"

He snapped to attention at her voice, staring at the symbol. It was scribbled around in Francis Sander's cell. Pierce still didn't know what it meant but noted the connection. "I'm not sure myself. Any chance you found a code?"

"No, sorry. I did find these though!" Bonnie proudly held up three cylinders for the Phonograph. He decided to let her hold onto them, giving a warm smile in return.

"Well done, Miss Reid!"

She seemed too proud in her find and pleased with the praise to comment about being called 'Miss Reid'. Pierce led her to the room with the Phonograph, the light of her lantern making the room much brighter.

[wondrouswendy]

I'm hoping for November to be big for my writing plans.

As of right now, here's what I hope to post this upcoming month:

The Days of Thunder (Control Fic) - Chapter 17

Deep Blue (Control Fic) - Chapters 5-7

The Phantom's Offer (Tentative Title, Control Fic)

Ultimately the goal is to finish everything by the end of the year!!

[horsegirlcahir]

Geralt tosses Cahir’s sword in its battered scabbard at his feet and gets a startled, apprehensive look for his trouble. “You’re brooding,” he says flatly. “And you’re restless. It’s irritating.”

Cahir raises his eyebrows and picks up his sword, although he doesn’t take his eyes off of Geralt, watching him as though searching for a motivation. The others have stopped talking behind them, and Geralt knows that they’re being watched; he feels suddenly foolish. “And you believe that sparring will help?”

“You’ve been play-fighting with the dwarves,” Geralt says. “That’s not working.”

(it is probably absurd to post a missing chapter of a fic that isn't posted BUT. 1. i like this 2. i like attention 3. it's like. kind of standalone. you don't necessarily need the context of the rest of it. SO.)

(also my timeline in this whole thing is fucked up. pretend they were with the dwarves for, like, two more days than they actually were.)

The Nilfgaardian is even more sullen and silent than usual.

At first, Geralt thinks there’s an issue with the company they’ve briefly rejoined and will soon part with; he doesn’t know how many dwarves are in the southern part of the Continent, so perhaps there’s some inherent distaste there — but he clearly gets along well with Zoltan, even joining him to make a trail to their watch station for the night, and the rest of Zoltan’s company seems to find him agreeable enough. Munro Bruys and Yazon Varda, in fact, spend most of the early evening sparring him, although they seem to have an attitude more akin to someone putting a restless horse through its paces, working off its nervous energy. They bark direct instructions, presenting targets with their shields and telling him to strike in specific orders with one blow, or moving them with shocking quickness so that he has to adjust his own pace to match theirs.

It doesn’t work. During the exercise, Cahir is focused entirely on their commands, but as soon as the dwarves are finished, he takes a seat on a tree trunk towards the far side of camp, painstakingly re-stitching where the throatlatch of his horse’s bridle has come loose. He’s been struggling with it for the last two days, unstitching and re-stitching in clear but silent frustration.

Geralt tosses Cahir’s sword in its battered scabbard at his feet and gets a startled, apprehensive look for his trouble. “You’re brooding,” he says flatly. “And you’re restless. It’s irritating.”

Cahir raises his eyebrows and picks up his sword, although he doesn’t take his eyes off of Geralt, watching him as though searching for a motivation. The others have stopped talking behind them, and Geralt knows that they’re being watched; he feels suddenly foolish. “And you believe that sparring will help?”

“You’ve been play-fighting with the dwarves,” Geralt says. “That’s not working.”

They’ve sparred before, but never with real weapons; they had been making do with rough makeshift staffs in place of the traditional blunt or wooden swords, small and light enough that Dandelion and Milva can make use of them, too. But Geralt trusts the Nilfgaardian to pull his blows, and Cahir must trust him, too, because only a few moments later they’re facing each other, weapons at the ready. Neither are armored; Cahir had, in fact, needed to be reminded to put his boots on.

It’s more of a dance than a fight, Geralt quickly comes to realize. Cahir is impressively fast for a human — would be quick even for a Witcher — and shockingly nimble, ducking under and weaving around Geralt’s thrusts. For only having had this sword for a few weeks, he seems to have adjusted well; it’s shorter and lighter than the one he had wielded on Thanedd — but nothing is quite the same as it had been then, Geralt supposes.

“You are playing with me,” Cahir says lightly, and when Geralt looks into his face he can see that whatever dark mood had had him in its grip is clearing. He enjoys this, he thinks. “You’re faster than that.”

The rest of the camp, dwarves and all, are gathered, watching them, but the tension has clearly broken; Yazon Varda is loudly betting that the Nilfgaardian will knock the old Witcher flat on his ass, while the gnome Percival Schuttenbach is attempting to hustle his fellows out of their coin, or at least out of their vodka, in an attempt to place wagers on Geralt’s win. Dandelion begins to provide colorful commentary, making up nonsense names for what he identifies as their sword forms as he goes.

It takes a good few minutes for either of them to first touch the other with their blade: Geralt taps the flat against Cahir’s thigh and watches him jump away as though burned, laughing, it seems, with a little embarrassment. He looks suddenly very young, grinning at Geralt in the fading sunlight. “Lucky,” he says, barely audible over Percival’s triumphant cackling. Geralt doesn’t reply, just makes another move, similar, watching Cahir hop out of range again with some amusement.

The circle they’re weaving around each other grows tighter without either of them seeming to realize until they’re very close, close enough to throw each other off and make striking difficult — Geralt wonders if this was part of his military training or if this is simply natural to him; most instructors wouldn’t recommend this, although it’s a tactic that has proven viciously effective when utilized correctly. Cahir moves with feline grace in and out of striking distance, and although Geralt can hear that he’s faintly out of breath and that his heart is pounding, he betrays nothing. A normal opponent would think him utterly unperturbed.

Cahir has landed two bloodless strikes to Geralt’s three when one of them finally slips: during a graceful half-turn, clearly no longer entirely taking the fight seriously and trying to amuse the onlookers, Cahir moves directly into the point of Geralt’s sword. His Witcher’s reflexes mean that he’s able to withdraw almost immediately, but it catches him right below the shoulder and drags sharply upwards when Cahir’s feet slip out from under him in his attempt to belatedly step backwards.

The rest of the camp makes a noise as one, sudden and hushed. Geralt is rooted to the spot, knowing that the hit hadn’t been serious and had been nowhere near any major veins but still warring with the insane urge to go to him and make sure.

“Melitele’s tits,” Dandelion yelps, but Cahir is already on his feet again, shaking his sweaty hair out of his face. Geralt’s sword is still in hand, but lowered to his side, uncertain; Cahir’s is on the ground, forgotten. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’m alright. Fucking hell,” Cahir says, laughing and breathless, surprising Geralt somewhat with his unusually undignified phrasing, and unceremoniously strips off his undershirt, already half-soaked with blood, holding it up to examine it. “But I think this is done for.” He’s not wrong. The gash in his shoulder is likely shallow, although bleeding freely; the shirt, however, is cut right at the seam, ripped clear down to the chest.

“Come here,” Milva sighs, beckoning him over, but Cahir shakes his head, reaching up to touch the wound, glancing without any alarm whatsoever at his bloody fingers. His face is incredibly calm.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I heal well. And the Witcher’s sword was clean.”

“You should still let Regis look at it,” she says, eyeing him critically. “Or at the very least rinse it out.”

“So I should,” he says, mildly and agreeably. Geralt stares at him, breathes in, tries to catch — what? Fear? Anger? But there’s more fear from Dandelion than from Cahir, from whom Geralt smells almost nothing at all, and almost never does, though he tries hardest not to scent the Nilfgaardian out of all of his companions, utterly disinterested in whatever his internal goings-on might be. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Without another word, he makes his way towards the other side of camp, where the spring they’ve been following flows just past the treeline. Milva has the grace to wait until he’s conceivably out of earshot before turning to Geralt. The others, having begun to disperse to resume their own doings, disperse slightly faster, until they’re the only two left on this side of the camp.

“It was an accident,” he snaps, before she can say anything.

“Was it?” she snaps back, one fist on her hip, staring him right in the face.

“Of course it was.” He runs his hand through his hair, pushes it back off his face. She’s queerly defensive of the Nilfgaardian, and Geralt cannot begin to understand why. “If I’d wanted to hurt him, I would have done it before then.”

“Oh, of course,” Milva says. “Excellent reasoning, Witcher.”

“He knows that,” Geralt insists, irritated. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Perhaps you ought to make sure of that.”

“He’s not a child. I’m not going to chase him down.”

But he does exactly that barely a minute later, after Milva has walked away in annoyance to rejoin Dandelion and Regis in preparing the evening’s meal. The part of the stream closest to the camp, where Cahir had stationed the horses to water and graze, is shallow, and better bathing can be found in either direction; Geralt has to pause for a moment and breathe deeply before he can find his scent, grassy and sweet, underneath the familiar smell of horse. He’s not too far away, but certainly far enough that he’d intended on not being followed or bothered.

The spring is cold and running freely, but when Geralt finds him, Cahir is waist-deep as though completely unbothered, naked as a jay, rinsing his dark head with cupped handfuls of water, having clearly decided to turn rinsing a wound into a bath, his propensity for which continues to make Geralt somewhat suspicious. His boots and remaining clothes are on the bank, folded neatly; his back is to the direction of the camp, and he either doesn’t hear Geralt approaching or doesn’t want to acknowledge him.

Geralt, pausing, trying to decide what he’s here to do, looks at him in silence: his careful, deliberate movements, his olive skin in the glow of the setting sun, the shifting muscles of his back and arms —

And for the first time notices the scars that mar his skin, crossed over each other in layers, thin and vicious, still new enough and deep enough to have not yet faded to pearlescent white. Cahir has scars — every soldier does — but those aren’t battle wounds. Geralt has been fortunate enough to avoid the bullwhip in his time, even when it may have been deserved in his much younger and stupider years, but he’s seen the aftermath on those that haven’t been. I heal well, Cahir had said, and it must be true. Men have died, Geralt knows, under fewer lashes than that, men larger and stronger than Cahir, son of Calleach.

He was imprisoned, he thinks, unbidden. After Cintra. He doesn’t remember where he knows that information from, or why; perhaps Dijkstra had slid it into a conversation before smoothly moving along to the next bit of gossip or news. He had been told, once, somewhere, that the winged knight that had haunted Ciri’s dreams had found himself in a Nilfgaardian prison; at the time, he remembers wondering what other atrocities the monster must have committed to land himself there.

Suddenly, he feels ungainly and foolish, unsure. He means to — he’s not sure what he means to do. An apology would be absurd; it had been a clear accident, and Cahir knows that things of this nature are bound to happen. He’s not here to check on him, as the wound was reasonably shallow and Cahir has slept off worse injuries than that even in the short time they’ve traveled together. For a moment, he considers telling him why it had happened in the first place — that he’d been showing off, and stupid tricks like that would get him killed — but in the end, he simply turns around and makes his way back to camp, moving soundlessly through the underbrush, trusting that Cahir hadn’t noticed him in the first place.