#you can always be thinner...look better... (visage)

[ampsychoy2k]

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[a-casual-kpopfan]

Our Twilight

Previous Story: Daydreaming - Choerry

Next Story: Part 1

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A/N: A friend and I have decided to attempt a series, this will hopefully be regularly updated along with my other projects.

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Prologue.

Haseul’s POV:

Deep breaths, deep breaths….

“You can do this” she mutters to herself.

The space around her is dark, but she can feel the presence of her members around her as they move into a circle formation, getting ready to “announce” a new song to their Orbits in the middle of their concert.

It’s been a surreal year for her, to say the least. After her hiatus, she has always feared that she has been forgotten, that she can’t be considered a member of the group anymore, not after an entire year of resting.

So, imagine how surprised she was when everyone welcomed her back warmly, and the fan’s reception was so fierce, tags with her name start to appear on twitter, filled with warm welcomes and encouragements.

Haseul spent the first night at the dorm reading the tweets and cried her heart out, unbeknownst to everyone, although they might have figure it out from the state, she had been the day after.

“You ready?” Yves asks her, both standing next to each other facing the audience, with mere seconds before the song starts.

“Of course, I am!” she replies, her voice part trembling, part confident, flashing a smile subconsciously, and she can feel a similar smile coming from Yves as well.

And with that, lights start to fill the stage once again as she hears the sound of Orbits cheering for them, lightsticks and smartphone lights appearing everywhere from the audience. The music starts, following by Yves’s sweet voice as she sings along with the melody.

The stage starts to move in a circular motion as everyone spins together, slowly, allowing them to greet everyone down at the audience, smiling and waving as everyone is happy to finally see their Orbits.

When it comes to Haseul’s line though, something, or rather, someone, catches her eyes….

“함께한 twilight….” “The twilight that we were together for….”

A silhouette catches her eyes. From the posture, she can tell that it’s a guy, taller, but also thinner when compared to the male Orbits standing beside him. His outfit consists of a hoodie and jeans, too simple to be noticed, except Haseul. His figure reminds her of something, someone.

Someone deep within her memories, a visage of the past, one so blurred that she can’t recall many details. But instinctively she knew, she has seen him before.

She is only able to catch a glimpse of his face, covered by a face mask and a pair of glasses before the stage rotates her to the other part of the audience, everyone screaming for her attention, and she complies, smiling and even reaching out to them although she can’t reach them.

Her mind is already stirred by the imagery of the youth she saw just moments earlier. Why is it that her mind was so…confused when she saw him? She most likely doesn’t even know who he is (that was a lie, her mind screams at her, telling her that she has at least seen him before).

So confused by the brief glance, she is determined to get a better look at him again. But when the stage rotates back to his position, he’s gone. Like he’s never there in the first place. Haseul starts to disregard the youth, treating it as her mind playing tricks on her as she decides to focus back to the song. Yet in the back of her mind, his image is imprinted deeply into her mind.

~~~~~

“That was a close one, I didn’t think she would recognize me….” The youth say to himself, standing outside of the stadium, looking up at the darken sky.

“As expected, I can’t be up there with you Seulie, I’m sorry…” the boy smiles underneath the face mask, but it’s a sad one, one containing all of his regrets and sorrow, one that no one will ever see as it is hidden underneath his face mask, like how he would put up his “mask” for everyone to see, especially when it comes to her….

(To be continued)

[westmoor]

jaskier dies in autumn.

geralt lays him to rest at the edge of a birch grove overlooking a flood plain on the northern banks of the pontar. 

he remembers the place, now gilded in the afternoon sun by wayward wheat having made its way to the rich river soil, where his bard had once pressed a ring into his palm (“how about this,” he’d said, “you keep this near and i’ll know you still want me at your side,” and geralt had closed his fingers around it thinking he’d take ten thousand golden trinkets just to be gifted with that smile) and he knows that come spring it’ll be a meadow thick with wildflowers.

he makes it to the coast alone, leaving a handful of filled notebooks and some letters in the care of trusted peers at oxenfurt on the way, before turning and heading northwest. he felt conflicted about the lute - still feels conflicted about the lute as he straps it to roach’s saddle - but jaskier would not have wanted it lost in the ground, and he can’t stand the thought of those strings plucked by the hands of any other, not yet. setting it down gently in its spot in kaer morhen is the least unbearable alternative on a list of unbearable options.

a cold winter melts away around a bleak spring and when he passes the gates that year he leaves a little more of home behind. beneath his wolf medallion, separated by armour and cloth, an amulet of a different kind presses a circular mark into his skin.

the next time he sees jaskier, he reaches for silver.

a wraith of some sort, his mind reels, a doppler or something- something similar, because there’s no other explanation. it’s impossible. there’s a man walking towards him through a field of poppies and he isn’t possible.

months of mourning boil into anger, anger at all he has lost and anger at losing it now again, the visage of his bard stolen and worn as a mockery. whatever time they’d had, borrowed though it was, twisted and thrown at his feet. geralt finds the hilt of his silver sword, and he is furious.

but the thing wearing jaskier’s face laughs at him then, and smiles, and it’s that smile. the scent reaches him next, not the earthy, sour musk of weeks on the path but that scent, the smell that lingered under road dust and chamomile and geralt could never find words for, jaskier’s smell.

it floods his senses, blinds him and leaves him weak, rooted, a century’s worth of witcher sensibility screaming at his limbs to move, but he cannot. 

the face before him, close now, looks deceptively young, half the years or so of the man he held that autumn morning by the river. but there’s a crinkle to the eyes, a temperance to his expression that only came later, and the hands that reach for him are ones that knew every day until the last.

there are fingertips on his cheek, calloused, skimming his jaw and brow and wiping at whichever expression they find there. murmured apologies as he himself struggles just to breathe. 

if this is how i go, he thinks, i’ll take it, and he tips forward. filling his head with all things lost to eternity: the tickle of cropped brown hair against his nose, the barely-there scratch of stubble, the warmth of smooth skin as he buries his face in the neck of what can’t be his bard, waiting for it to dim and fade as every dream before.

but the arms that wind around him are strong - always a little stronger than expected - and the hands that wander up his back and settle at his shoulder and in his hair are ever so sure.

-

their meetings are sporadic and unpredictable, at first, seemingly without rhyme or reason. 

they find each other at crossroads, in places between places, more often than not he will find his lark waiting under yew trees or in shaded spots overgrown by bluebells. no matter the way of their meeting, he is always greeted the same as jaskier steps close, outstretched hand settling left of geralt’s medallion, palm pressed gently against the near-indiscernible bump there and finding the rounded outline before arms settle around him and geralt, for all his heightened senses finds his vision narrowed and senses blurred as jaskier’s joy overtakes every other impression.

the bard is not always quite the same - at times he comes back slightly tilted, slightly younger, slightly paler, a little taller or thinner, but he laughs the same and his hair sweeps across his face just so, and geralt knows better than trying to apply certainty to things that cannot be.

“where are you, now?” the question slips anyway, one late night when he’s not sure whether the heat he feels stems from their smoldering fire or from the weight of the man drawing patterns on his skin. there’s a huff of a laugh across his sternum and he can just make out the blue of the eyes that meet his in the darkness, and the knowing smile that lifts their corners. “i’m right here, love.”

it gets somewhat easier after geralt brings the lute down from the keep - another tether, he thinks, or perhaps there’s simply more to him now, more to a bard with an instrument than one without. not just once he follows familiar melodies into narrow valleys where brooks spring from the ground, or deep into woods where the air is so still drawing it feels like a disturbance, or across fields of flowers which jaskier will weave into roach’s mane and bridle as he walks beside them, sometimes for days, weeks if it’s fair.

he asks again, much later. too late by some degree, not for fear of the answer but for fear of placing force upon something so yielding as this dream. “what are you?” barely a whisper, he’s nearly surprised when jaskier turns to him several feet away, hair that was once threaded through with silver now shining like gold in the warm autumn sun, the grin flashed in his direction is blinding at first, but gentles as he makes his way closer. 

folding himself into geralt’s lap, thighs bracketing hips and geralt’s hands find their home at a lean waist by habit and by choice, lips ghosting his brow, then his cheek, before whispering against his own:

“yours.”

[frostsong]

9—14: commend.

rating: T

characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, jannequinard de durendaire, aymeric de borel, lucia goe junius

tags: 4.0, msq: ‘stormblood’, post-ala mhigo, sappy janne, i always leave aym in the corner sweetie i’m so sorry

summary: nothing but the highest praise for halone incarnate.

wordcount: 1446

“My dear, you’ve done it again!”

In the blinding heat she thinks she’s dreaming, until his arms are around her and she realizes she--he--and all of this--is real.

Behind him the Lord Commander beams, as bright as the Gyr Abanian sun will allow him, and his second-in-command stands astride, an evident crease in her smile meant for the man holding the Hero of Eorzea in a tight embrace.

“--Oh, not that I ever lacked faith in you--” A quick, strong kiss on her sweat-matted forehead, then another on her rosy cheek, enough for her to giggle in spite of how worn she was from all that had transpired, from storming Ala Mhigo to the death of the Imperial Prince.

“Nor did I--”

“J-Janne, what are you doing here?” She finally manages to speak, her voice still trembling with laughter while one hand of his cradles the delicate line of her jaw with the utmost care. A realization settles in and she gasps, eyes widening and smile giving way into an open-mouthed gape.

“Y--you were with us--”

“Oh NO! Heavens, no.” His thumbs brush her loose curls to the side, and by the look in his eyes she knows he’s using all of his power to keep from kissing her right then and there.

“Not with you in the fighting, I mean. I just happened to arrive not too long ago, really. Much of our forces were away and there was hardly anyone left to receive me. Not that I minded, of course--I’d rather they were all at your side.” As I wish I had been, his eyes said. But Dou shook her head and grinned, her gloved hands falling atop his own.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Janne.” 

“Perhaps I’ll leave a proper congratulations for another time,” Aymeric let out a subtle cough masquerading a chuckle, and already the knights that accompanied him began to snicker at the sight of Count Durendaire’s nephew being so unabashedly affectionate in the presence of the Savior of Ishgard. The man had plenty of rumors even before Douceline became a known figure in their city, though his involvement with her had propelled his infamy to greater heights than any of his countrymen could have ever imagined.

Lucia nodded in confirmation and sent her a cool smile.

“Indeed. Such efforts on your part could never be understated.” A bow, and Douceline was left once again in shaky laughter as the other knights followed suit.

“I--I couldn’t’ve done it without any of you there with me...”

“Dearest, you are far too modest. Even with such talented individuals could such a feat not have been accomplished without your guiding star to lead us!” The astrologian still holding her ‘round the waist chided playfully, before placing another kiss on the opposite cheek, and the Lord Commander made his leave with the rest of his retinue, leaving her and Jannequinard to venture into the shade of the city walls. 

“Now then, should we retire to your chambers—er, where is it that you’re spending the night, dearest? I can have my things brought wherever—that is, if the page I handed them to didn’t lose them—”

“A tent.” She didn’t see why her temporary lodgings should be grander than those of the warriors she fought alongside.

“A tent! Splendid...though I suppose you wouldn’t mind switching to somewhere with a roof?” Now inside the reclaimed city, Dou could tell he wasn’t ecstatic about sleeping outdoors, though she still had her doubts about requesting such a thing that sounded so entitled. So she simply shook her head and smiled.

“Just a tent, Janne.” He smiled back—though thinner in the way she knew he smiled when he wasn’t sure about something.

“Splendid...I see. Though if ever you have the opportunity for a longer respite, I heard word of a quaint little bath house in Porta Praetoria. I heard the weather there is positively balmy.” At his suggestion she failed to hide a giggle.

“I think it’d be rude of me not to see how the others are doing...there are casualties, s-so.” At this he seemed to concede, albeit reluctantly. And Douceline could understand it a little. He had come all this way to see her, only for her attention to be as divided as it was beyond the confines of his office at the Astrologicum, or behind closed doors at his chambers in the Belfry.

Already in the corner of her eye Douceline could see one, two, five familiar faces, which were quick to catch her recognizable visage--and even more recognizable it would become, for all she had accomplished, for all she had come to symbolize.

And his heart sinks to think that, with each and every step she took, he felt further and further left behind.

Right where they started.

When she finally tears herself away from friends, comrades, and all above, below, or in-between, he was quick to weave his gloved fingers snug around her own, lurching past the varied palette of robe, chainmail, and metal to find his way back at her side once more, the very place where he wanted so desperately to feel like he truly belonged.

Fortunately, she turned her gaze to him and smiled--smiled in that weary way he remembers the meaning of: the wish of wanting to leave, of wanting no one’s company but his own.

And he was more than happy to acquiesce, sending the hungry, growing crowd a cocky smirk as he led her away into the coming night. 

━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━

“--and that one stands for Rhalgr. Lyse told me.” 

He watched idly as her index finger drew a line connecting one distant speck to the other, into the shape of something--someone--he could care less about. Selfish as it was not to pay attention to the words she was saying, he simply missed her too much to care for all that Gyr Abania and the Far East had to offer her; at least, at this very moment. 

“...You’re not listening.” Her voice sank as he smiled, lazily drawing up his bare forearm to brush the back of his fingers against her rosy cheek. Fury, how wonderful it felt to feel her again. Neither his memories nor his own imagination could conjure anything close to the actual thing.

“Forgive me, dearest, I--can’t find it in myself to focus on more than one thing tonight.” Dulcet words in an equally smooth cadence did nothing to stop her from puffing her cheeks in outright frustration, her rosy-gold hair dimmed to a dulled purple tint under the mountain sky.

“And so my body and my voice are two different things?” At her words he grinned, teeth striking white in the dark of the late evening hours, naught but the moon, stars, and dying flicker of the campfire to give them light.

“They are indeed. They adjoin to comprise you as a whole. Much like...er. The heavens and the earth?” She crossed her arms (she had gained more taut muscle, much to his delight) and waited, muted-rose eyes sharp and glowing in the nearby firelight. Clearly his one example wasn’t enough of an argument.

“Like...the sun and the moon. Without one of them we could never complete an entire day!” In desperation his grin widens in the hopes he’d done better, but to his dismay her head sank with a paired sigh.

“...I suppose.” Accepted? Forgiven? While the back of his head hit the tassled pillow-roll in relief, he took her hands into his own to bring her back atop his chest, the meager sheets pooling at her waistline. 

“Listen. I love the sound of your voice and the words that come with it--truly, I do, But what little of you I can have from linkpearls and letters can only--” He stopped with a sudden, shaky breath. Something feels lodged in his throat and whatever it is makes his words falter, his streamline of thoughts unravel. It’s the feeling he gets when he knows he’s said too much, and he’s ashamed that even now, it has him in such a vice grip. Even now with the woman who professed and proved her love to him for reasons he could never truly comprehend.

“...I think I understand.” Her knuckles lie relaxed against his collarbone, and the scent of her breath is sweet. He closes his eyes to take it all in. Her and him, skin to skin and nothing and no one between them. Loathe he was to admit it, this moment wouldn’t last, and come morning they will be parted once again.

But for now, they’re together, and he has no choice but to make the absolute most of it.

[meetthetank]

Starved

Rating: General AudiencesArchive Warning: No Archive Warnings ApplyCategory: F/M Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse) Relationships: Steve Burnside/Claire Redfield, Steve Burnside & Alexia Ashford (kind of) Characters: Steve Burnside, Claire Redfield, Alexia Ashford (kind of), Jill Valentine Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Post RE Rev2, Therapy Group - Freeform, Read A/N for more context, Steve is a sad sad man who missed out on A Lot, Angst, Subtle love languages Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232369 Summary: Months after being rescued from his second island prison, Steve Burnside tries to adjust to a normal life while dealing with the scars left both physically and mentally. Luckily, he has some help. Notes: Sooooooooo here's the thing. There were worms in my brain. Real bad. So this is like... a manifestation of a longfic that I want to write later down the road. Some things to know before going in. 1) Steve revived on an island meant to store "failed" B.O.W. experiments that was left abandoned. He was there for a year and some change. 2) Allie is a child clone of Alexia who was in the same facility and befriended him. They live together and Steve is her legal guardian. 3) Jill runs a victims of B.O.W. experimentation which includes Steve, Manuela, Sherry, herself, and some others. I think that's everything but if yall have anymore questions feel free to ask. This is incredibly self indulgent to write but I hope you guys enjoy it too. 

“Please stop pacing,” Allie sighs, “You look like a caged beast.”

Steve glares at the child, a clone of the insane woman who killed him, as she sips her tea at the other side of their flat. She glares back, her hazel eyes sharp as ever. She’s waiting for him to retort so she can shoot him down with a smart ass remark like a shark circling a drowning bird. When all she gets is an indignant huff she sips her tea and rolls her eyes.

“You do this every time she comes over. If she didn’t run away at the first sight of your ghastly visage she’s not going to run now.”

Steve sighs, “Yeah, but-“

“What absurd thing are you putting in your own head this time?” Allie snaps, setting her dainty pink teacup next to her stuffed dragon, “You’re going to stink up the room if you think too hard.”

He tunes out the insults with a scowl, but Steve knows the kid is right. He’s thinking way too much about this. Claire didn’t run away screaming the first time they met since he came back, she’s not going to do it for the seventh.

Even still, as Steve passes by the mirror in the front room he jumps at his own reflection. The person inside doesn’t look like him, it doesn’t feel like him. Their ginger hair isn’t wild and tangled, it’s washed, brushed and tied up in a small ponytail. Their shocking green eyes aren’t sunken into their sockets, and there’s a splash of red sunburn on their skin. He can even see a smattering of freckles across their nose and cheeks. They look like a stranger, but the deep, ragged scars across his face remind him of his past. The biggest and ugliest of the marks starts well above his hairline, drops down over his right eye and curls over his lips. A few smaller ones run across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but they aren’t nearly as deep.

He always thought scars were sexy when he was a kid. Manly. The marks of some action hero or badass. Now they just… Make him look tired and scared.

A small hand grabs onto one of his. “Did you take your medicine today?” Allie asks without a trace of her previous vitriol.

Steve shakes his head. “I’m out of the anxiety pills. Ms. Valentine said she’s going to bring them over when she comes to pick you up.”

“Okay.” Allie says with a curt nod.

“You got everything for your field trip?” Steve meanders over to the kitchen again, eager to change the subject.

“Can I have some spending money?”

He raises an eyebrow, “How much and what for?”

“Fifty for museum books.” Allie puts her hands on her hips and glares up at her guardian with defiance sparkling in her eyes.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, “Twenty.”

Allie lifts her chin, “Forty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Forty-five and I buy you a cool rock from the Natural History Museum.”

“Deal.”

With negotiations done (and Steve down forty-five bucks) the only thing left to do is wait. He switches the tv on to drown out his own thoughts. Some hockey game. It’s not his team so he doesn’t care too much, but it’s a comforting familiarity. At least sports didn’t change too much since ‘98.

Steve let’s himself zone out as much as he can to the game. At one point he thinks about getting a beer but decides against it. He’d probably have one or two with Claire at dinner. That, and his meds don’t mix well with alcohol if he hasn’t eaten. So instead he bounces his leg, bites his nails, and busies his hands with whatever he can reach.

Did he used to be like this? It’s hard for him to remember past his awakening and even harder to think past Rockfort. He was a neurotic mess out of necessity on the Storage Facility Island, a place where any sound could be death, and Rockfort was a similar story with the addition of his teenage bravado, but before he was taken? He barely remembers what his parents looked like, let alone what social masks he had to put on. Steve lets out a long, quiet sigh. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s like this now, and that’s all he needs to know. At least now he has a support system.

Just as Steve starts to calm down, the doorbell rings.

He jumps out of his chair and bolts to the front door, heart in his throat and stomach upside down. His hands begin to shake as he reaches for the knob-

“Hi, Steve.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs, a bit too loudly judging by the way the visitor raises an eyebrow, “Hey, Jill.”

She gives him a warm, knowing smile as she fumbles with her shoulder bag. “Claire coming over today?”

“Yeah.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, “That easy to tell?”

Jill laughs, “Careful now, Redfields can smell fear.” She hands him a paper bag from the local drugstore, “Here. I know you said you were out of the anxiety meds, but I got everything refilled for you.”

“Oh! Uh, thanks!” He tosses the bag across the room to the chair he had just left. “So what museums are you hitting today?”

“All depends on our little cruise director.” Jill says with a small laugh, “Speaking of-”

Allie brushes past Steve, the charms on her backpack jingling with each step. “Air and Space and Botanical Gardens! Oh, and Natural History too. I promised I’d buy Steve a cool rock.”

“Easily bribed, I see.” Jill smirks at him quickly, then turns her attention back to Allie, “Sounds like a deal, kiddo.”

Eager to get on her way, Allie all but jumps out of the door and runs to where two more members of their little therapy group, Manuela and Sherry, wait. Both women greet her with smiles and hugs, and she wastes no time in launching into sharing things she had learned since the last time they had spoken.

“I’d stick around,” Jill says as she backtracks to the group, “But I feel like if I wait any longer there’s going to be a mutiny.”

The rumbling of a motorcycle echoes down the street, and Jill turns back to Steve with a quick smirk.

“Besides, you have company.”

Jill darts over to the group, casting a wave back to Steve and over to the biker before motioning to the ladies to begin their trek. Steve watches with wide eyes and a thundering heart as the biker dismounts and pulls off their helmet, revealing short auburn hair and stunning blue eyes. She gathers up a few plastic bags from her bike before jogging over to him, while he stands there like a deer in headlights.

“Hey, Steve!” She says with a bright, radiant smile and shoves some of her bags in his hands.

“W- Hey, Claire.” He fumbles with the grocery bags, “What’s all this?”

“Dinner. Figured making our own burgers would be better than ordering out.” Claire explains and shuffles inside the door as Steve moves aside for her. “And more fun.”

Though Steve can’t deny her claim, he also can’t fight the apprehension that coils in his stomach. He can cook, sure, he had to or die on the island, but he has no idea how to use any of the kitchen gadgets Jill’s group and Terra-Save set him up with. None of it is as simple as a slapdash firepit and some scraps of metal. Maybe if he’s lucky Claire will know what to do and he can just chop vegetables or something. The last thing he wants to do is make more of a fool of himself.

“Uh, sure!” He blinks his thoughts away, shuts the door and retrieves his bag of medicine from the chair.

By the time Steve turns back towards his kitchen, Claire is already busy setting up groceries and making herself at home. He watches her take off her heavy bomber jacket, revealing a thinner red and black flannel, and set it on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. She drops her plastic bags on the counter and grabs a beer out of his fridge; she looks like she’s been coming here for months. Something about the image before him makes Steve’s chest tighten. He’s not sure if it’s a bad feeling or not.

“-Steve?”

“Huh?” He snaps out of his stupor with a jolt.

Claire wiggles the opened bottle in her hand, “Did you want one?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” He stammers and rubs the back of his neck but walks across the room to take the beer. Maybe he did need something to settle his nerves after all.

Claire smiles at him like she’s known him all his life, like she knows what’s going on in his head and she understands why he’s so awkward and nervous around her. What was it that Jill said before? Redfields can smell fear? He knows it’s a joke but the way Claire seems to understand his fidgeting and hesitation leaves him wondering if there’s some kind of truth to it. A few gulps of beer (technically a hard cider, his first beer made him vomit) gives him enough bravado to at least go into the small kitchen with her.

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask him to work any of the gadgets. Claire’s hands glide over buttons and knobs, setting temperatures on his stove and placing pans. She directs Steve to break the ingredients out of the bags. Ground beef, cheese, brioche buns, vegetables, and a myriad of spices.

“This is a lot for just burgers, isn’t it?” He asks, mouth full of stolen tomato.

“Come on now, you know I wouldn’t do just burgers.” Claire laughs a bit, a sound that makes Steve’s heart stop. “This is an ancient Redfield family recipe.”

“Should I be worried?” Steve can’t help but smile back. She has this way about her that makes him feel lighter, like everything takes a backseat to just… being around her. He can joke, come out of his shell a little. She won’t hurt him.

Claire giggles at him, “It’s the way our dad used to make them. Chris held onto the secret ingredient till he was… Thirty something I think. I basically had to interrogate him for it.”

He raises an eyebrow and grins devilishly, “So...what’s the secret?”

“Oh, just a blend of spices.” She shrugs, “Nothing that inventive. But it’s special to Chris, so don’t go telling him I told you.”

Claire winks at him then turns back to mashing the ground beef into patties, leaving Steve to gawk at her. She’s delightfully impish when she wants to be, he can see himself getting into all sorts of flirtatious teasing matches with her… if he weren’t so weird. She directs him to chop up the tomatoes and onions after she catches him staring, again with a playful smirk and slug to his shoulder.

Something he had to become good at while on that remote island, alone aside from Allie and the wild B.O.Ws, was how to observe. The more he watches Claire out of his peripheral, the more she reveals to him. He watches the way her face falls as she focuses on the burger patties, as if she gets lost in her own thoughts and forgets where she is for a split second. It isn’t hard for him to see the sadness she hides from the world, it’s the same kind as one he carries. The reason Steve still roots for his hockey team, or even still watches the sport is because it reminds him of his dad. It’s the last connection he still has to his late father, and of a time mostly lost to him. He feels more special than he should that Claire would choose to share something like that with him.

Suddenly a sharp pain shoots up Steve’s arm. He drops the knife, now streaked with red and pulls his hand close to his chest with a hiss. His heart races and his eyes dart around, searching for other dangers in the area. Anything might be lurking in the shadows waiting to take advantage of his weakness. He scans back and forth for threats, eyes wide and alert. Nothing catches his attention except-

“Steve?! What happened?”

Claire drops her own knife and rushes over to him overcome with worry, but stops in her tracks when Steve backs away from her. He looks like a frightened animal, eyes wild and darting to anything that moves even the slightest bit.

“Did you cut your hand open?”

Her voice is soft and gentle as she approaches, hands low and outstretched to him. She doesn’t step closer, she waits for him to bridge the gap. Steve can see the caution in her face. Like she’s trying to coax a stray kitten out of hiding.

It works.

“Y-yeah,” Steve says, dropping the tension in his body a little. “I uh, wasn’t paying attention and… I guess it slipped.”

He opens his hand enough for Claire to see the small streaks of red that pool beneath his thumb. It’s superficial, barely deep enough to scar. The virus would already be hard at work stitching the burst blood vessels together, but he should still clean and bandage it. He has a bad habit of picking at the scaly scabs that form over wounds.

“Are you okay?” Claire asks, taking a small step forward. The gap between them is barely a foot wide. “That looks like it’s bleeding a lot.”

As Steve starts to relax further, Claire’s fingertips brush against his hand for a split second. The shock is enough to send him reeling back, his heart leaping into his throat. His instincts tell him to run and hide or fight his way to a safe place. Somehow he finds the self control to speak.

“No!” He yelps, loud enough to startle Claire. He lowers his voice but takes another step back. “No, I got it. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t stick around long. He can’t bear the worried, somewhat hurt, look on Claire’s face. Steve hurries into the bathroom around the corner and shuts the door before the fear and guilt tear him to pieces from the inside out. With trembling hands he turns on the sink faucet and lets icy water run over his open wound. It stings a little, but nothing he can’t endure. The excess blood trickles down the drain and vanishes in seconds. Just as he thought, the cut isn’t deep at all. That eases his anxieties somewhat, but not enough to stop the oncoming panic attack. Before it overtakes him, he wraps a washcloth around his hand to contain the blood as best he can.

Steve sinks to the floor and puts his head between his knees. It’s a struggle but he forces himself to take deep even breaths, just like Jill had taught the group. Though his head still spins, it helps to calm his heartbeat enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a heart attack. The trembling stops once he lets his consciousness fade to survival mode; he only thinks about his breathing and that he is safe.

Claire isn’t going to hurt him. No one is. He’s safe here. He’s safe with her.

Claire isn’t going to hurt him.

The world slows down, finally. Steve isn’t sure how long he’s been here but it can’t have been too long. Claire hasn’t come knocking on the door looking for him yet, and the savory scents of meat and spices being seared drifts in from the kitchen. His stomach tightens at the smell, helping to distract him further. Though his whole body feels heavy and drained of energy, Steve finds the strength to push himself to his feet once again. He cleans the now dried blood off of his hand, sloppily wraps his hand with a bandage, and dumps the rag he was holding into the wastebin before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom.

When Steve returns to the kitchen, he expects Claire to rush at him and assault him with questions, but the only question is in her eyes. Wide, blue, and deeply worried about him. She doesn’t say anything or move to approach him, she only watches and waits for him to be ready. The way her brow creases and turns upwards at the ends make her look guilty, and that sends a pain through his gut he can’t identify right away.

“All good.” He announces, showing off his slapdash bandages. “It’s not deep. Just wanna keep it from getting dirty. And keep myself from picking at a scab.”

Claire looks at him with such intensity that Steve almost shrinks back from her gaze. It’s like she’s staring right through him.

“You sure?” she asks, keeping her voice low and gentle.

The genuine worry throws Steve for a loop. “Yeah.” He flashes her a wry, lopsided smile full of false confidence; as if he didn’t just have a panic attack. “I’ve had a lot worse.”

Claire studies him for a moment, then scoffs and shakes her head. A small grin finally appears on her face and it takes his breath away. “Yeah, I was there for some of those.”

She turns back to finishing up dinner. A shadow crosses her face as she grills the burger buns as a final touch, but it’s gone in a flash. Steve busies himself with getting drinks and plates, and thinking of something to say that might distract Claire from whatever sadness is eating away at her.

“You’ve had a lot worse than that.” He says with a grin, and immediately regrets it. Why did he think it’d be a good idea to bring back those kinds of memories?!

But Claire turns around and smiles broadly at him. “Oh you have no idea.” She drops a plate of burgers and a plate of toppings on the table, then as if to give Steve another heart attack, she props her leg up on the chair and rolls up one of her pant legs. A long, wide scar follows the length of her toned calf. Tan with age and wear, it stands out against her pale skin.

“This was from the Tyrant in Raccoon City.” She smirks, almost proud of her scar. “I was lucky it didn’t hit bone with how deep it was.”

There’s an edge to her voice, testing him. Teasing him. Steve grins. If Claire wants to have a scar battle, then he’s more than happy to show off.

He points to the largest scar on his face, “I got this from-...” Shit, he can’t tell her it was from falling down a mountain. That’s not cool. “...I got it from this big… Turtle thing.”

Claire raises an eyebrow at him, “Turtle thing?”

The lie spins out of control in his head, faster than he can stop. “Yeah! It was like...a big armored reptile B.O.W. Had these nasty claws for diggin’ in the ground. I got too close to it and it swatted at me. I’m lucky I didn’t lose this eye.”

He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest a bit. He can’t pinpoint why showing off his trauma like this makes him happy. Maybe he’s just happy to share it at all. It doesn’t matter to him now. Claire is smiling. He’s smiling.

They go back and forth, showing each other their scars and places where bones were broken while eating homemade burgers and fries. Claire shocks Steve with just how many scars and injuries she suffered over her years of fighting bioterrorism, and he astounds her with his stories of his misadventures on the B.O.W. storage island and his encounters with all manner of beasts. Watching her listen to him with such fervor and interest almost makes him forget how horrific it all was. It helps in a weird way.

But that changes in an instant.

When it’s his turn to point out a scar and tell a story, he stops thinking. He lifts up his shirt, exposing the most gruesome scar on his body with an excited grin. A scar that stretches from his collarbone and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, with dots alongside it on either side. Instead of a jagged outline like the scars left by accidents and B.O.W’s, this one is straight, clean. Surgical.

“This one was from when they autopsied me.” He explains, far too excited about the grim display he presents Claire. “It still itches like hell where the staples were-”

Steve snaps to reality once he looks up to see Claire’s awestruck face. Instead of excitement, it’s horror. Her hands cover her mouth and her eyes, brimming with barely restrained tears, lock onto his stomach and a wound so old he had almost forgotten about it. Beneath the autopsy scar, beneath the scars from man-made beasts, there’s a circular mark a similar color to the scar on Claire’s leg. It’s old, faded, but still aches from how deep the tissue reaches inside him. The gravity of the old wound may be lost on him, buried under the countless others that mar his body, but it’s fresh and raw to Claire.

He hastily pulls his shirt down, “Shit- I’m sorry, I didn’t-... I forgot that…” There’s nothing he can say that will ease her mind. He reaches out to her with one hand, stopping just by her arm before pulling back and sinking back into his chair. Another muttered apology falls from his lips as he hangs his head in shame.

He doesn’t notice Claire get up and cross the gap to him. Not until she takes a knee in front of him and brushes his unruly hair out of his eyes.

Claire’s touch is feather light and tender, but even that sends shocks through his skin. It jolts him out of his shamed stupor, and Claire pulls her hand back a few inches. Her expression is something he can’t make out. Somewhere between pity, sadness, and guilt. Before Steve can properly figure out what she’s thinking (something he’s never been good at) Claire runs her thumb across the large scar on his face, slowly and gently. He doesn’t flinch away from her this time. Then, something mundane yet earth shattering to this broken man out of time happens. Claire cups his scarred, stubble covered cheek in her hand.

Something breaks within him. A dam he didn’t know existed anymore that kept everything back, every trauma, every broken piece of him; some of which he didn’t even know were broken. Claire’s hand, her warm hand marred by callouses but still soft despite it all, molds to the contours of his face. There’s such tenderness, unrestrained kindness in her eyes and her touch and he can’t fathom how it can be directed to him. He doesn’t notice the tears in his eyes until they spill over.

Steve tries to calm himself with deep breaths but they come out stuttered and shaking. His shoulders heave, a lump in his throat chokes him. He screws his eyes shut, trying to shut out the vision of someone caring about him that deeply, but she’s still there. He can still see those piercing blue eyes boring into his soul and reading him like an open book. The moment Steve opens his eyes he sees the blurred outline of Claire Redfield wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

He wants to yell at her to leave, to tell her that he’s a lost cause and there’s no helping him. He’s too damaged, too broken. He’ll never have a normal life. He’ll never be able to pretend he isn’t a monster. He will never be able to have meaningful relationships. But all that comes out of his mouth is a broken, choked sob. Someone is touching him, someone cares about him. And he can’t understand it.

Despite himself, Steve pulls Claire into a tight embrace and sobs into her shoulder. Her fingers run through his hair, while her other hand rubs his quaking back. Steve can’t stem the tears, that’s a feat that even a mighty Redfield can’t achieve, but he can’t deny that simply being in Claire’s arms replaces despair with a strange warmth. For the first time he can remember, he feels...safe.

Eventually, the tears stop, and Steve is able to breath easily again. Claire doesn’t let him go for a minute and for that he silently thanks her. It isn’t until he begins to pull away that she too lets her arms down and pulls back from him.

“I’m sorry…” he mutters, wiping the stray tears from his eyes, “I don’t-”

“Shut up.” Claire commands and takes Steve’s hands from his face. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Darkness crosses her face for a moment. “I should be the one apologizing… I know you-... It’s hard after a while, not being… Not having human contact like that for a while. It’s not something they tell you about in therapy.”

Steve shakes his head, “I needed it. I really… Really did.” He sighs, “I...I didn’t know how much I...everything… still hurts.”

With that same kind smile, Claire leans forward and kisses his forehead. “It takes a lot of strength to admit you’re hurting that much. Give yourself some credit.”

“Maybe…” he says with a sad smile. “... Thank you, Claire. For everything.”

She takes his hand in hers, tracing the callouses and scars with her thumb. “Thank you for coming back.”

[herkawaiinovels]

[SS] Chapter 20

Prillance rose from her seat and got dressed. After hiding in her room without eating properly for several days, her face had become very thin.

Seeing her face, Mindy became heartbroken. But today at least she ate soup and nutritious juice by herself. Finally, it seemed like she had figured things out.

“Please check to see if we have Jasmine tea.”

“Yes, milady.”

Mindy replied, gently stroking Prillance's head.

“If not, please prepare something else. I'm going to have Lady Royne as a guest today.”

“Yes, milady.”

Since Prillance had no plans to go out, Mindy simply combed her hair and tied it neatly.

“Milady.”

Derek knocked on the door in a hurry and came in before he even heard an answer. His face seemed to indicate an urgent matter. Then, before Prillance could ask, he swiftly spoke,

“Duke Tonz is here.”

“What?”

Even Mindy stopped her movement. As she looked in the mirror, she saw a startled Prillance. His visit seemed to be unexpected.

“He is in the reception room at the moment.”

“In our mansion?”

“Yes.”

It was a sudden visit. Moreover, he even came to visit in person.

“You really mean to say…he’s here at the moment…in the Marquis estate?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Mindy's hand, which had been slowly combing Prillance's hair, became more active. It was Duke Tonz. It was the Duke that her lady liked so much.

He must have come to the mansion after learning that Prillance was sick. Even her lady had a look of disbelief.

Finally, it was time to show off her skills.

It didn't take long for Prillance to arrive in the reception room. She simply viewed it as an additional person to see today.

“I greet the Duke.”

Prillance greeted Roman and sat down.

“What brings you here today?” she immediately asked. With the way their last conversation ended, there’s no way he came for no reason.

Roman thought she would already know the reason but decided not to wear an obvious impression. So instead, he brought out the flowers he prepared.

“I heard you were sick. Is my visit a bit too much for someone who hasn’t been to a hospital?”

He gave her a bouquet of lilies. He ended up buying these flowers after much deliberation. The flowers reminded him of Prillance…although that thought itself didn’t make sense. Roman thought it was strange for him to be buying flowers for her.

'A lily, huh…In the past, I would have thought it was a rose with thorns. '

As Roman was lost in his own thoughts, Prillance received the flowers and smelled them. Seeing this, he felt he had made the right choice. The flowers suited her.

“Thank you. Although you came after I am all better.”

“I was busy.”

“I know. You are always busy.”

Prillance replied insignificantly. After all, it wasn’t like she wasn’t used to it. Roman’s excuses for her had always been the same. Roman also knew himself well, so he didn't say more.

Roman drank the tea in front of him. It had been a while since he last saw her face. It looked like it wasn’t a lie that she was sick. Even though she was covered with makeup, her pale face could not hide the fact that she had lost weight. Her hands that raised and sipped the tea looked thinner. Not that he would remember what they previously looked like.

“Are you here because of Lady Royne?”

Prillance, who had a sip of tea, looked at him and spoke first. And her guess seemed right.

“You said you attached someone to me. You probably know that I haven’t come out in a while, and heard where the letter I wrote to was sent.”

Prillance was right. A feigned laughter came from Roman, as he remembered the time when he talked about himself.

“You won’t have to worry anymore. I will no longer do the same things I did before.” (Prillance)

“……Is that so.”

Roman decided to accept without a hitch.

“It looks like you don’t believe me.”

She replied in a nonchalant manner.

“But I can't tell you why I asked to meet her. As you know, it's a woman's secret. Hence, I have no obligation to tell you about it.”

Prillance tried to smile gracefully. Roman scrutinized her. He thought he had figured out all of Prillance's intentions, but suddenly she pointed her arrow towards Lady Royne.

He wondered what this was about this time.

“Are you planning on tormenting Lady Royne?”

There was no reason to straightforwardly ask. He had already found out Prillance’s ulterior motive for using Ver. So if Cecia would be oppressed by Prillance, it would be purely because of that.

He didn't want that to happen.

“I have no intention of harassing anyone.”

“Then you shouldn't meet Lady Royne.”

At Roman's words, Prillance’s movement halted. Was this also close to crossing the line? She remembered Ver's face a few days ago. Perhaps Roman was not wrong.

Should she just give up and do nothing? But what would happen to Ver if she left the story unchanged? Perhaps he’ll be angry, just like Roman.

Roman watched as Prillance formed a smile that was sad around the edges. The moment he saw the emotions defenselessly exposed on her face, it dawned on him that perhaps he had made a mistake.

When he heard that she hadn't been out for days, he thought he would have an interesting visit, but strangely it wasn't. Not today, at least. Looking at her pale, sickly face prickled at his conscience, as perhaps it was him who made her this way.

“If I don’t meet Lady Royne……Will you agree to be engaged to me?” she muttered.

It took time for Roman to understand what the woman in front of her said. She gave a remark that was not different from before, yet there was a different impression on her face.

“……Why are you still so insistent on this?”

She swallowed a story that she would never tell him – she just wanted Ver to be happy with the person that he loved. Instead, she replaced her answer with a bitter smile.

Instead of being angry or disgusted as before, Roman was more concerned with the resignation contained in her voice.

She lowered her gaze. She seemed to have no intention of answering his question, instead, her dry fingers swept through the handle of the teacup. These series of actions caught his eye. To be exact, it made him unable to take his eyes off her. He could feel it. Something within her had changed.

“Thank you for the flowers. I'm not feeling well, so I will excuse myself first.”

She put away the improper feelings that were about to rise up within her once more. Prillance got up as soon as she finished speaking, but Roman’s hands were faster. He could feel the slimmer wrist brought by the weight loss. Were her hands always this dry?

She felt vastly different from the garden party from a while ago. It was strange. Moreover, he thought she would be crying, but she was not.

However, it felt no different from a tearful visage.

At the moment, Roman realized that seeing her face like this did not please him as he thought it would. Roman swept through her cheek once with his thumb. It was an instinctive action. Then he looked at her for a few seconds and put a handkerchief in her hand.

“I better get going for today.”

As soon as Roman finished speaking, he left the reception room. For the first time in his life, Prillance felt small and thin. The Prillance Weiand that he had always hated.

As strange thoughts surfaced in his mind, Roman hastened to leave the Weiand estate.

And Prillance, who was left alone in the reception room, swept her eyes with her fingers as she looked at the handkerchief Roman had given her.

Tears did not come out. But she felt as if her desire to cry had been exposed.

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[mintchocolateleaves]

A/N: I got distracted from playing hollow-knight with mario kart, ahaha, so my writing slowed down. BUT - I’m going to start replaying today and hopefully get a little further in the plot. I’m just slow. Both at writing and games. Anyway, without further rambling... part six.

--

With a map in hand, Shinichi heads back down the well.

The map covers this entire area - the crossroads - as Hakuba declares it. Shinichi keeps walking, heading following the map east towards another area that's yet to be mapped out. There doesn't seem to be an outpost marked on the map, no settlements that Shinichi can make out, so he decides to head to the eastern edge of the map and search for a pathway of crevice that helps him keep moving.

There's not much as he navigates, climbing up rocks and trying to find his way, until finally - a small opening that leads further into the caverns. Suspended in pitch black, there's not even a faint light for him to look at. Shinichi heads back out, promising that the next time he returns to the surface, he'll request a lantern from the Professor.

Until then, he marks the entry way on his map, roughly where it seems to be, and keeps moving forwards. Further up, there's another path, hidden behind large boulders. This one, at least, is brightly lit. As he starts moving, the world becomes more and more like a song. It starts with a feminine hum that slowly breaks into a soft croon, like a songbird taking flight, the melody rising and falling in a natural pitch of emotion.

Shinichi heads closer.

The pathway shifts as he moves further into the caverns, the area taking on an almost luminescent glow as he continues forward. Until finally, after dragging himself up a particularly steep ledge the room opens into what is a large cenote.

It's a wide expanse of space, reaching hundred of metres across - further even, than he can make out in the relative darkness. Illuminated by thousands of pink luminescent crystals, all of them embedded into the cavern walls, the water below looks an almost pastel, salmon colour.

Before him, there's a wooden platform that leads down to the water below. Some parts of the wood looks aged, rotting away, but Shinichi disregards that as he steps out onto the platform. Most of it looks sturdy, and as long as he watches his step, Shinichi figures he'll be alright.

The singing is coming from beneath him, and Shinichi can't help but be curious.

As he makes his way down, he spots footprints in the dust. They're small - feminine, he assumes The singing keeps echoing against the crystal walls. The nearer he gets to the surface, the easier it becomes to make out the visage of a young woman sat at the edge of a long wooden pier that extends out along the water's surface to the middle of the pool beneath them.

And the closer he gets, the more he can recognise. And she's...

"Princess?" Shinichi breathes, on the final platform. He vaults over it, suspended in the air as he falls down, ignoring the crack of the wood from where he's thrown himself over. He stumbles onto the pier below, foot going through one of the panels.

He's lucky, really, that he's not thrown straight into the water and all he needs to deal with is a single wet boot.

The singing falters, stopping as the princess turns. And... the closer Shinichi gets, the more he realises the differences.

"I'm not the princess," comes a voice that's similar to Ran's but not quite the same. "But people have always said we do look alike."

Shinichi pauses. Regathers himself and comes closer. Looking closer, there's so many differences to her. Her hair is messier, more ruffled and unruly, her form slightly thinner, shorter - all around smaller. Even in the way she dresses - she's not nobility. She wears clothes fit for a soldier.

"You're wearing the crest of one of the kings-guard," Shinichi says, as he settles beside her at the pier's edge. "But I don't remember you. And I think I'd remember a knight that looks like the princess."

She turns to look at him, not scrutinising, but more conversational. Taking him in. Her mask looks better suited to a masquerade than a place like this, but somehow, it suits her, Shinichi thinks. Gold swirls around the design, not professionally made but rather created by an amateur with a steady hand.

It looks beautiful.

"I'm not," she says. "But my father was. I'll give it back to him when I meet him again - he's probably searching for me, so I've come down here to wait."

Shinichi hesitates for a moment, "why not head to the surface and wait there?"

"It's prettier here," she says, softly. "And I like listening to the crystals sing. Have you heard them? It just makes me want to sing along with it."

Shinichi doesn't know what she means, by the crystals singing, but he does know a lost cause when he hears it. Still, he tries regardless.

"The infection-"

"I'll be fine here," she says. "Don't worry about me. I just want to listen to the crystals a little longer. I won't stay too long."

Shinichi shifts. It feels, faintly, like he's talking to Ran and that's... unsettling. There's the same show of stubbornness, the warning that she won't be deterred.

"Alright," Shinichi says.

"Why don't you sit for a while," she says. "Listen to the song. It's so beautiful."

"I need to keep moving," Shinichi says, "I need to reach and outpost-"

"The outpost?" She sighs. "There's no outposts around here. Not anywhere with these crystals. You need to go deeper into the caverns to reach the outpost."

Shinichi stills. "I was told to go East."

"Maybe they meant East from where you were, and now you've come too far," she says. "Really, you need to be going *down*."

"Oh," Shinichi says. "I suppose that would make sense."

She offers him a thumbs up.

Shinichi stands up, hesitating for a moment. "...What's your name? If I find anyone looking for their daughter, maybe I can direct your father here."

There's a smile in her voice as she speaks. "Aoko. Tell my father I'm waiting for him by the crystal lake, he'd love it here."

Shinichi offers a small nod. And as he turns away, Aoko begins singing again, her voice lilting, a duet that Shinichi is not privy to hear the other half of.

[lovefrozenswan]

So when I saw Frozen II, I was immediately struck by the similarities between it and ATLA. Im sure yall did too. I decided to write a fic and then revive my tumblr to promote this.

Elsa is clearly the Avatar and so im writing a really ambitious crossover. I hope yall like it.

Longfic planned. Not really a shipfic, but there probably will be a F/F pairing eventually (and probably with a canon ATLA character).

Ignore the horrible header, I cant make manips to save my life but fics always do better with them.. 

The Last Waterbender - ao3 link

The Fire Nation celebrated its victory over the Avatar cycle when they killed the very last Waterbender in the north pole. With no host to be reborn into, the Avatar cycle ended with Avatar Yangchen's execution.

Until 100 years later, when Elsa found that Ahtohallen was more than just memories.

Prologue

Every inch of me is trembling But not from the cold Something is familiar Like a dream I can reach but not quite hold

Crossing the dark sea was exhilarating. Elsa felt the water spirit galloping beneath her and the air whipping around her. She was aware of the elements in ways she had only ever been aware of the ice before. She had never felt so certain she was making the right choice. Leaving Anna behind had hurt but she could never have survived the water spirit's anger. She only hoped Anna would forgive her.

Elsa would find the truth about Arendelle, the Northuldra, and about her powers at Ahtohallen. The siren sang on.

I can sense you there Like a friend I've always known I'm arriving And it feels like I am home

The glacier at her fingertips hummed with power the way nothing ever had. At first touch, her mind flicked to the strange people she had seen her entire life at the edge of her vision. A tall woman with painted blue arrow tattoos. A man who could spit fire itself. A painted face, clad in armor and surrounded by earth. They were more clear in her mind than the fuzzy glimpses of her childhood. She needed to meet them. They had to be in here.

I have always been a fortress Cold secrets deep inside You have secrets, too But you don't have to hide

The ice flowed in her blood. Moved like a frozen river. Elsa was thrown into another vision of bright arrows and wind so strong it could only be Gale's influence. She pressed onward, giddy with power.

Show yourself I'm dying to meet you It's your turn Are you the one I've been looking for All of my life? Show yourself I'm ready to learn

The teasing light drew her deeper. Elsa thought back to a moment in childhood that she thinks might be her first memory. When the ice had first responded to her, she had seen a woman with a deep blue furred cloak beside her in the snow. She wore beads covered by the elemental symbols the Northuldra worshipped. It was all connected, it had to be.

I've never felt so certain All my life I've been torn But I'm here for a reason Could it be the reason I was born? I have always been so different Normal rules did not apply Is this the day? Are you the way I finally find out why?

As the glacier opened up, the ice showed her moving dioramas of people she had never met. Impossible visages, moments lost to time. Anna always said her powers were not a curse, they were a gift. Elsa had never once believed her. Here though in Ahtohallen, surrounded by the memories of her people and ice so old it had witnessed all of history, she almost believed Anna.

She saw her mother's face among the ghostly figures and began to cry.

I'm no longer trembling Here I am I've come so far You are the answer I've waited for All of my life Oh, show yourself Let me see who you are

Arendelle's history was laid out now. The truth about the Northuldra, about her grandfather, about the dam. It was more than she could take. She had to get this back to Anna.

But it wasn't enough, where was the voice? The people from her dreams?

Where the north wind meets the sea There's a river Full of memory Come, my darling, homeward bound I am found

The air was thinner here, everything had an untethered feel and Elsa knew in the back of her mind she should stop. But they had to be just a little further.

The newest icy figure in front of her stopped her dead in her tracks. Another ice magic user. The moving statue was visibly Northuldra, at least in the face. She threw ice spikes in a brilliant arc out in front of her palms towards a man in unfamiliar armor. His face twisted with anger and he held his odd stance, unafraid of the ice. Walking around them, she saw the female figure was guarding a child. The mystery of the moment was overwhelming.

Before she could puzzle any further, a new statue caught her eye. She turned to see the woman with the arrow tattoos standing tall and still. Her eyes met the statue's own, taking up her entire field of view. It lit up incandescently and made a smooth motion unlike anything Elsa had ever seen before freezing cold air washed over her. In that moment, Elsa felt the truth about her power deep in her very bones. She was the fifth spirit. And something else.

She had only moments to get a single message to Anna before everything went dark. She had found the voice inside her.

"Its good to see you, Avatar Elsa. I have been waiting a long time."

Step into the power Throw yourself Into something new You are the one you've been waiting for

   All of my lives  

[marquisoforder]

Mister Fahrenheit.

.

“I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah

Two hundred degrees

That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit.”

- Don’t stop me now.

Queen

.

It was sheer luck that Magnus heard the doorbell over the deafening den of the party.

To be quite honest, he didn’t really have a reason to throw a party all of a sudden but with the news of everything happening in the world, the Mundane illness and the rumors of rogue vigilante Shadowhunters, he felt that he needed a little pick me up. Everybody needed a pick me up during these times. A little escape from the grimness of the real world. And when the word got out, swarms of Downworlders had come, each with lines of frustration, fear and uncertainty etched on to their faces; lines that disappeared once two shots of fairy gin went down and the upbeat rock music brought the now loosened limbs to the dance floor. And the influx of the guests did not cease. They kept coming in packs and twos and individually; vamps, werewolves, fairies, a couple of warlocks and one or two disgruntled mundanes who had been swept in with the crowd.

Magnus opened the door for the hundredth time that night, expecting another random face he remembered from some rave or another but couldn’t quite place, and stopped mid motion, the face staring up at him bringing back a flood of emotions and memories.

“Hello dah-ling!” The man with the mustache smiled, a quick, self-conscious flash of teeth that disappeared as soon as it came.

“Freddie,” Magnus breathed. “Freddie fucking Mercury. It has been so long.”

The man nodded but flinched visibly when the loud song playing in the party came to a louder end, enabling cheers from the throng of drunk downworlders inside.

“Come on in,” Magnus pulled him in by the hand and absent mindedly noticed how it felt a little different, a little thinner, perhaps?

“It sure is loud in here!” Magnus could faintly hear Freddie yelling as he dragged him through the throbbing crowd of swaying bodies, towards the bar in the corner of the room.

“It’s to drown the wailing of the damned.” Magnus grinned as they reached the bar and grabbed a couple of seats for them. The bartender, a fairy with shiny silver hair and striking lilac eyes (no whites at all) winked at Magnus before pouring both of them some dangerously shiny and equally slimy fairy drink that Magnus had no intentions of drinking. He left the drink alone and turned his full attention on the mundane in front of him, staring at the shiny green drink as if it had done him some personal wrong.

“What brings you here, Freddie?” Magnus smiled, laying a hand on his arm. “Surely the news of my little rave didn’t reach you all the way across the pond in England!”

“I was actually in the area,” Freddie replied, a faraway look in his eyes. “I wanted to see you. To talk to you about something. Didn’t expect to walk into a fucking rave at one A.M on a Wednesday night.”

There was a certain bitterness to his voice that made Magnus snap into sharp attention. It wasn’t ordinary for Freddie to be bitter. Sarcastic, yes. A little biting? Sure. But bitter? That was something entirely new for Freddie Mercury.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Magnus asked gently, in the tone of a man trying to sooth a child. Freddie seemed to notice the change as a line on his forehead disappeared as he turned around to look Magnus in the eye.

“FREDDIE MERCURY?”

The Mundie was so loud his voice was almost heard over the sound of the amplified music. In any case it was loud enough to draw the attention of the crowd nearby. They descended on the celebrity like a bunch of starved paparazzi, asking for autographs, touching his jacket sleeve, (fairies. No consideration for personal space.) clamoring for a song and just generally yelling to get his attention.

Freddie looked half dead as he stared at Magnus for one long moment, but as he turned back to face the crowd of fans his countenance underwent a complete change. His eyes lit up with an energy that was hard to fake and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards into a smirk that dripped confidence.

It was like watching someone cast a glamor over themselves. A mask being pulled over the true visage. A curtain of bright happiness closing over a tragedy on stage.

Freddie stood up and beamed, talking to some people and signing things for others. Voices yelled and begged for a song. The dance floor gradually emptied as everyone gravitated towards the attraction of the night. Magnus felt the first light grasps of an oncoming headache.

“Freddie, give us a song!”

“Mr. Mercury can you sign my T shirt?”

“Sing something!”

“Freddie!”

“Freddie Mercury!”

“Freddie!”

The young performer turned to Magnus and nodded. It was all the initiative he needed to wave his bejeweled hand in a sweeping motion. He watched with disinterest as the familiar blue sparks flew and a grand piano appeared on an elevated stage in the middle of the dance floor. Freddie made his way to the beauty with a light spring in his step and ran a teasing hand over the keyboard before settling down. He hesitated for a moment before his fingers started the complicated dance across the keyboard, and a familiar tune filled the air.

“Tonight I’m gonna have myself, a real good time…” The hauntingly beautiful voice rang out and the bodies all around Magnus started swaying to the rhythm, almost as if an enchantment had been casted over all of them. Then again Magnus supposed Freddie’s voice was a magic of its own kind.

The tune picked up the pace and Magnus watched in fascination as Freddie’s long skillful fingers waltzed across the piano keys, the movement every bit as feverish as the gleam in his eyes. Magnus knew something was wrong. He felt it in his bones as he watched the young man perform, effortlessly exuding waves of uncontained enthusiasm that seemed to make the very air around him drunk. When Magnus let his body move to the rhythm it was like setting a bird free. His heart beat in his throat as his body found an output to all the frustration, pent up feelings and foreboding he had felt in the past weeks.

So he danced, hips swaying to the rhythm as he just let go. He had acquired an eager partner from the crowd though he had no idea how she came to be in his arms. Yet it was relieving. To be in the arms of a stranger, without a care in the world about what has happened or might happen. For that infinite moment, Magnus was Mr. Fahrenheit, with all the reckless abandon of a shooting star and the chaotic energy of a racing car passing by.

When the song came to its soothing end, made even softer by Freddie’s pensive voice, Magnus felt tears prick at his eyes. He did not know why, but everyone in the room seemed to be frozen in place, as if a prophet had revealed a dark and lovely Truth that left them entranced.

Freddie got up and bowed. The room erupted in cheers. But Freddie payed no mind as he made his direct way to Magnus and grabbed his hand.

“Come with me,” He said and dragged the dazed warlock towards the bedroom. His feverish eyes shone with a desperation that Magnus had seen before countless times on many faces.

It was a drowning man’s last cry for help.

Realization dawned on Magnus with the brutal force of a thousand meteors. Even as he was pulled into the room and the door closed behind them, he knew what Freddie was going to say.

“I’ve got it. The sickness. AIDS.” The blow was no less gentle after all the time Magnus had heard those words. “But you can make it better right, Magnus?” That was always the hardest. He couldn’t. He couldn’t make it better. The Angel knows he had tried. But there was a limit to what he could do in healing magic. Even Catarina, who was adept at healing had not figured out way to cure this demented illness. It was akin to a curse in its cruelty. And no man or warlock alive could make it better.

“Magnus?” The man pleaded, his eyes big and luminous on his face. “Please you have to!”

Magnus sat down on his bed, helpless, sad and bitter. It wasn’t fair. He had helplessly watched innocent men and women die and he had to watch yet another friend succumb to that terrible, wasting disease.

“Freddie, I’m sorry...” He spoke softly, as one would do when they take away a man’s last hope at life. “I cannot cure you. It is beyond my abilities.”

He watched as Hope drained out of Freddie’s face, leaving a trail of anger, desperation and frustration that finally turned into defeated acceptance. It was hard for Magnus to watch. Here was a man once so full of life he had brought stadiums full of people to their feet dancing with nothing but his voice. This was a man who had danced the night away with Magnus in countless parties, a man he had shared stories, sorrows and drunken kisses with. He was Freddie. And he was dying. But there was nothing Magnus could do.

So he did the only thing he could do; something so small and trivial in the face of what he wished he could do. He got up and walked over to the hunching man and engulfed him in a hug. As if on cue Freddie broke down in deep sobs that shook his frame and left him wheezing.

They stood there, the man and the warlock, in each other’s arms, buried deep in thoughts about how the other deserved so much better than what life gave them. And they stayed like that, in an embrace they both dreaded might be their last, for a long long time.

.

@shinyun--jung oh wait, did I forget to mention the Freddie fic was angst?

[twilighttwin]

The morning started pretty much normal for the Nobody, at least normal since his release from Sora’s Heart. Once again, he’s up early, woken by the growing pain on the right side of his head with tears still clinging to his lashes and obscuring his vision from the mix of the pounding in his head and the remnants of whatever dream he’d had before waking. There was a quick attempt to suppress the pain, to allow himself to be claimed by sleep’s embrace. An attempt that’s in vain, as it does nothing but continue to let him the way his temple seems to pound. 

 The usual routine.

Nothing changed as he hissed curse under his breath and a hand reaching up to ensure that he couldn’t see the ever present rays of light as he frees himself of the blanket nest he had made.There’s no telling which nightmare had woken him, only that it was one that had that fresh heart beating like thunder within his chest. Still though, he tried recalling it as bare feet slid along the floor towards cold tile.

    Water was cupped in his hands, splashed on his face in an attempt to soothe the heat burnin at his temple from the migraine. Coffee was a major consideration for a moment, as the caffeine would probably help. Or at the very least it was until eyes he wasn’t aware he closed opened, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Except...whose visage was in the mirror wasn’t his own.

Instead, Sora’s face greeted him, bearing his own stunned expression. His heart sounded like it was going to beat out of his chest with the way the thrumming jumped and his throat went dry as if he had been to Agrabah. Immediately, Roxas was squeezing his eyes shut, taking in shallow breaks as his stomach began to roll about. He stayed braced against his sink, knuckles turning white as he tried to talk himself out of what he thought he saw. 

An eye cracked open, shutting immediately when it still seemed like Sora was looking back at him. Another pitch in his stomach followed, though he barely registered it. No, all he could feel was the panic racing through his veins, the despair he would never voice and the pain pounding at his head. If he didn’t know any better, he might have assumed he was looking through his Other’s eyes once more. 

    With his second attempt at peeking into the mirror came a sigh of relief, however short lived his relief was. “Just my brain playing tricks..I’m me. Not Sora.” Mumbled quietly, a soft reminder to himself. Instead of Sora, his appearance was as is should have been. Wide cerulean eyes, dark lashes, and flattened honey coloured spikes, with usually peachy skin dotted with freckles. A little paler than normal, but that was likely due to the pain camping behind his left eye as well as the anxiety which still coursed through him. He actually looked like himself again. 

    ‘You mean you look like Ventus. With Sora’s freckles of course.’ 

The voice slithered from the back of his mind, causing his veins to feel like ice. Swallowing carefully, he tried to blow out a breath to release his anxiety. Instead though, his stomach churned at the same time as he pushed himself from the rim of the sink. Every breath he took in seemed thinner, though he tried to ignore it. 

However, it was as if the little voice found glee in his discomfort. In the back of his head, he heard a small laugh, one that sounded like his own if more sinister. Another swallow left a lump in his throat, even as he tried to push himself back towards the sink to wash his face more, to finish his morning routine. If he could just do that...he could go back to bed. Could go try and drown out the growing knot in his stomach. Maybe washing his face would wash the voice away. 

That hope ended up being in vain. For a few minutes he had sat there, rubbing the soap on his face, scrubbing almost and still that little voice persisted. Slithering around his head and leaving him feeling nauseous. So it was with great frustration that he rinsed his face and stormed towards the kitchen. 

It felt almost like a Hammer Frame was using his temple as a playground given the way it throbbed. Blurring his vision on one side enough that he just closed both eyes and felt his way towards where he wished to go. Even the soft rays of eternal twilight shining through the living room worsened the pain. 

He felt like he was going to be sick between the pain and the ball of anxiety in his chest. Still, he reached for a glass, searching for something. Anything. To ground him. To make him know he was him, he wasn't in Sora. That he was real and that he was hone rather than buried, feeling from someone else's heart. 

‘Is there really anything about you that can be called you? That doesn’t belong to someone else?’ 

Another pitch of his stomach, causing his fingers to draw away from his cupboard. His headache began to pound worse, forcing his breath out in shaky gasps. At this point he knew that little voice was just taunting him. But...but that was such a tender spot for him to start. And hearing his own voice in his head say as much left ice in his veins. 

Roxas tried to draw in a breath, tried to find a rebuttal. There was plenty that was his wasn't there? His feelings were his own..His memories...though those he was unsure if they were reliable. His fighting style, his name? Suddenly it seemed like none of that was his, despite him trying not to let that anxiety bite into him once more. 

‘It’s why you see Sora when you look in the mirror after all. Think about it, you’ve never been anything more than a collection of other people’s traits.’ 

“That’s not true..” Even as he mumbled it, quiet enough that even he had trouble hearing it, his stomach lurched and tears began to burn at his eyes. That wasn't true. It couldn't be. He...he wasn't Ventus. Wasn't Sora. He was him. He was Roxas. 

‘Aw, it’s cute that you try and deny it. But you can’t lie to yourself Roxas.’ 

Maybe not, but he refused to give the slithering voice his acceptance. Since being drawn from Sora's heart and put back on his own two feet, he had found this little voice slithering through his head fairly often. And try as he might to ignore it...it always found a way to latch into him once more. 

‘Everything you are came from someone else blondie. Thought you told everyone that you were well aware of what you were?’ 

Every breath at this point was coming out thin. No. No it was wrong. He had accepted being nothing more than a cheap imitation of Sora. But.. but Sora didn't believe that, didn't  see that. So why did he feel like it was the truth? Sure he still considered himself a Nobody..but there was no way he was nothing but slapped together pieces of other people. No. 

He absolutely refused to believe that. Or at least he wanted to. Yet with the way his heart sank in defeat, he didn't know what to say. So instead he just squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the little x shape pendant which rested between his collarbones. Just gripping it, feeling the points prick into his palm and fingers. 

In the same breath, he renewed his search to find evidence that the voice was wrong. His feelings for Xion...those weren't someone else's right? Or...or were they only a thing because of Sora's interest in Kairi? No no no. That couldn't be. Could it? 

If that wasn't his what was? His keyblades were Sora's at first so they weren't even his. But….Aubade? Surely that was his. After all, he didn't even share that with Xion. So..so that was something. Then again, he didn't even know whether or not that was real. 

'Oh poor boy. How do you even know your memories are yours?'

Another slither of that voice in his head, another lurch of his stomach and then the hand not gripping onto his pendant, clutching it for dear life rose to his mouth in a balled up fist. It had a point and he hated it. Once before already, someone else's memories had burned behind his eyelids, flickering when he tried to enter the throes of sleep. 

And once before, his entire life had been falsified. Memories that had never been, of a life never had had filled his head. Those same memories mixed with what..what he thought were his true memories and those of another that were..or should have been the memories of his true self. They plagued his dreams. 

But how could he trust any of that.. How could he trust his feelings, his memories, his senses when they had already been tricked once before? Other than those...was there any proof that he had any memories of his own? 

'Realize you're not real yet? Face it Roxas, you've always been an imitation made of false memories. Can you even trust that thing beating in your chest? How do you know it's there at all?'

His fingers gripped tighter onto the pendant, the metal biting into him. Not enough to puncture but enough that signals of pain tried to zing to his brain. Unfortunately..the pain in his head and the sickening roll of his stomach prevented him from getting the message. 

By now the tears had begun to slip, dripping down his cheeks as he started to hyperventilate. His heart beat so hard in his chest he thought it might burst. Or...would it? Was the voice right? Was it even real?.. what about him was real?!

A choked sob burst from his chest, though he had tried to bite it back. Whether the sob was frustration or despair he didn't know. What he did know was that when the first one slipped, more followed. Violent things that shook him, burned his throat and made more tears drip down his face, increasing the pounding in his head. 

"Shut up. Shut up. No no no. I'm real." Through his sobs, Roxas tried to choke that out like a mantra. It only succeeded in bringing him more tears though. The fist in front of his mouth reached up to grip at his hair, tangling in the honeyed locks. He was real! He had to be. The pain in his head, the way his throat burned and stomach churned...he was real and the emotions which squeezed his chest had to be. 

Right? 

[itshaejinju]

For real though what of Prom has borderline personality disorder and Noct is his FP? He how's signs for it and Noct is literally he only person he's ever spoken to or become close with. His main focus is and has always been Noct. He changed everything about himself just so Noct would accept him. He's super obsessive over him. He only met Iggy and Gladio through Noct and doesn't get along with them super well. He even stops talking to them after Noct disappears.

Okay in response to this story, “Please Don’t Leave Me”.

I agree with this totally, Prompto only needed a small nudge to do all of this. Most people would consider the note that Lunafreya sent him. He was already interested in Noctis before the letter but it was almost like that letter was a “tiny threat” that someone else would scoop up Noctis before him. That he needed to act and morph himself into someone that Noctis would be interested in. 

Most would shrug it and be like okay.

But it’s almost like instant Prompto goes to change how he looks and perhaps even how he acts. He’s rather shy child in the prior episodes and a lot of kids are rather shy until they get comfortable with themselves so can’t quite say that he totally changed his personality. BUT, if he did is does prove more of this yandere like way.

Watching Prompto in the game and how he reacts to a fight,he doesn’t enter the fray first like Gladiolus. He tends to stay behind, keeping a distance for shooting but you can tell that he’s often close to Noctis when the fray gets tight. (At least for both of my play-throughs)

During the 10 years he seems to do his own thing, it is mentioned that Gladiolus and Ignis do keep up with each other but it seems that Prompto who felt like he never fit in with them just leaves.

Under the cut because it’s a long list….Also this gets a bit heavy and dramatic in spots, so if Yandere stuff does not suit you please do not read, okay?

So let’s have some Yandere!Prompto Headcanons! Spanning from high school to the 10 Years!

High School: (Brother Hood) Yandere level low, just developing.

Prompto feels drawn to Noctis, there is something about the Prince that he can’t help but love and wants for his own. The Prince as he is told over and over, is “For the People”.

Prompto wants the Prince for himself. His visage in the mirror is disgusting, portly, blind, soft, weak. Nothing the Prince would ever admire, the lean, strong, beautiful Prince would want.

He receives the letter from Lunafreya, it reminds him that they are meant to be together one day in Noctis’ future it spurs Prompto further to actually doing what he wants. Getting what he wants. He would have to act faster than Lunafreya and Noctis’ fated wedding.

Taking the “befriend Noctis” to heart, Prompto goes through drastic measures to loose the weight and better himself, contacts, study harder, be more assertive.

Despite being, thinner, more confident with himself Prompto doesn’t seem to have any other friends. He’s just focused on being friends with Noctis. Ignoring all others coming up to him, offering a branch of friendship.

Knowing Noctis’ school schedule better than Noctis himself, his care for Noctis extends to making sure he goes to all his classes. Most kids leave Noctis alone because he’s the Prince and he’s going to a public school, it’s weird. So Prompto isn’t threatened too much loosing Noctis to anyone just Lunafreya.

Prompto learns about Ignis and Gladiolus, it angers him that he didn’t know about them, he needs to research the others in Noctis’ private life better. He needs to be better friends with him, Prompto starts to stalk Noctis. Just to school and home sometimes to the arcade just randomly showing up when Noctis arrives there. The first few times Noctis doesn’t even pick it up as a strange thing that Prompto just shows up, it’s when it happens every time and showing up minutes after he does.

Noctis goes to different arcades, Prompto realizes that he made a mistake. He thinks a bit harder on not getting caught and earning himself back in the good graces.

Prompto worries often that Noctis will fall for someone else, making it hard for him to sleep as he tries to think of things to do to keep Noctis in his friendship.

It upsets Prompto that Gladiolus pushes him so far for training that often the Prince is worn out. That Ignis wants him learn more than what the schools ask for that the Prince can’t handle the teachings.

Prompto goes out of his ways to relax Noctis in any fashion that the Prince is okay with, never wanting to push him too far, afraid he will be upset with him. Making sure that Noctis has all his things to relax set up when he gets home, sneaking in making sure his favorite game is in the PS4, the shower gel he likes to use, his favorite soda in the fridge waiting for him.

Prompto hears about the Crownsguards, he does his best to earn position for it. He needs to be stronger and more powerful to watch over Noctis, to care for Noctis. He doesn’t have magical affinity that is high enough to work for the Glaive.

Yandere!Prompto: During the Game (Yandere level, active, threat to people is rather mild.)

Making it through the training for the Crownsguard, while keeping his eye on Noctis Prompto feels more confident on watching over Noctis.

Prompto is more adjusted to watching Noctis, knowing any trigger of his making sure that at all times Noctis is rather pleased. To throw the Prince off he will nudge things to Gladiolus or Ignis to “spread the wealth around”. He doesn’t want Noctis to suspect anything.

But if Gladiolus or Ignis gets too close Prompto is quick to react. Switching regular Ebony to decaf on the tactician, tossing out Gladiolus’ favorite cup of noodles. Not hearing them when they need help in battle, rushing to Noctis first. (Even if Noctis isn’t that bad in health)

In camp Prompto makes sure that Noctis eats first, makes sure he sleeps the closest to Noctis, cleans up his plates.

Watches steadfastly when he fishes, marveling at his skill, way too upset when Noctis fails.

It’s not until they hear about the new of Insomnia Falling does Yandere!Prompto start to kick in. It’s subtle at first.

Slowly Prompto becomes more possessive of Noctis, glaring down people who talk to him too much or get too close to him.

It starts to disrupt camp as he makes sure to sit close to Noctis, tends to his wounds, even though he’s not good at it he will be the one to heal them. Sleeping next to Noctis, waking when he does, needing to know where he’s going at all times.

It starts to annoy Noctis some, causing Prompto to worry going out of his way to please Noctis, taking pictures of whatever he wants pointing out focal points for him.

Making Noctis questions his motives worries Prompto a lot, he warns him it’s for his own good, for the safety of the King. Nothing to worry him about.

If they stay at caravans or hotels Prompto leaves when they sleep, he will take down anyone that stared too long or talked too much to Noctis. He can’t kill anyone that is too important, so he obsesses over them as well but nothing like how he obsess over Noctis. Just enough to keep a eye on them so he knows how they stand with Noctis. 

Hence his obsession over Cindy, she is vital to keeping the Regalia going, to keep Noctis happy as he values that car.

How he obsesses over Iris, Talcott, Lunafreya, Aranea, they are potentials for wooing/friends over him, he can’t kill them because they are vital to Noctis being over all happy.

So he plays a love sick puppy about Cindy, Aranea. He fawns over Lunafreya as a “friend”. He befriends and praises Iris and Talcott knowing he can’t kill kids…

It burns Prompto alive when things start to get out of his control, the train, leaving Noctis while captured by Ardyn is what puts the Yandere!Prompto in full effect. He’s chained up Ardyn is telling him what he’s missing out on, what he really is, what is wrong filling Prompto with bad thoughts.

When he returns with Noctis he’s scared, constantly of being separated from Noctis. He can’t sleep without Noctis by his side, he can’t function without knowing what he’s doing. Constantly asking him what he is doing, how is he doing, what’s he’s thinking won’t eat until Noctis has. If Noctis disagrees with something Prompto is quick to change his answer or be self depreciating to himself about it.

If he goes into a rage, he needs to touch Noctis to calm down, to see him, to hear him. It’s the only way, at first it’s just a slight panic a burning rage that boils his blood all he needs is a “Hey Prom” and a smile from Noctis. Soon he needs to actually feel that Noctis is there, touch,  stroking his hair in his sleep, sleeping with a sweater of Noctis’.

Prompto is secretly pleased that Lunafreya is dead, Noctis is now for him. He’s almost too happy fighting with himself to not look happy to be “sad” about it. He has Noctis all to himself now.

Ignis and Gladiolus are aware something is wrong, talking to Noctis he doesn’t seem to notice. To him Prompto has always been like this so he feels like nothing is wrong. Little does he know.

Little does he know that Prompto kills those who stare too much, talk too much or even just seem too like someone Noctis would prefer over him.

When Noctis is taken by the Crystal his need for Ignis and Gladiolus is no longer is needed, he doesn’t need to put up with them.

10 Year Time Skip Yandere!Prompto (Yandere level: dangerous)

He kills anyone that speaks ill of Noctis, perhaps not instantly when the time is write so no one suspects him. Insult Noctis “for leaving them in the dark” he will kill them later that night making them wish they didn’t insult the King.

In his room Prompto has all of Noctis’ possession that were left behind, a almost shrine. Each night he talks to them as if it was Noctis.

It becomes known not to talk about Noctis around Prompto as they think he’s sad and will cry about it’s more the way his eyes light up, a feverish smile on his face as he thinks about Noctis. Awaiting the result of what the person has to say about his beloved King.

Ignis tries to keep away from Prompto, knowing that due to his disabilities, despite all he’s managed he can’t foresee the madness that has befallen him.

Gladiolus keeps a wary, eye on him not liking the change but not wanting to deal with it either.

Prompto often visits fishing spots that Noctis favored, to feel closer to Noctis. He can’t go back to the Crystal but he will get close as he can and look for him. He takes his anger towards it all on Deamons, putting his life at risk often. Breaking the last second before getting in over his head that Noctis wouldn’t want him to die, that Noctis will be back.

It scares him and he returns home to his shrine and calms down.

He waits vigilantly for Noctis to return, he knows he will be has to be the first to see him back.

It makes him angry beyond belief that Talcott finds Noctis first, he almost kills Talcott but he’s stopped by Noctis calling for him to play a rounds of Kings Knight. He rushes down the alley way to Noctis, leaving Talcott a scared and bloody mess.

Prompto feels at peace now, first time in many years now it’s a good feeling for him. He wants to tell Noctis how he feels, he wants him to know that he loves him more than anything else in the world. 

His opportunity cut short when Noctis decides to take on Ardyn first, “saving talks for later” it disrupts Prompto but he calms, “Noctis is here, it’s okay, I have time.”

Things move too fast as Noctis makes his sacrifice for them, it’s too much for Prompto to handle, he can’t loose Noctis again… 

Gladiolus sees the snap in Prompto as he tries to break through the wave of Deamons to go after Noctis he takes the smaller man down and throws him back in the fray. Reminding him that it’s better for Noctis if he helps holds back the Daemons.

Prompto is left broken at the end, when dawn comes and Noctis never reappears he is lost, he has failed, he is done.

Tagging some random people: @stephicness @blondechocobobutt @zacklover24 @zimmer2d @mandakatt @nykamito  @insomniacapples @prettyprompto @sweetchocobae @waifuthewhite @neko-otaku13​ @lady-asuka​ @rubyphilomela​

[lachalaine]

d r a b b l e

because i procrastinate on drafts nowadays apparently asdfghjkl. so i just had an idea for this that basically took shape because i guess i needed her to have proper closure or something?? idk?? idk if this is headcannon yet. it probably is. not sure yet, must decide. it’s only part one though so I’ll finish the rest - uh… someday. eventually. idk, tell me whatchu think if u read it please, thank u. 

has ex boyfriend in it and a jackie with a gun.

aka please tell me if it makes sense or if its too much or something idk??? 

“Why are you here?” Again. Again, again, again, again, again, again, a – ah.

Why did this have to happen to her all over again? Why did he have to come back into her life once more?

Why couldn’t he just leave?

Leave. Stay out. Get out of my life and NEVER COME BACK, DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE —

Grayish, blue orbs blinked calmly back at her question. Iridescent. Pretty. Unfamiliar. It was hard to believe that she’d once spent her days swooning over him, looking into those very same eyes and wishing blindly for a happy ending – thinking that following every little whim and order he’d given her would make her easier to love. As though that was the criteria she needed to surpass in order to be worthy of his affections. Oh god.

Disgusting.

That’d been her past. A year that she’d never thought would end and one she hoped to never revisit again. Things had been so different back then.

Now, however? Now, she wanted to scratch his eyes out. God knows her nails were sharp enough for it. It was the least she could do if the gun she had pointed at his head wasn’t good enough for him.

All he had to do was give her a reason.

And bless his soul, but he’d never seemed to figure out how to control his smart mouth apparently. “Came to see a familiar face. Also I needed a place to stay. Figured you might have some extra space in your bed?”

‘You dick.’

That cocky smirk he flashes does it for her.

Before she can even think to restrain herself, the butt of the gun in her hands has smashed against the side of his head with the echo of a resounding thud – too fast for him to react, and certainly strong enough to knock him out. She’d always managed to hit a little stronger than one might expect from a girl her size – or so she’s been told.

He’s collapsed onto her hard wood floor within seconds, the beginnings of what she’s certain would be a killer headache already building up in his skull.

Ah, but that’d actually felt good.

“Fuck.” The angry curse leaves her lips despite her sense of gratification at the sight, shifting to transfer the firearm to her other hand as she attempts to wring out the tension that he’d set within her just by his mere presence alone. The last thing she wanted – as much as possible – was to accidentally pull the trigger and get the cops called on her because she couldn’t control that mindless urge she had to shoot him.

Now though, as satisfying as she could admit that was – now, she had an unconscious ex-boyfriend lying down flat out on her kitchen floor.

Who was apparently – judging by the spot of red she’d uncovered when she’d poked his frame with her boot –

Bleeding.

Badly.

Well, that explained why he hadn’t reacted to her attack much.

“Ah, Garrison – you piece of shit.”

Ah, this was going to be a long night.

—– One hour earlier ——

“What do you mean he’s in Japan?” The lilt to her voice is more than enough of an indication for her companion to hear the slight tinge of panic that rests in it. To the person in front of her, he can understand. Unfortunately, he can’t do much to ease her fears.

Not this time.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette as he slides over a small brown envelope into her grasp, his weathered gaze skimming across the room – doing his part to make sure that no one seemed to be paying any extra attention to their conversation. “As I said. Sailed into Yokohama harbor yesterday. Damn ex of yours could never seem to handle plane rides, if I remember correctly.”

The topic of conversation makes her cringe, the honest to god feel of utter revulsion she has to even be discussing this is enough to make her hair stand on end. “Don’t remind me.” She whispers as she opens the small sachet, overtly wary of what exactly it is that she might find within its depths. “The man couldn’t even handle rooftops, much less a plane. But – oh god.” No. No, no, no, no, no —

Oh fuck, yep. He was here.

Mahogany hues gaze over the photographs she has in hand, flipping through them as her fingers shook minutely at the knowledge that the man was now even in the vicinity. She could recognize the port, could recognize his somewhat familiar visage; despite the jacket he’d used to cover his features.

He was thinner now, it seemed. A surprise, considering he’d already been so lean in the first place.

What the fuck was he doing here?

“Oh god.” Jackie repeats the words, unable to process the very real possibility that she’d accidentally stumble across this man on one of her jaunts around town.

She couldn’t handle it. Honest to god, she doesn’t think she can.

“Why is he here?” Her voice is but a mere mumble as she shakes her head, sliding the photos into a neat stack and slipping them back into the sachet, turning wide eyes back up towards the bartender – hoping to god he wouldn’t impart on her more bad news that she knew would haunt her for the rest of the night. “And how long is he staying?”

The man, for his part – can only shrug at her in response, tapping his cig against the ash tray on the counter next to him, finding it hard to even look at her.

Even amidst the darkened club lights, she now seemed to be far too pale for her own good.

“I don’t know for sure. Word is that he took on a job for some guy back in Seoul, paying some big money to take out a target. Target came out here – guess your boy followed.”

He finds he regrets that last part of his sentence as soon as it leaves his lips.

“He is not – my boy.” Oh, the utter disdain that reeks from those five words – he should have expected it. He definitely hit a nerve with her – if it wasn’t evident by her words, than maybe it was by that hand of hers she’d clenched into a fist.

Taki seems, for all the world – remarkably unperturbed by it, raising a brow at her even as he takes yet another long drag from his cigarette. The man blows it out slowly, knowing he was only further serving to test her at times – remarkably thin patience. “You’re going to break the skin on your palm if you keep digging your nails in that deep, you know?”

Ah, but she knew. She knew better than anyone - in fact, she could feel the sting now.

Whatever, it didn’t matter. In all honesty, the pain of it was the only thing keeping her volatile temper in check. “I already did.” She hisses instead, getting to her feet as she slides the photos back towards him – grabbing her jacket from the bar stool and shrugging it on, movements harsh and angry and – and –

Ugh. Why, why, why did she feel like she had such a bad feeling about this?

“What, you’re not going to keep it?” He asks instead, waving the envelope in the air – his attempt to grab her attention even as she made to leave, shrugging her laptop bag on her shoulder as she shook her head in frustration. “Not even as a keepsake?”

If looks could kill, the man would have been dead within a heartbeat. “Don’t even fucking joke. Just burn it. Or give it to a bounty hunter or something. I don’t want anything to do with him. Not now, not ever.”

“Not what I heard you say a year ago.” He sounds almost like he’s teasing her. In reality, he knows she’s literally just about ready to slug him.

It’s really only her respect for him that reigns in that violent thought.

Just. Barely.

“Taki. With all due respect – “ God, she sounds so tired. “Fuck off.”

The wave he graces her with is enough to make her groan. “Will do my best, Chatelaine.”

She really couldn’t have rolled her eyes any harder at that. Good lord, the man was insufferable. “Yeah, whatever. Goodnight.”

She doesn’t even bother to give him a second glance.

Maybe – they both should have kept a better eye on their surroundings.

Then she’d have had fair warning that she now had an – unwanted companion on her way home.

———-

She leaves the club with but a wave towards the bouncers, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder as she makes her way down the street – not even bothering to think of taking a cab ride home tonight.

Sure, the walk was a little longer from this far downtown but – honestly, she needed the fresh air anyway.

Her mind was a mess, and she had little clue on what she could do to calm it.

‘Goddamn him. Why is he here?’

Oh, but the question is one she hates to have herself even ask.

To be fair, it wasn’t like she’d – well. It wasn’t like she’d had full reign of Japan or anything. Yes, he’d agreed to stay away from her. Yes, he’d agreed to leave – to do his best to keep his infamous brand of trouble far, far away from her new life.

He’d agreed to leave her alone.

Now, not that she was stupid enough to put her trust in him again but – but she could only hope he’d actually keep to his word this time. That he wouldn’t come barging in and once more ruining what broken pieces of her life she’d worked so hard to recreate.

It’d been a while since she’d last seen him, and though Yokohama wasn’t too far away – well, the city was pretty damn big. Maybe she wouldn’t even come into contact with him at all.

She was almost too content with that possibility. Almost too pleased with letting herself believe that. Ignorance was bliss, after all – and maybe she would have been happier to not even know that he’d even made it back into the city.

Almost. That had lasted for maybe – five minutes, before she’d abruptly realized that she could hear the faint sound of shuffling behind her, and the ever distinct feeling of being watched.

Someone was following her.

“Oh.” An audible gasp leaves her lips as she stumbles against an upturned portion of the ground, coming to a pause as she makes to check for a scuff in her boots. It’s in that moment that she stops – that she makes of the fact that the sound of shuffling freezes just as quickly, and suddenly – it’s all just far too quiet for comfort.

A quick glance back down the way she’d come, and she sees absolutely no one.

There’s a sense of foreboding in the air tonight, so much so that she can almost taste it on her tongue.

She hates it.

There’s the quick sound of shuffling again, and it just about makes her jump. It sounded closer, more pronounced – she almost wants to run back down the way, in fear that she’d come across a ghost instead of an actual human being.

But ah, she figures she might as well nip it in the bud now, while she still could. Regret had always been a difficult pill for her to swallow.

‘Here goes nothing.’

“Hello?” She calls out, making no further attempt to hide the fact that she could hear someone there – that she knew she wasn’t alone anymore. Worse comes to worse, if it was an actual person – at least she could say she knew how to fight. “Is anyone there?”

The silence that follows is – damning. And yet, she can still hear the shuffling. And… breathing even. Quiet breathing, but –

Okaaaay, this was freaking her out. In all honesty, maybe she really should just turn tail and run. Besides, did she really have the luxury to care about her dignity at this point in time anymore?

Ah – not really. But, she had to at least try.

“Is – there anyone there that I should be worried about?” She calls out again, as though making light of the situation would actually calm down the tension that she could feel running straight through her veins.

No response.

“Oh god, okay. You know what? Fine, keep hiding. I’m just gonna go run and – eek!” That shriek felt like it’d been torn out of her.

Holy shit, but three am was not the best time for her to be screaming like this.

“Fuck, you piece of – “ A wild litany of curses leaves her lips as she gazes down at the stray cat staring innocently up at her right by her feet – her annoyance only mounting at the sight. “Goddamn it, you seriously have shitty stalking skills, cat!”

Frustrated. Hissing. Yes - that was her.

…someone please tell her that she really shouldn’t be screaming at a cat this early in the morning, honestly.

“Shut it!”

The girl rolls her eyes, for the moment chastised at the yell that erupts from one of the houses down the street. If she knows that voice, it’s the old grandma that seems to have an issue with just about anything that crosses her path. The same one that would call the cops on her if she so much as made another angry peep at the feline.

There’s the sound of audible growling beneath her breath as she glares down instead, narrowing her eyes and skirting around the cat as she points an angry finger at it – mouthing inaudible words that she knows for certain only reinforces the fact that she probably looks like a crazy person at the moment.

She really, really had to haul her ass home. Now.

Before things got any worse, good lord. Why was she like this?

And she scoots herself the rest of the way home, running down the street in a fervent effort to get herself back to a safe zone.

She pulls her keys out just as she hops up to the doorstep, sliding them in and looking for all appearances as though she was now completely flippant over her run in with her little stalker. The female makes sure to turn on only the barest minimum of the lights in her home, greeting her own house cat with a rather loud interpretation of her run in with the other feline – making it seem as though she now had legitimately no concern over her well-being any further. Like it was all just a fluke. Just a bad night where she’d been too on edge for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Maybe that façade is what makes it easy for him to decide to slip in after her.

He waits for her to head into what he assumes would be her room, waits for the house to settle – for the lamps in the window to dim before he jumps over the fence, heading towards the back garden so he can head in from whatever entrance is furthest from the street lights.

He finds the kitchen door easily. Lock picking it takes some time, but he finds he manages to get that one open without too much trouble himself.

And he’s sneaked his way inside with but the barest of noise, closing the door gently behind him as he almost seems to relax into the shadows of darkness that now permeates her home.

It helps take the edge off. In fact – the house…

It smells like her.

The click of a gun behind his skull brings that stray thought to a grandstanding halt.

That explains it.

“That comment about shitty stalking skills applies to you too, Garry. I’m almost disappointed. I expected better from you.” Her tone is utterly monotonous when she speaks – but even he can hear the subtle edge that lines her words. It sounds almost as dangerous as the loaded gun he now knows is poised to drive a bullet through his skull.

She’s utterly affected by his presence, and not necessarily in the friendliest of ways.

Not quite the best way to make an entrance, really.

“To be fair, I’m not exactly in peak condition to be skulking around town at the moment. So you’ll have to forgive my lapses. I’ll try to be better next time, so that you don’t have to get all hissy over an innocent cat.”

The press of cold metal digs further into the back of his skull – and in all honesty, the trickling’s of fear begin to creep in.

She really wasn’t playing.

——–

Which now brought her to this point in time. Cursing the high heavens and hoping to hell that this was all – legitimately a very bad dream she’d wake up from. 

Sometime soon.

Right now.

Please.

…pretty please?

The fact that when she opens her eyes and sees he was still there – bleeding out onto her tiles, his form lit only by the stray strands of light filtering in from the foyer…

She was pretty sure that that was realities version of telling her she was shit out of luck with this one.

“…what do I have to do to get some good karma around here, Jesus Christ.” She mumbled, dropping the gun on the counter in preparation for her to do some heavy lifting.

Three minutes back in her life and she already wanted to shoot him dead.

This was going to be so much fun.

part 1 x

[aileuromania]

Buds

Well, for what it’s worth, here it is. I think that I’m tired of going over and over it, so now it’s time to back away, release it to the world, and come back later and edit it all over again.

One day there may be a part 2. It’s just a character study, after all.

No warnings, unless you have trouble with a couple of guys being cuddly.

It was a warm night in the Grove, and beneath the embracing branches of the Mother Tree the Sylvari were making the most of it. The ways were lit by firefly lamps and by the citizenry themselves, luminescence spilling from the foliage of both mother and children alike, and in a myriad of colours they celebrated the simple fact of life.

In the Dreamer’s Terrace, the gathering was still in full swing. There was a joy and an innocence about the young plant people as they moved amongst themselves, and gentle music filled the air for any who were inclined to dance.

On this night, a pale blue Sylvari, her form swathed in pink petals that flowed even as they conformed to the human notion of a gown, was thoughtful as she sat herself next to one of the musicians. With a gentle smile only partially obscured by the mushroom-like frill that comprised her hair, she listened, swaying slightly as the melody soared around them.

Three pieces later and the flute was set aside, its player frowning a little in polite confusion.

“Hello, Toloma.” His white bark glowed as he lowered his eyes. “You don't feel like dancing tonight?”

“Not really. I was happy just to listen.” Leaning forward she placed a hand on his leg. “But why is your music so sad lately?”

Startled he blinked, reaching toward the flute in a flurry of apology. “Oh, I'm so sorry! Would you like to hear Around Don Delly, or maybe The Norn and the Charr?”

“No, no!” She laughed, patting his knee. “It's ok. I was just wondering if you were alright, because you haven't seemed like yourself lately. That's all.”

“Oh.” For a time that was the only reply as he bowed his head, his branches rustling faintly as he regarded his hands.

“Is something wrong, Pyrif?” Now she was concerned, and Toloma scooted in a little closer as she tried to catch a glimpse of his face.

“No… not really.” A slight shrug set his branches aquiver as he glanced up, then away from her intent eyes. “I'm a bit embarrassed that it's showing in my musical choices.”

“What is it?” A sigh, and she couldn't help but notice his look of longing across the clearing. Two figures sat there all but intertwined, laughing and chattering with the gathering, but never quite moving out of each other's range. Blue leaves and grey twigs mingled where heads touched in easy familiarity, and love and contentment radiated from their corner of the world.

Toloma blinked.

“No!” she gasped, glancing from the pair back to Pyrif - who immediately began to glow in embarrassment as he realised where her reasoning had taken her.

“No!” he agreed. “I mean, not them, exactly. Gerain and Nikyri have been my friends since we were sprouts. It would be strange.”

“Then what?” Shuffling in a little closer still, she put a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

“It's…” Another sigh, before he ruefully chuckled. “It's hard to explain.” His inhalation of breath indicated he was willing to try despite the difficulty.

“Sometimes I feel like the Dream isn't enough.” he began, his gaze steady now as he regarded her, hoping she would understand beyond the nigh on blasphemy the words might indicate. “Or I wish I had someone special to share it with, like them.”

“But they shared their Dream before they emerged from their pods.” Toloma said dubiously, leaning back a little so she could study the whole picture.

“I know, and they're so lucky! They were born knowing who they loved. But me…?” He hummed sadly, shaking his head. “It's so confusing.”

“So you play sad songs and hide away in your corner while you try to work it out.” Satisfied with this thought, she settled back on her haunches, her hands resting in her lap. “Py, I don't think that’ll solve anything!”

“It makes me feel better.” His gaze turned back towards the flute lying in the nearby grass, and Toloma huffed and stood with the grace of a fern unfurling.

“Come on, let’s dance.”

Slowly he reached out to take her demanding hand, but chuckled, “I thought you didn't feel like dancing?” as he was pulled to his feet.

“Well, now I do!”

“Now there’s something you don't see every day.” The nectar had been flowing freely amongst the small group on the balcony, so some of the glowing eyes peering down to the floor below were a little unfocused. With a hiccuped chuckle to acknowledge her sudden attention, the short leaved woman continued, “Didn't know Duskers could dance at all.”

“I didn't know you could see them through that blindfold,” one of her companions snorted, a smirk twisting her sharp features.

“I can hear them! Can't you? So…” Words failed her for a moment and she gestured wildly. “...I don't know! Measured!”

“Toloma always dances.” Another companion, her pink face accented with thorns, rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and shifted in her seat. The faint clink of metal beneath her red leaves punctuated the words as she peered over the side without enthusiasm. “Nice to see Pyrif having fun for once. Now.” She raised her voice slightly, signifying a change of topic. “Who was coming with me to the practice field tomorrow?”

“I will!” The blindfolded woman turned (completely unnecessarily, if she was to be believed) away from the siding, her full and glaring attention now on the woman in red. “Thorns, Vyss, I'll go now if you're itching for a fight!” The smile was genuine, if a little reptilian across that wide mouthed visage. “I can take you on!”

“Tell me again why I hang around with Noons.” The smirker sighed, her voice laced with amusement even as the final one of the company - one who until now had been tinkering with some gadget or another - butted against her with a thin shoulder.

“Because we’re so much fun!”

“That has to be it,” came the sardonic agreement, but she grinned as she returned the shoulder buffet in kind. “What are you doing there, Rani?”

“Ranuncla.” The correction was almost automatic now. Huge dark eyes were magnified to an almost absurd degree by the lens apparatus perched on a near nonexistent nose as the small yellow flower looked up. “It's nothing much, just a watchwork piece I picked up in Divinity’s Reach. I thought I could develop it into a timer for watering a garden, so the farmers don't have to work so hard. The Humans in Queensdale have these huge watering towers in their fields, and…”

“...she’s off,” murmured the one identified as Vyss. “Apacea, why?”

“Better than watching you and Teudila slicing each other up on the practice field, isn't it?” The smirker whispered even as the buttercup girl continued blithely on.

“... perhaps there might be a wider application for such a thing here! So I…”

“I'm not really sure of that.” Vyss gingerly fingered the thorns along her nose to hide the words from the now utterly energised tinker.

“...with a wrench and a bit of time, I think it might be possible to even set something similar up near the Mabon Markets. The Soundless could use the farms, couldn't they?”

“There's a group even you couldn't hear dancing, Teud.” Apacea’s jibe hit home in the brief respite from the torrent, and that intense non-regard of the blindfold was turned on her.

“Do you know you smell?”

“Yes.” Apacea chirped, her thin hand brushing the gourds hanging from her belt. It was a well known downside to her chosen profession, and as such wasn't anything she’d take insult from. At least this time she hadn't brought one of her minions along - they just weren't the partying type. “Would you like to fight me about it?”

There was a pause as the group collectively held its breath, broken by a hearty and heartfelt guffaw. Teudila pounded the thinner (but spikier) Apacea’s shoulder as she laughed.

“Not now. Maybe later.” Though it was impossible to be sure, those present would have sworn later that Teudila winked.

“Does anyone want to hear about the innovations the Charr have brought to agriculture?” the tinker asked, brightly looking from one to the others, but as no one wanted to face the verbal flood again, no one answered.

“Practice tomorrow is going to be interesting, if nothing else.” Vyss muttered to herself as she took a bracing slug of her drink.

[d-llewyn]

The boy next door

He was cute, dark hair, a Beatles' cut coming down over his brown eyes a bit. And he had a smile that cut through to my heart. Not much younger than I was, except he was summer born and I was winter. We would hang out in my room above the garage, usually after we went swimming.

We'd been neighbors for a number of years, sharing backyards and pools, just two guys. He was in private school and I in a public one. In ninth grade, he joined the wrestling team. I had been taking judo for a few years, so I would practice partner for him. At first, we would just practice various moves, especially ones he saw on TV. Over time things got interesting beyond anything we ever had ever imagined.

Eventually we would start in the pool, chasing each other, so slippery when wet. Then stroll back to my room, maybe playing a little grab ass. Sometimes I would let him win. He was bit shorter, but stockier than I, so we were evenly matched. He was a bit stronger and would take advantage of his slightly lower center of gravity. But I was wily, wiry and wriggly, especially when wet!

At some point, after ages of serially sharing the shower, we discovered that naked was infinitely more fun. Parallel bodies. After the first time we tried it, it was de rigour. The feel of our bodies sliding together always made us so very aware of our mutual manhood, our shared pleasure points.

At first we were always in a rush. Over those first few years we learned to slow down, to drag out the pleasure to fill the time allowed. Sometimes we would lose ourselves in an entire weekend if both sets of parents were away.

We were grabby, horny teenagers. You know the type, insatiable. We touched and explored each other any, I repeat any time we were alone. Once, when our parents had dinner together at his home, we each had a hand in the others pants, albeit discreetly, at various points during the evening. I believe it was an underwear optional evening.

We were both circumcised. He was beautiful and would come to full attention at the touch of my fingers. Sometimes I would just put my hand on his thigh and he would harden so quickly in his tight jeans that he would yelp in discomfort as there was no room to expand! We were at it as often as we could manage. He was a little shorter down there, about a half inch, than I was. His testicles much tighter and drawn up than mine. And surrounded by a a lovely crown of dark shiny pubic hair that was soft, curly and tangled as my fingers explored the base of his phallic glory. Slightly thinner at the base, expanding a bit as it came to the crown, the glistening corona, that which I craved above all else.

As you can tell, I was, and still am, a very oral person. The scent of his always Ivory clean white briefs always beckoned. I would lower his jeans and press my face to his crotch and revel in the clean smell of Ivory soap that was ambrosia to me.

There were times he stepped, clean and scrubbed from the shower, a mini-god in my hands as I gently dried him off and attended to his manhood. We tended to think of ourselves as hedonistic Romans or Greeks. And we knew about the the naughty bits of Greco-Roman history. That made it so much fun! Long before NatLampCo's Animal House came out we had fun with togas.

I remember well the day I saw him in the shower playing with himself. I had stopped to pick up so chips and soda from the main house. Even with the creaky stairs of the ancient garage apt he didn't see me enter and take in the water dripping off his sweet tan skin, running off those lightly fitted orbs. I ran, sliding on the tile as I went to my knees before him, inhaling his cock as I tickled his balls and teased his tender taint. I gently grazed the clean wrinkled arse. It pulsed as I traced a delicate finger tip around it.

It was a supremely intense happening.

As mentioned, he was in a private school, Catholic, and I in a public one. This was fantastic. We could each have our separate, public, more sexually "normal" lives, at least for the 60s. Our school buddies never had to know.

Now we were just two guys that had sex together. It was good clean, if often sticky, fun. Neither of us really thought about the implications. There a book the parents library, a psychology text, that explained that what we were doing was normal for boys our age. Exploration was natural.

Then one day, the world changed.

We liked to camp. I was damned good at low weight, high comfort bedding. I like my comfort, but I don't like to lug too much around. Extensive Boy Scout experience.

It was one fine Spring morning as we camped under a blooming dogwood tree. White petals were strewn around us on a soft bed of pin needles. The scene would have made a beautiful painting or picture, had I a decent camera. The tall pines swayed gently around us as the morning sun danced and peeped between them. It was so very quiet except for the rustle of the trees in the gentle morning wind. Glorious and sensual privacy, yet exposed to the world.

My god I loved my dear friend and bedroom adventurer! And sex with him was always more passionate and sweaty than it was with my girlfriend. She was good, but someone the same sex always had a better clue as to what turned you and them on. And a hard phallus was always so damn obvious in its desire to cum.

Anyway, I woke this absolutely beautiful morning and gazed over at my friend. We slept under a simple tarp, a lean-to, but open on all sides, exposed in slumber, except t-shirts and sleeping boxers. I had woken his my usual teenage morning boner. (CisGuys will understand this!) He lay, sleeping on his bedroom, his blanket mostly tossed off during the night. He so obviouly was erect, his shorts tentpoled. After a few moments of quiet appreciation and rather horny thoughts, I got up and crossed to his bedroll. I gazed down and reached out, tracing butterfly touches about his manhood. He twitched a bit and, dare I imagine, smiled! I took this as a sign to dip down and kiss it. I had done this a thousand times before, but this was different. He was, in this moment, the most lovely and desirable person on the planet.

I realized that sex with him was right and normal in my life. And then I promptly deep throated him for the very first time without trace of discomfort while comfortably breathing through my nose as I worked my lover's sweet business.

Even if I could not let most of the kids a school know, I enjoyed sex with both sexes rather equally, although each supplied unique pleasures to relish and sometimes wallow in. And I knew then that I always would love a good man and his cock.

Now, here's the part some people find surprising. Even though I started my sexual explorations and dalliances in early junior high, 7th grade, I remained a virgin with men and women till I was 21. This was not for lack of desire or trying.

Part of my issue was that I am and always have been very adamant about consent. There was also my style. I was polite, yet obviously interested and girls liked that. I just played hard to get. From the first, I never touched unless invited.

For example, the first time I ever played a hand on that other most glorious creation, the breast, I was sitting under a tree in a park on a pleasant day. Peggy lay with her head on my thigh, my hand on her stomach making light, lazy circles on her stomach.

At some point she looked up, a look of pleased exasperation on her face, a smile in her eyes, mischief a making. She reached down and took my hand in hers, squeezed, gazing into my eyes, a sense of secure satisfaction in her visage. Then she lay it upon her breast.

First impression, soft! I suppose I should mention that she was, ahem, 34DD and soft like pillows of finest down. And this in spite of the fact that I prefer smaller B cups. I was quite pleased with myself. She was rather pleased with my seeming natural talent for playing with her nipples with what was to get the proper amount of gentleness and roughness. She didn't have to know I developed the skill with my buddy and his cute brown little nubbins.

Yes,I have a talent for the art of gentle, barely restained and appreciative eagerness that anyone, regardless of sex, gender or interest, who was capable of sexual arousal sorely appreciated.

Now you may rightly get the impression I was politely and discretely brazen. Indeed I was. However, parents, for the most part, liked me and, gasp, trusted me, more or less. It was to my benefit that I was (usually) a well dressed long-hair. (Preferred classical, but Led Zep and Zappa had their place amongst my interests.) I was unfailing polite without pandering. I would take a date to a play, get ourselves off on the way home, then discuss the play, say Brecht's Galileo, with a parent. They would mostly ignore the fact that we had missed curfew a bit.

Dressing up or down was both natural and schooled. I could pull off pink, single needle shirts, with French cuffs, and arty, modern cufflinks to match at school without being thought of as different. I also had a penchant for old saddle Oxfords with red rubber soles. Classy looking, yet good on the court.

I learned early in life that the manners my grandmothers taught worked with almost everyone, no matter the situation, or desire. Always polite and at the ready to hold the door for friends and especially the sweet young things, irrespective of gender or sex. I was a gentlemanly, exceedingly polite collection of intellectual interests and animal desires.

(Not quite finished yet. This is relatively unedited, so far. Will be breaking it down as I go. A sort of autobiography, slightly fictionalized for a variety reasons, that will probably morph, expand and sprawl, much as any living thing might, then divide into more discrete and coherent chunks. Enjoy.)