plotmaster

[plotmaster]

The Badger

A graying badger roots around snuffling the space between my bookcase and nightstand, under the dresser for junk to consume.

I left chips under his desk but he’s looking for sweets (I inherited my sweet teeth from him, full thirty-two set, still no cavities.) (He has two.)

I don’t mind the digging for often he arrives with a plate of fruit: Love is three quarters of a honeycrisp apple, sliced and sweetness guaranteed, peeled oranges, mangoes cut into  a crisscross grid that pops out into a juicy, messy hedgehog. He always eats around the core leaving the seeds without a bit of flesh leaving the best parts of the fruit for me even when a winter of discontent  overtakes our home. The sugar does not ease my temper or his, or my mother’s  but I eat it anyway. The badger is stubborn and does not know how to say sorry and more often than not digs into his beliefs harder to move than myself from lethargy. We share the same teeth same refusal to move same house same taste same bills and worries and shaking heads when my mother proves the most stubborn. So I bought sour cream and onion addiction from the grocery store and left it under his desk when he wasn’t looking. I know how to to say sorry But this isn’t it. We still fight. Badger bites hurt to no end. But he brings fruit and I bring chips  because he is my badger, and I am his son.

This time he leaves my room carrying away packets of instant thai tea; brings a cup back, iced for me.

#plot writes stuff #poetry #personal writing

[plotmaster]

As a pawnbroker, you know how to appraise items at a glance. As a sensible person, you know how to tell when you're in deep shit.

Like now, waking up with Silco across a desk from you.

Wrote a quick Silco and Jinx fic because found fucked up family got me. 

#arcane #league of legends #arcane fanfiction #silco #jinx

[plotmaster]

Status Update

So, this blog has been dead for a while because I fell into the deep deep pit of writing original content and fic for various tabletop games I’m in. 

To answer the most popular question: A Thousand Shattered Mirrors is not discontinued. It’s on hiatus because @omgkatsudonplease is still overseas and it’s a lot easier to write a collab fic when you can be in the same room as the other person. 

Most of my other Yuri on Ice fics are... mostly dead. I ended up getting worn out by seeing antis and various other ill fandom behaviors and drama that I went further into hermitage. I might post things that I worked on but never posted like the rest of A:SV since that one’s actually, well. Done. Sitting in my google docs but done. I also might crosspost the kingsman au to ao3 for ease of reading? And post my zine pieces from... four years ago. 

Anyway if anyone happens to see this, here’s the status update. I might post original content if there’s any interest in it. Or even if there’s not interest in it. But interest would be nice. 

#Not Plot #I wrote 100k for just this one campaign #guys i even wrote porn #fandom never inspired that in me #*looks at hands* #what have I become

[plotmaster]

Out of the Looking Glass, a fic by @omgkatsudonplease​ and @exile-wrath​

“They changed his name after news got out that I had left the case,” Yuuri says quietly, staring down at his nails. Dr Altin hums, jotting something down in his notebook. “I mean, I don’t think they did it to make fun of me, of course — they were probably looking for something more encompassing than ‘Couture Cutter’ given that some of the bodies weren’t in haute couture, but sometimes I wonder if it’s sort of his last jab at me. A challenge to get me to come back.”

“He?” echoes Dr Altin.

“The unsub,” replies Yuuri. “The press call him the Katsuki Killer now.” And he shudders, because he’d spent every minute since the first use of the new name denying that such a change ever happened. Katsuki Killer is too final, too personal. Too diametrically opposed to himself.

No doubt the unsub loves it, though, to be held in such direct opposition to him. It’s a game of cat and mouse, but neither of them are truly ever just the cat or just the mouse.

After his breakdown in a police station in New York City, FBI Supervisory Special Agent and profiler Yuuri Katsuki finds himself back home on medical leave. As he fights his way to recovery, he also must examine his relationship with his supermodel boyfriend Viktor Nikiforov, and determine the fate of their connection.

read here on ao3 / part two of a thousand shattered mirrors / wrath’s ko-fi / lily’s ko-fi

#yoi fanfic #yuri on ice

[plotmaster]

Title: Distorted Reflections (Act One of A Thousand Shattered Mirrors) Author(s): exile_wrath (@exile-wrath) and lily_winterwood (@omgkatsudonplease) Artist(s): bracari (@bracari) and DistressedOrange (@inkhallucination) Rating: Mature Length: 58,194 Pairings: Viktor/Yuuri, (Past Seung-gil/Phichit) Warnings:  Graphic Violence, Psychological Horror, Gore, Eye Horror, Body Horror, Minor Character Death, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Tags: Fashion AU, Murder Mystery AU, Law Enforcement AU, Detective AU, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Black Humour, (actually Vantablack Humour), Corpse Displays, Tribute to Bryan Fuller, Darkfic, New York City

FBI Supervisory Special Agent and profiler Yuuri Katsuki is called out to New York City with his team to investigate the gruesome murders of several young Asian men. However, as more bodies turn up with increasingly uncanny resemblances to him, Yuuri must confront the possibility that he may be at the heart of the killings — or the killer.

Read the Fic Here

See the Art Here

#fanfiction #yuri on ice

[plotmaster]

out of context ttrpg thing

My character Mikhail has Many Feelings, this is why he has to go to therapy. Some Shit Went Down in the most recent session so I ended up spouting like 600 words of his feelings onto a documents. *slams here as proof I’m alive*

So this is how freedom dies, Mikhail thinks, with desperation. He’s sitting on the floor at the entrance of the Brehon Brigade, watching as they gear up for war, waiting for the mafia to come to their front door. Quite literally, in this sense, only if he had heard it in any other context, he would have been terrified. He is terrified, still, but there is a sense of reluctant hope partnered with it, two cuffs to drag him back once this is all over.

Hope — his demon and the emotion he hadn’t let himself feel for a long time — will be gone once this ends. If this ends.

He can feel it already, the looks he’ll receive when he returns. Amusement, from his boss, for his attempt at running away and his state in returning. Disgust, from others, at him leaving in the first place. Disdain, for betraying another Family. Spiderose wasn’t a Family, of course, but they’ll liken it to one.

God, Spiderose. Mikhail looks in the direction of the infirmary, where he knows his master still lies in repose. He can’t bear to think what she’d think of him if she was awake — would she have joined the rest, killing the dissenters with the Windflower Coven? Disappointed in him, or even out for his head like the others? He hasn’t known her long enough to what she would have thought, as all Mikhail remembers is kindness; a person who offered him knowledge and power without asking anything but a pupil’s obedience in return.

She’d invited him to live with her, taught him the basics of witchcraft, inducted him into her coven, and this was the result. Her comatose state and him betraying the coven.

The thing was, at the coven, they’d been severely outnumbered by witches far more powerful than him. Marinette could have died — and he’s had enough of the people he cares about nearly dying. Despite her being just technically coworker rather than a friend, she didn’t deserve whatever punishment the coven had planned for her. Not when he’d been the one to bring her in the first place. Maybe he won’t be able to look Blackbird in the eye for betraying the coven, but if he had let Marinette die, he wouldn’t have been able to look at himself.

It’ll be better to be back in the mafia, he thinks helplessly. Life in the mafia was straightforward. No hope, no power, only following orders. The chance of death or arrest gripping loosely around his neck like the Spiderose choker. An uneasy life, but one he’s familiar with.

No friends — no Noctua or Schelsinger. No colleagues he can trust not to backstab him — no Davey, Marinette, or Persi. A boss whose whims he will be at the mercy of — someone completely unlike Lemony and Remington.

“It’s worth it,” he mutters. He doesn’t want Blackbird to wake up to a world with a madman in charge. The Brehon Brigade gave him a chance to see himself in a different light — a better one. Someone that could make friends. Save lives, even, instead of ruining at the behest of his boss. It was nice to see himself as a decent human being for once. And for this few months in the sunlight, living instead of merely surviving, he won’t complain about selling his body back to the mafia. His happiness will remain here, after all, far from where the mob can trample on it.

If Mikhail dies, then so be it. He will die trying to prevent a madman from gaining power, because he’s had enough of madmen in charge of lives. If he lives, then he will have succeeded, and everyone will be safe, and he will return to Russia from whence he came.

Either way — most of his life has been characterized by running away. He ran away from the mafia, he ran away from Wormwood, he ran away from the coven, he nearly ran away from the Brehon Brigade itself. He’s always preferred flight over fight.

But he won’t run away this time.

#Mikhail Ivanov #original fiction

[plotmaster]

jingle bells!! happy holidays!!

Not all the knights are stationed in the UK all the time. Their mission scope is far too global for that. Tristan is often stationed for long periods at a time at their Japanese HQ, Victor in Russia, as they both have advantages in those countries that other agents don’t. Arthur would gladly swear on his dying breath rather than ever admit they had advantages to other Knights, though.

So it’s rapidly becoming rare that Tristan and Gawain are able to meet up in the UK HQ, since they’ve long proven themselves as competent agents that don’t need to be kept close to home. It’s rare that they meet other agents, too.

So one day, fresh out of the showers after a particularly invigorating sparring session, Tristan and Victor are idling in the training area, poking at each other’s fighting styles and any flaws they’ve noticed during the fight.

(Even though he knows his fellow agent’s real name, it doesn’t feel right to call him ‘Yuuri’. They aren’t that close.)

So absorbed with each other, they don’t notice a third individual in the room. “Both of you are fighting rather… softly with each other,” a solemn voice cuts in, “So of course that spar was a mess of mistakes.”

They turn to him in unison. Coiffed brown hair, a Rainmaker in hand, and a field-agent-issue Kingsman suit. His face seems prone to unfeeling politeness, but there are traces of emotion and good humour visible in his eyes and the fine lines around his mouth. Tristan recognizes him first. “Galahad, sir,” he greets, bowing with respect that Victor’s quite sure he’s never even shown Arthur. And then the codename clicks.

“Galahad?” Victor asks, half-disbelieving, sizing up the newcomer. He’s older than both of them, visibly so. He’s also the agent with a legendary reputation for missions that require nuclear force, tightly-reined violence all hidden under a genuine gentleman’s face. “The most Kingsman to Kingsman,” Victor’s handler had described him. “Of course, he has his flaws, like being late all the time, but he’s basically the best of the best.”

Victor had watched a few of his mission recordings to see exactly what his handler had meant, and had been suitably impressed by, well, everything. “You’re Galahad?” he asks.

Galahad tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “I am.” He turns to Tristan. “It’s good to see you flourishing.”

“I hope to supersede your reputation someday,” Tristan replies, the words so unlike him that Victor has to blink for a few moments. Tristan turns up to Victor and smiles wryly. “Galahad was my sponsor.”

Holy shit, he really is Galahad. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Victor says with barely-hidden excitement, memories of the mission feeds he watched resurfacing. He can’t help but step forward and hold out his hand for a handshake, gentlemanly manners be damned. “I saw the recording of your mission in Bolivia five years ago,” he finds himself saying, “How on Earth did you get out of that one with minimal injuries? I mean, I watched it, but my god.”

Galahad looks at him with amusement, and next to him, Victor can feel Tristan’s own amused gaze. “Are you two done sparring for the day?” Galahad asks.

Victor and Tristan look at each other. “Yes?” Tristan answers.

“That’s quite a shame,” Galahad says. “I find myself in need of a sparring partner at the moment. “I wouldn’t mind giving some pointers to a worthy opponent as well.”

Victor can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, even as Tristan lights up at the same time. “We have time,” he says.

They’re both beaten into the mats quite soundly multiple times by Galahad, of course, but it’s utterly worth it, to learn from his fighting style and to get pointers on developing their own.

“Your sponsor was Galahad?” Victor asks Tristan later after a mission briefing.

Tristan nods, smiling wryly at some memory.  “Apparently, he has an ongoing silent feud with Arthur on the matter of diversity in Kingsman,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “… I never served in any military corps. I was originally a dancer.”

Victor can’t help but raise his eyebrows.

Tristan forges on, looking a little nervous now. “Weird, right? But a close family friend of ours is a weapons dealer for the military. I stayed with her when I was attending university for dance, since her house was closer to my uni than my parents’ inn.”

“So you… picked up firearms as your break from dancing?” Victor guesses.

Yuuri nods. “It… helped. Strangely enough. But it helped.”

“And how did you meet Galahad?”

Yuuri smiles again, that same wry smile. “I got drunk off my ass at a formal event accompanying said family friend and ran into him in the restroom. Drunk me was able to identify exactly what guns he was concealing, and pointed out he had a little gunpowder on his sleeve. And a bullet in the folds of his suit.” He laughs a little, embarrassed. “Less than a year later, I get an offer from someone I couldn’t remember ever talking to to become a super-spy.” Yuuri cringes a little. “God, I was so drunk though.”

“Well, I’m glad you were, because it lead too you being here,” Victor says, smiling back at him.

Yuuri flushes at that, strangely enough. “What about you?” he asks.

Victor tilts his head. “I’ll tell you over dinner,” he offers.

“Dinner?” Yuuri repeats, confused.

“Yes, dinner. For the mission, remember?” Victor says.

Yuuri seems to wilt ever-so-slightly at that, but Victor knows he’s probably seeing things. “Yes, the mission.”

[more kingsman au]

#yuri on ice #fanfiction #minific #kingsman au

[plotmaster]

Priority List

finish up kingsman au snips in my inbox

commission!!!!! (it’s one of my wips :D)

big bang on ice collab fic. (for anyone interested, I’m actually cowriting with lily winterwood aka @omgkatsudonplease!) 

aria: stammi vicino au

novel progressing in the background 

1st draft prologue is done, need to kick off first story arc

#not plot

[plotmaster]

I love your Kingsman AU but I wonder how the hell Victor and Yuuri got in, like, they are incapable of shooting their dogs.

Makkachin looks up at Victor, panting happily despite the gun aimed her way.

“Shoot the dog,” Merlin repeats, clipboard in hand. Half of Victor wants to reach up and shoot him instead.

But he can’t, not when he’s come this far. “I should have seen this coming,” he says, the words slipping out of his mouth completely unbidden.

Merlin says nothing, staring at him evenly.

Victor weighs the gun in his hand, the weight of what he’s about to do. The fatherly regard Nikolai treats him with and the rigors of what he’s been through.

It’s callous, but Makkachin, despite how much he loves her, had been a surprise into his life. She represents his training, a way for them to measure how he treats those that are ‘less’ than him in any way. Kingsman gave him Makkachin, and it seems that he’ll have to return her like this to become one of them.

He thinks of the many cats Nikolai allows to wander in and out of his house, his forlorn gaze at Makkachin, silence about his own dog.

Compartmentalizes for ten seconds. There is only one chance to get into Kingsman, and many poodles. If anything, he can buy another poodle with his next salary and spoil her to death in penance for what he’s about to do.

And he pulls the trigger.

-

“Shoot the dog,” Arthur says.

Yuuri relies on his knowledge of firearms to prevent him from spiraling into panic, weighing the gun in his hand. He’s… 90% sure it’s a blank. The 10% that’s uncertain screams at him about how dare he point a gun at at Vicchan, who has trusted him without question as all dogs do. Vicchan scratches behind his ear with one of his tiny paws, looking around anxiously like he can pick up on Yuuri’s ramping nerves.

Arthur smiles. It is not a kind smile. “i wouldn’t be surprised if you couldn’t do it,” he murmurs like a kindly old grandfather.

It makes Yuuri want to shoot him instead. “It’s easier to shoot a person,” comes out of his mouth, surprising himself.

Arthur blinks, the only tell of his surprise.

Yuuri gets up from the posh chair and steps back several feet to make sure that the air pressure won’t hurt Vicchan. He pulls the trigger.

His eyes are on Arthur the whole time. “Humans are far more capable of cruelty than animals,” Yuuri says with a steadiness he does not feel. There is only relief in his body as he points the empty gun at Arthur and goes up to gather Vicchan in his arms, already thinking about how he’s going to spoil Vicchan rotten for this.

Nothing but contempt visible in his gaze, Arthur says, “You don’t belong here, boy.”

Yuuri throws the gun down, paying no mind to Arthur’s words, as his test results speak differently. “Humans are more capable,” he continues, “So they’re more deserving of death.”

Years later, Yuuri dispassionately concusses Arthur twice and then poisons him to death. As he watches Arthur convulse, he remembers shooting Vicchan, and his words to him then. 

Maybe it was a premonition. Should’ve named me Mordred instead of Tristan. 

[more kingsman au]

#yuri on ice #fanfiction #kingsman au #minific

[plotmaster]

goldsnare outtake

Avent Myrmir doesn’t consider himself a suicidal person. He likes living, has many things that invigorate him every day, but to be honest, there are occasional moments which he wishes he could just encase himself in a stone coffin with his own magic and die.

Case in point: right now, with Xio grinding the stone doorway into dust under her grip, screaming with laughter. Aurenias only looks at her, bemused.

 Sometimes Avent feels the need to question his niece for becoming friends with someone that has the most inappropriate emotional responses to events. Other times, he has to look at himself and question why the fuck they’re dating. 

Aurenias looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Should we...?”

“Yes,” Avent squawks, reaching for where they’d thrown their clothes earlier and shoving them in his face. 

This only makes Xio start laughing harder, falling to her knees and holding her midsection. “You said he hated you!” she wheezes through her laughs, “I didn’t think humans have sex when they hate each other!”

Aurenias tilts his head at Xio. “We don’t,” he says evenly as he puts his underwear back on.

Xio keeps laughing. At this rate, she’s going to draw attention to them, and Avent does not need more people intruding on his constantly-failing sex-life at the moment, thank you. He clenches his fist and the earth behind Xio shoots up, sealing the entrance. “Was there something you needed, Xio?” he grits out. 

She continues laughing, to his utter despair. Honestly, sometimes Avent wonders how anyone is scared of her — Pirios elf or not, Xio is too good-humoured to be terrified of. Then again, he is her favorite human. 

Aurenias hums, plastering himself against Avent’s back and sliding his hands up his shirt. They’re warm, of course, since he’s a fire mage. “Has this ever happened before?” he asks curiously.

“Her laughing?” Avent asks. Aurenias nods. “Last time she had a laughing fit like this was when the vice-dean of the Combat College tried to challenge her.” 

“The ice draconian? Vassiy?” 

“Yes. Of course, Xio refused, because no Pirios fights a draconian, but Vassiy tried to preemptively attack her and then got kicked out of the colusseum for that effort. Xio was laughing for days at how an ‘ickle baby draconian’ thought they could beat a Pirios,” Avent recounts dryly. 

“And now she’s laughing because...?” Aurenias frowns slightly in thought. “I heard that you were her favorite human, should I be worried?”

Avent pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s probably laughing because-”

“He said you hated him!” Xio repeats from where she’s is on the floor. “Avent was moaning for days about how ‘he’s Keep’s best friend I can’t have sex with him she’d hate me!’ and ‘He hates me!’ and ‘his laugh is so nice, why doesn’t he laugh more?’ and I was completely and utterly ready to hear him pine over you for at least a decade because Avent is my very favorite human.” She sits up finally, reaching up to fix her ponytail, which had come slightly loose. “And now look! You’re in his bed! What’s there not to laugh about!?” 

The urge to encase himself in a coffin multiplies a hundredfold. He shoots a panicked look to Aurenias, who is smiling to his utter embarrassment. 

“Headmaster!” Aurenias exclaims, “I thought you just wanted to have sex with me. You were pining?”

Avent pinches the bridge of his nose, hastily puts on the rest of his clothes, and uses his magic to make another doorway to walk the fuck out of. “Not anymore!” he yells on the way out.

“Keepsake will love to know you weren’t just trying to get into my pants-” 

Avent whirls around. “You might be best friends, but my niece does not need to hear anything about my sex life!” he can’t help but screech.

Xio starts laughing again.

#goldsnare #when purple chrysanthemums bloom #this isn't part of the actual novel my friend just asked for a scene #which avent wants to Fucking Die

[plotmaster]

jingle bells batman smells robin laid an egg (kingsman au?)

They meet to a backdrop of explosions, blasts resounding in time with their heartbeats.

“I’ve rendezvoused with Tristan!” Victor yells over the comms, oxfords hitting the ground half a beat behind the other agent’s. Tristan has been an agent for a year and a half, the most recent of the knights, but this is their first time paired together, or really interacting in any way other than brief nods through the hallway or at Round Table meetings. Victor knows him by dark, solemn eyes and hair done up with a touch of pomade, silent strides and a swing in his arms more like a dancer’s grace than a fighter’s control.

And now he knows him by savage kicks and thighs of steel that Victor’s quite sure snapped three men’s necks in the span of ten minutes. They’re in Belgium, paired together to dismantle a key point of a European human trafficking ring. Victor had waltzed in in broad daylight, present to deliver the ringleader some precious jewelry she’d bought from the underbelly of Africa. They had made polite conversation and negotiated the price of the goods, as one does. And then he took out her bodyguards, made her swallow a gem (that was actually a cleverly disguised grenade), poisoned the rest of her family, and threw himself out a window instead of waltzing back out because Tristan’s presence meant that Victor was to make himself absent as soon as fucking possible.

After all, Tristan’s frequent missions were honeypots, political negotiations, assassinations and… large-scale property destruction.

“Extraction coming in ten,” his handler says. “There are some remnants of the security converging on you and Tristan  — incoming in two!” 

Tristan ahead yells something, but the words are lost in the gunfire that bursts from around the corner. Victor pivots on his heel and throws himself at a low wall, scaling it in one breath. His glasses change to show the positions of the enemies below him, fifteen men in all moving about, but Tristan’s marker is unmoving. 

Victor panics for .3 seconds before a voice hisses, “I’m right here, Gawain.”  Victor looks to the side to see one scuffed-up Asian man crawling up the wall next to him, Tristan missing his glasses and suit jacket and a vaguely irritable expression on his face. “I had to throw them as dummies.” 

His handler sighs through the comms. “Tell Tristan that he better hope that the glasses aren’t destroyed-” A distant crunch has them sighing again. “Those are coming out of his paycheck.”

Something must show on Victor’s face, because Tristan clicks his tongue and scoots closer. They’re lying side-by-side on the wall now, their opponents yelling about below. Unfortunately, while the wall is thick enough to hold both of them, it’s thin enough that if anyone looks up too long, they’ll be noticed.

“I’ll drop first, you cover me,” Victor says. 

Tristan raises an eyebrow.

“I’m the one still bulletproof.” 

Tristan nods, withdrawing a gun from his holster, and Victor primes his signet ring before diving down in the midst of five. His fist makes contact with the nearest man, Victor shocking him with the ring and using him as a shield as the rest open fire. 

Four shots resound above him, and all four of them drop down. 

Victor unfortunately has no time to admire Tristan’s marksmanship, clicking his heels to trigger the poisoned blade in his oxfords. He jams it into the man he’d been holding, and throws the corpse aside as the rest of the guards come after him. 

He hears a single laugh, bright and wild above the gunshots. Hears a neck snapping, Tristan having twisted around a man’s head as he dropped down from the wall. Finds himself grinning, whirling next to Tristan and knifing someone in the throat as Tristan stabilizes his arm over Victor’s shoulder and shoots twice more.

By the time they reach the extraction point, they’re both quite roughed-up. Tristan’s hair falling in his face, suit jacket and crushed glasses held in hand. Victor’s own hair is certainly a mess, and there’s dirt and blood on his clothes. 

Their driver doesn’t bat an eyelash as they clamber in. “You’re much more sneaky than I am,” Victor says, “I wasn’t aware of you getting next to me until you were there!” 

Tristan laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. His brown eyes are warm and welcoming, especially with the blood flecking the side of his face. “You flatter me, Gawain,” he demurs. 

Victor snorts. “I’m glad we were partnered together. You’re quite formidable.” 

Tristan goes slightly pink at that, strangely enough. “It was good to work with you,” he replies. “Merlin was unsure of sending us out together since we’re the newest agents…”

“It all turned out well, though,” Victor grins, and looks Tristan up and down. “By the way, we absolutely must spar sometime. The way you fight is enthralling.”

Tristan goes even more pink.  “Now you’re definitely flattering me, Gawain,” he protests. 

“Victor,” his own name falls from his lips without bidding, and his handler immediately utters a swear over the comms and goes off about how they shouldn’t be relaxed when they’re not even on base yet. He ignores her, and holds out a hand to Tristan. “I look forward to working with you more in the future.”

Tristan hesitates, and Victor feels his smile dim, but then a calloused hand takes his. “Yuuri,” Tristan says, looking down even as he shakes Victor’s hand. “I look forward to sparring with you sometime, Gawain.”  

“You are never going on another mission together again if this is how fast you start making cow-eyes at him.” Victor’s handler threatens.

Victor just ignores them even harder. “So what’s your favorite tool in the armory?” he begins.

[more kingsman au]

(send me an ask with ‘jingle bells’ and I’ll write you a ficlet!)

#yuri on ice #minific #kingsman au

[plotmaster]

kingsman au with yurio's terrible horrible no good very bad crush on his mentor's crush thanq u based wrath for saving my crops :3c

1) Here’s the weird thing. You would think that of all people to end up thinking about as Yuri settles down to sleep, it would Victor, who had saved him from a sticky situation and then proposed him to this… initiation test for a secret spy agency. But no, it’s not Victor that’s on his mind, it’s fucking Tristan. 

Tristan, who caught him robbing his house. Tristan, who threw him out a bloody window. Tristan, who somehow looked filthy good leaning over his balcony waving at Yuri as he fell into the bushes below, softly back-lit by his bedroom lights. 

He fidgets on his bed, unable to rest, too wired from the day’s events. Thoughts of the beating he had narrowly escaped, Dmitry holding a cleaver to his face, Victor saving him from the police station, Tristan beating Dmitry’s thugs effortlessly all whirl around his head. 

Last night he’d broken into Tristan’s house in Stanhope’s Mews and gotten arrested by the police, and tonight he was sleeping in Kingsman’s recruit barracks….

and being submerged with water. 

Yuri jolts up in alarm, screeching at the rest to wake the fuck up, because the room was flooding. 

2) Here’s another weird thing: Victor was clearly over the moon for Tristan, but not once had Yuri ever heard him use the agent’s actual name. Did he just… not know it? (Part of Yuri thinks that Tristan might actually be the guy’s name, but he wouldn’t bet on it) There was that incident in the pub which Victor had called Tristan solnyshko, but that was just an endearment. 

“Does he know?” Yuri asks Victor one day while his mentor guides him through how to talk like a gentleman.

Victor pauses, looking at Yuri in confusion. “Does who know what?” he asks in return. “If you mean Merlin, yes, he knows everything.” 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “No, I meant Tristan and the fact that you’re tits over arse in love with him,” he says bluntly.

Victor blinks once, twice. “Pardon?” 

“It’s completely obvious!” Yuri exclaims. “Whenever you pass him in the corridor you give him this stupid little wave like a secondary girl mooning over a boy she wants to ask to go out with her.”

A multitude of emotions flicker over Victor’s expression, going too fast for Yuri to figure out what the man was thinking. He smiles wryly. “I do love Tristan,” he says as matter-of-factly as one would say the sky is blue. “And as for whether Tristan knows or not, well, why are you so curious?” 

Yuri crosses his arms and taps his foot. Victor gives him a stern look and he straightens his posture, stilling his feet. “Because you’re making a fool of yourself,” Yuri retorts. 

“My feelings are none of your concern,” Victor says. “Concern yourself with catching up to your fellow recruits instead. They’ve had their whole lives to learn the manners and etiquette I have to teach you, after all.” The deflection is obvious, and Yuri grumbles at it, but he lets it slide.

For some reason, the idea that his mentor’s feelings for Tristan might be unrequited makes him feel light.

3) It’s after Victor’s death, after Valentine’s mad plan and his death, afterdealing with a bunker full of rish people that had been happy to let the world burn, that Yuri collapses next to Tristan- no, Yuuri on a bed in the Kingsman jet. 

“You did well,” Yuuri murmurs, and Yuri tries not to shudder at how close Yuri’s breath was to his ear. Suddenly, he vaguely regrets not taking that Kazakh celebrity up on his offer of celebratory sex for preventing the apocalypse. 

They’re so close right now, smushed into the covers of the comfortable bed. From this angle, Yuri can count Yuuri’s long eyelashes, smell his cologne, see exactly the way the light touches Yuuri’s lips. It’s almost maddening. 

It’s also saddening, because this close, he can see the grief too, Yuuri’s walls slowly inching down as he comes down from the adrenaline high. His breathing is heavy and there’s a cut on his cheek from Gazelle’s prosthetics, weariness emitting from every pore. 

Yet, somehow some traitorous part of Yuri is glad to see him like this. During all their other interactions, Yuuri had been Tristan, an untouchable aloof agent with a sly snarking sense of humour and terrifying fighting capabilities. And then he had become Yuuri Katsuki, Victor’s fiance (and thus even more untouchable to Yuri). Now, he’s just Yuuri, and they’ve saved the world together. 

And he’s lost the love of his life. 

Abruptly, Yuri can’t help but hate himself for the flush on his cheeks that are from proximity to the older man rather than the adrenaline of the fight they survived.  Victor is god, for heaven’s sake — Victor, who had given Yuri a chance to make himself a better person — and he feels like an utter heel for even harboring a crush on his dead mentor’s fiance in this moment. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Yuri manages to croak in return. God, he needs something to drink.

Yuuri smiles sadly, soflty. “Victor would be proud of you, Yuri,” he murmurs.

“Are you proud of me?” Yuri blurts out and then immediately wishes he could take the words back.

Yuuri blinks at him in surprise for a moment. “Of course I am,” he says, and he cracks a smile. “We just saved the world, after all!” 

Yuri smiles back. But you lost your world, he thinks mournfully. And I’ve lost my heart to you. He finds it hard to believe that his mentor would be proud of him in this moment, savior of the world or not. After all, even though he knows Yuuri is in mourning right now, his heart still beats for him

[plotmaster]

@followers would you mind seeing more of my original content? (´•ω•`๑)

#not plot

[plotmaster]

snip

“Keris! Congratulations!” She’s assaulted by a hug the moment she enters her quarters, Keepsake jumping in front of her. “I heard you got into Goldsnare! I didn’t know you applied- why didn’t you say anything?”

Keris smiles as much as she is able, and pats the girl’s lilac hair, Keepsake’s curls bouncing with her enthusiasm. “I didn’t think I’d get in. It was a spur of the moment thing.”

“Uncle told me that the Elders were super happy to have you fight, because you’re Escape Artist and all,” Keepsake continues to prattle. “I think you’ll win — no one else on the roster is as great as you, Keris!” Keris’ smile twitches at the corners, and she moves deeper into her room, the shadows dark and welcoming.

“What are you doing here, Keep?” she asks, hoping her voice sounds gentle.

“You weren’t at the dining hall, and I wanted to be the first to congratulate you!”

You’re the only one that would ever congratulate me, Keris doesn’t say. She puts more effort into her smile, and gives Keepsake a brief side-hug. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

Keris’ smile flickers, and she looks away. “You should go eat dinner.”

Keepsake frowns. “What about you?”

“I’m not hungry.” She’ll break into the kitchens later and rip into a steak when it’s at its most deserted.

Keepsake hesitates, sensing Keris’ downturn in mood. “Aren’t you happy?” she asks.

Keris throws herself on her bed, disrupting the many books and papers littering the blankets. “I’m just tired, Keep. Go eat.”

“Everyone else is happy,” Keepsake says. “Why...?”

She can’t answer that in any way that would comfort Keepsake, so she doesn’t.

#goldsnare #trials of an escape artist #original fiction

[plotmaster]

Commissions

Hi everyone, I’ve decided to open writing commissions! My commission page with all the necessary information is here, and I’m open to answering any questions. 

Some things you can commission from me:

continuation of any of my wips (though the content would be fully at my discretion) 

continuation of any of my prompt fills 

your own fic ideas that you’d like me to write! 

If you’d like to support me without commissioning, I have a ko-fi! Every little bit helps

#not plot

[plotmaster]

#can't believe I never reblogged these to this blog #goldsnare #when purple chrysanthemums bloom

[plotmaster]

I was the first

I was the first to find his body. 

Less “find”, I suppose, since he’d been in the rehab center for past month and half, so his location was known, but I was definitely the first to walk into his room and realize he was dead. 

I’m not sure how I realized it so fast. I’d never been close to my grandfather, despite my family being the ones that had been taking care of him for the past eight years, despite me spoon-feeding him on countless occasions because he’d long been unable to feed himself. In situations like this in the stories, it’s the people that care the most that realize that a loved one has passed away, right? 

We all hope to die with our loved ones nearby, not for the most callous of relatives to stride into our room with a dutiful soldier’s gait. But unfortunately for him and for me, I was the one to walk in after 9pm, father right behind me, and realize he was dead. 

I hadn’t seen him for at least three weeks prior to his death, and the image that his corpse presented was horrifying. The skin was faintly yellow, and stretched over his head like papery tree park, viciously scabbed-over wounds faintly visible under his hospital gown. What struck me as wrong at first was his eyes, actually — they were open, unblinking and staring off to the side. There was no vapour in his breathing tube, either. 

What sticks with me still is his expression. It was horrified, like he’d been stabbed three times in the stomach and the knife twisted. Like he’d died some horrible, painful death, not passed away of natural causes in a rehab center. It was an expression of despair that I did not expect. 

I didn’t say anything at first, because I didn’t want to alarm my father for no reason. But then he got closer to the body, and I asked, “Is he still alive?” despite some steel certainty in my spine that he was dead. And then my father checked his pulse, his breathing, and his temperature — the body was still warm, so we’d only just missed him — and then I was told to call my mother while father called for a nurse.

She came in with a stethoscope and checked his heartbeat, and confirmed what I knew. My grandfather was dead.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t fond of him at all. For eight years I helped my mother take care of him as he got older, and there were no good enjoyable memories cultivated from those years. Just memories of my mother being run ragged from taking care of him and taking out her frustration on me, me having to spoon-feed him, his deadweight whenever he fell down and I struggled to get him off the ground with my paltry strength. Taking care of his was a struggle, and now it’s over.

Now his life is over too, and remembering the bland disinfectant-smelling rehab center he’d been installed in, I think it’s a good thing for him, not just me. My family doesn’t have to look after him anymore, and he doesn’t have to suffer being weak and bedridden, diapered like a baby and only being spoon-fed thick soup. A miserable sort of existence. 

His passing was for the better, all-around. He was a very difficult man to love, and I certainly didn’t love him. My mother did, somehow, and I suspect that it was three parts Vietnamese familial obligation and five parts the fact that she had been his favourite child, and thus had many happy memories of him. Towards the end, she had been fighting with one of my aunts to bring him home from the rehab center — aunt wanted to leave him in there, and had the legal power to make medical decisions for him, but my mother pulled one of the oldest brothers of their family on her side, as well as the other aunt that had the power to make medical decisions. They split the family into two camps — leave him in the rehab center, or let him go into hospice care in my home.

He died before my mother and that aunt could start flinging the nastier accusations at each other, and the argument dissipated, but their ill temper with each other did not. 

I couldn’t look at the body much. I turned away when my father started checking the pulse, and I walked out of the room completely when my other relatives showed up, frazzled and in disbelief. The corpse was ugly, and resembled a mummy more than the grandfather I remembered. 

I remember a man in a solid green button-up shirt, with suspenders and beige slacks. Fancy shoes on his feet, black beret on his head, and vintage sunglasses perched on his nose, leaning on a cane as his sat on a chair at a Santa Monica cafe with my mother and my brothers and me as children around. I remember a man that my dear grandmother hated the fucking guts of and never talked to. 

I remember a corpse with an expression wrought with agony, as if in the end, he became aware of all the circumstances surrounding his death, and he was horrified by them. 

Goodnight, old man. I didn’t love you, I didn’t hate you, but I sure am fucking glad that you’re finally gone. 

#personal writing #I needed closure