#never turning away because she's resolved to keep moving forward

[egophiliac]

please i would like to know more knitting headcanons if you have them. i love the most wholesome cozy headcanons out there

this got SO away from me, I'm so sorry, it started as "here is some needlework-related headcanon" and then I just lost my entire mind and it turned into "here are Scenarios about characters doing crafts". I…wasn't kidding about dedicating large amounts of time thinking about characters making things out of yarn.

it's not quite a fanfic but, uhhh, take it about as seriously as you take my comics, I guess. :') we're all just having fun here!

the closest Grim has gotten to knitting is the time he ate half a skein of yarn because it "looked spicy". (that was not a fun day for Yuu or the Ramshackle bathroom.) the ghosts, meanwhile, have canonically have made clothes for Yuu and Grim and, honestly, they're probably their own little knitting club (and Yuu's self-appointed eccentric granduncles). you know they're loving having an actual person to play dress-up make things for. we shall be well-prepared for any more impromptu Tsunotarou snowstorms.

Riddle, Trey, and Jamil all know the basics of sewing, but don't do any needling beyond mending/darning/general upkeep. they're all annoyingly practical. (Najma is also annoyingly practical, but she's more fashion-forward about it than Jamil. she's probably really into visible mending.)

Ruggie and Epel probably do know how to knit, in addition to those basics, but to them it's more of a utilitarian thing (need a new warm hat for the winter!) than something they do for fun. on that note, I think Epel wouldn't really have a complex about knitting -- partly because it IS a practical skill to have for those Harveston winters, and partly because he would have learned from Marja, and no one would dare imply Marja is anything less than absolutely badass.

meanwhile Ruggie is over here gleefully unravelling Leona's old sweaters so he can make himself a cashmere hat. it'sfreeyarn.jpg

Jack crochets little cozies and accessories for his cactus. he makes seasonal and holiday-themed versions with cute little sewn-on buttons and, you know what, now I need to draw event outfits for a cactus. hold on.

Deuce's mom definitely knits. he might've learned the basics from her when he was little, but never used them until recently, when he's been trying to pick it back up in order to make her a gift. (there's probably a heartwarming story in there about a special scarf or something that she made him that he's trying to replicate for her.) he's been at it for literally months now because he keeps screwing up his math and Riddle has to help him fix it.

Ace doesn't do any needlecraft, and razzed Deuce about it for a while until he found out the reason he was so Determined is because it's for his mom (and also the heartwarming story about the special scarf or whatever). so then he felt kind of guilty, and since he'd rather die than admit it, resolved to just never mention it again. except Deuce is so hilariously inept that not making fun of him is really, really hard. so Ace is just sitting there having a personal crisis every time Deuce whips out his needles and adorable little yarn basket. his life is so difficult. :(

Cater bought an amigurumi kit once when they were The Thing on Magicam. he made a few hedgehogs, took pictures, then gave them away to his friends and hasn't thought about them since. (Riddle was so moved by the gift that he forgot to yell at the first-years for a whole day. his hedgehog has a place of honor on his desk.)

Leona has never touched a needle in his life, and would be insulted if you implied he might enjoy expending a small amount of energy over anything he doesn't have to.

Kalim has touched a needle, once, when he tried to help mend something. he was so atrocious at it that Jamil forbade him from ever touching one again. if he started knitting it would probably give Jamil heart problems.

Azul strikes me as being someone who always has to be doing something. but he also doesn't like the inefficiency of spending so much time and effort without much return (personal satisfaction doesn't count). so I think he doesn't really do any crafting outside of whatever's necessary for whatever bit he's running at the moment…though maybe there's a tasteful stitched sampler or two hanging on a wall in Mostro. just because.

Jade is a little more crafty (ho ho, puns) outside of Schemes. by which I mean he exclusively makes mushroom-related decor and insists on hanging it up in Mostro. (Azul keeps asking him to stop. Jade pretends not to hear.)

Floyd once knit most of a densely-cabled fisherman's sweater in half a day. he got within 200 stitches of finishing before he got bored and never got back to it.

Vil probably, like…spent a week making a pair of cute mitts or something, and was really proud of them! then Neige made the mistake of getting super excited and trying to bond over it, and inadvertently soured Vil on knitting forever.

Rook I genuinely believe is both capable of doing everything, and also actively involved in using those skills at any given time. he could make an offhand remark about how he's been needlefelting tiny petals to stitch together into an elaborate rose-themed bodysuit and I would just be like "yep, that tracks."

he could also mention that he just put the finishing touches on the statue of Neige made out of hair that he keeps in the Hey Arnold-style shrine in his closet, and I would still be like "yep, that tracks".

I don't think Idia knits, but he might have bit of theoretical interest in it because of the relationship between knitting and binary? he probably spent a while trying to figure out if he could somehow make a playable version of Doom on a sweater. (it's magic, so yes. he doesn't want to actually have to make the sweater though.)

Ortho once made a hat and some mittens for Idia. it might be cold when they finally go to the park. :)

Malleus has a tapestry that's been his quick breather project for the last 400 years. he was vexed when he ran out of a color that hasn't been produced since the plant the dye came from went extinct a century ago. >:( the new flosses just aren't the same.

Sebek has tried embroidery in order to feel closer to ~wakasama~ but he doesn't have the patience for it. he's trying, though! his daisies are barely lazy at all these days! (he would probably actually be really good at knitting, since a lot of it is just…following instructions and doing math. since his main point of reference right now is Lilia, he hasn't figured this out.)

Lilia knits poorly and with much gusto. gauge? never heard of her. tension? this is supposed to be a relaxing hobby! it's unclear if he knows how bad he is, or if he's deliberately trying to see how embarrassing he can get before the others stop wearing the things he makes them. (they never will.) either way, he's having fun!

Silver was a self-sufficient little homestead boy by the time he was twelve, so of course he knows all the fun things you can do with wool (fortunately he learned how to knit before Lilia had a chance to ruin him) (idk, a friendly squirrel taught him or something, he's a literal disney princess his life is like that). he has a unique talent for being able to sit there asleep and somehow still spin perfectly consistent yarn.

look, I just want Silver to use a spinning wheel, c'mon

Neige and Silver both make tiny sweaters for orphaned baby animals. Neige's are more skilled (they have colorwork and little seed buttons) but Silver's are softer, since they're made from the wool that his forest bunny friends gather for him and donate to the cause. (Ace heard him mention this once and had to go have another personal crisis over it.)

this also ties into another absolutely unfounded headcanon I have about Silver and Neige being friends with the same bluebird family that alternates island sides for breakfast and dinner. there isn't any more to it, I just think it'd be cute. 🐦

orphan baby animals aside, Neige absolutely 1000% knits and you'll never convince me otherwise. he made that sweater. he made Snick's scarf. if you spend too long around him he'll have already started making you a cardigan in your favorite color. the dwarves don't knit because they don't have to. (wait, no, Timmy probably does -- you never actually see him do it, but every once in a while there's a new aggressively cute potholder added to the collection. Toby has tried, but he is physically incapable of not dropping stitches everywhere and ending up with a sad little pile of yarn.)

Che'nya says he does yarn sculpture, but really he's just batting the yarn balls around and leaving them for someone else to clean up.

Rollo does enormous cross-stitch recreations of illuminated manuscripts on 60-count linen (over one, of course). he will lecture you for two hours on how much he does not enjoy doing it and how that makes him better than you.

Mickey doesn't (I SAID EVERYONE). I'm sure his girlfriend knits though.

Crowley enters stitching competitions at the local fair. his depictions of handsome-looking ravens in top hats do better than you'd think, but he still keeps losing to goddamn Ambrose with his perfect backs and railroaded stitches and no hoop marks and…

resisting the urge to say that Crewel does crewel. failing.

…okay, but look, he does fashion design in canon, it MAKES SENSE --

Trein is a Good Cat Owner, so (after carefully researching durable and pet-safe materials) he crochets little mice with catnip inside. he gets a deep sense of satisfaction at seeing them get torn to shreds. :)

Sam doesn't partake himself, but he does have weirdly intricate knowledge of every potential needlecrafting technique and the associated tools -- which he just so happens to have in stock now!

like Rook, I do believe that Sam just…knows everything, through his "friends" or otherwise. he could start spouting details about the historic production of goldwork thread, and as long as he then offers to sell something to us while shouting gratuitous English, it would feel perfectly in-character.

you wouldn't think Vargas would be into crafting, but he did spend a week painstakingly painting antlers onto a hoodie for his deer cosplay. magic? pah! he didn't get these muscles by NOT smearing craft-store fabric paint everywhere BY HAND.

(this is also why Crewel agreed to wear the…thing…that Vargas made for his turn at being camp monster. he actually spent time and effort on it and the whole idea was giving Crewel his own personal crisis.)

this got so far away from me, I am so, so sorry

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #there's probably some in there somewhere? i forget what has and hasn't gotten to eng yet #long post #...again i am so sorry #i THINK i got everyone. there's probably some major character i somehow managed to embarrassingly forget about. oh god #(the mirror is exempted on account of not having hands) #disclaimer that i try to keep up with canon but i do sometimes miss or forget things #so if something contradicts canon that's just me being a doofus #i mean this is 100% me just making things up anyway so take it as you will #i am not in a right state of mind right now

[agonycrossbow]

Thinking about the complete and total role reversal that must have inevitably happened after Leon and Ashley got home from Spain and how how quickly the fairy tale came unraveled as soon as they touched back down into reality.

Fairytale Leon: The strong, honorable, fearless knight who walks through fire and water and mud and shit with his head held high and moves forward, undaunted, towards his goal. Feels more like a force of nature than a man, as he leaves a trail of violence and chaos in his wake, with the blood of his enemies sprayed across his face and in his hair. He's in charge and inescapable; woe betide the man who crosses his path.

Reality Leon: Soft-spoken and almost demure, with his eyes almost constantly turned downcast as he walks to wherever he's told to go -- an unquestioning "Yes, sir" following every order. His body armor has been traded in for a well-pressed suit that seems almost too clean -- and despite having been tailored specifically for his measurements, doesn't look like it fits him right. Always seems at a distance, as though he's perpetually standing just out of reach.

Fairytale Ashley: The warm-hearted and free-spirited princess fair who keeps the light of hope burning and charms the honorable knight with her easy smile and welcoming personality. Her presence is like a home away from home, as she's fair-minded and treats everyone with respect. She's exactly as strong as she needs to be, as she's inspired by the strength of those around her -- which then inspires those people further in return.

Reality Ashley: Cold and closed off for the sake of keeping up appearances. Too afraid to show any emotion that's too strong or hold an opinion that's too controversial due to the looming consequence of potential backlash. Everything in her life is dictated by her station, forcing her into a selfish and self-centered lifestyle that sees her only interacting with her Equals.

Thinking about Leon and Ashley passing each other in the halls of the White House or at some official government event and only allowing themselves a quick second or two to look at the other as though they're just window-shopping for something that they know is forever out of their reach.

Thinking about the cognitive dissonance of "I know you and feel safe with you and want to be with you" lingering from the memory of their shared fairy tale being paired with the reality of "I don't really know you at all, do I?" and the forbidden longing that never gets addressed or resolved, causing each of them to have a certain level of identity crisis.

Thinking about how surprisingly and upsettingly different it feels when they finally take a second to acknowledge and talk to each other. Neither of them really knows what to say or how to address the other. The thought of casually putting a hand on Ashley's shoulder feels invasive and almost wrong to Leon, despite having held her in his arms so, so many times. Ashley wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him -- to adjust the lapel of his suit jacket or straighten his tie, but for some reason it feels like there's an invisible wall between them -- that, even if she were to reach out, her touch would never really reach him. Because they're strangers to each other now in a strange setting, and all of the rules have been rewritten, and nothing feels like it should.

#resident evil meta #eagleone analysis #resident evil headcanons #eagleone headcanons

[loveinhawkins]

For the "give me title suggestions" post:

Ooh for the Nancy dive scene rewrite you could call it 'holy diver"

The other one I've got no clues so imma just shoot off some randos

Loss of our stars

Read between the lines

Silent sleepers, unlikely keepers

oh read between the lines would actually work well for the Nancy POV ‘the Dive’ scene rewrite

Made up fic titles game

-

When Steve gets dragged back under Lover’s Lake, they all reach for him simultaneously; it’s just a matter of luck who happens to get there first.

Robin gets pulled forward, almost toppling over the side of the boat, but then Steve slips through her fingers.

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” she says, and in barely a blink, she dives in.

Nancy stands to do the same.

“Woah, hey, hey, hey,” Eddie says, voice high and tight with anxiety, “let’s just fucking think for a second.”

Nancy feels sorry for him; she’s sure that many years ago, she might have had a similar response to his, but she’s long since learned that there’s often no time to think, she can only do.

But then, just as she’s about to take the plunge, something stops her. There’s a sudden knife in her chest, cutting through her breathing.

Maybe it’s a delayed reaction to seeing Robin dive, to hearing Steve choke right before he was dragged under.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s looking down at the water, dark as ink, and a thought that haunts her floats up to the surface again: that water was one of the very last things Barb saw.

She stumbles over to the other side of the boat and retches.

“Woah, hey,” Eddie repeats, but it’s softer now, and she feels him gently wrap his hand around her forearm, steadying her. “Wheeler, you okay?”

“Row back to the shore,” she says through the knife in her ribs. “Tell Dustin that—”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Eddie says with a humourless laugh.

He looks down at the water, ripples still marring the surface from where Steve and Robin once were. Nancy sees the resolve in his eyes take hold.

His hand moves until he’s gripping onto hers. He’s trying to take deep breaths, stuttering on them. She can feel him shaking.

I’m sorry, she thinks.

She squeezes his hand as tight as she can.

“I’ve got you,” she says fiercely; when she makes a promise, she means it.

He nods. “Together.”

She doesn’t once let go—not until she knows for certain that they’ve both made it through, and then they’re running to where Robin is yelling, battling with some creature, and when Nancy spots Steve on the ground, sees the blood, her heart stops, and for a moment she thinks I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him—

Then there is no time to think.

Afterwards, she’s tearing at her shirt with determination, because there is not a chance in hell that Steve Harrington is bleeding out on her watch.

She has to stop for just a second, still shivering from the coldness of the Lake.

“Nance,” Steve says quietly, “I just—thanks. You didn’t have to…”

“Shut up,” she says without looking, comes back to herself and tightens the bandages, heart aching every time Steve groans in pain.

She wants to shake him until he understands that he is worth it, worth everything—that she would never not try and save him. If she loses anyone else, she’s going to burn it all to the ground.

She tries to push back the tide as they walk through the woods. In the distance, she hears Steve thank Eddie, all awkward and quiet, and she hears Eddie spin some absolute bullshit that makes her want to shake him, too; he makes her sound so damn capable, twists everything until even his own heroics somehow sound like cowardice.

For a moment, she turns to them and finds a fleeting lightness.

“Eddie Munson, you lie like a rug,” she says, laughing, and from the glow of her torch, she sees him flush. She looks at Steve and tells him pointedly, “He dove right in with me.”

Steve smiles at her, young and hesitant. His body is slowly angling towards Eddie like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it, and Eddie doesn’t pull away, not even when their arms keep brushing against each other.

For a little while that sight is enough to spur her on, but her smile fades away as the knife in her chest returns, and she can’t find the energy to acknowledge Robin’s jokes, because all she can think is oh, Barb would have laughed at that.

And then every single thought comes back to Barb—a lancing pain, like a vine taking root in her head.

Robin gets through the Gate. Then Eddie. Then—

“No,” she says to Steve, “you first.”

“Nance, come on,” Steve says. “You already—you’ve done enough. Lemme have this.”

“That’s—that’s not how this works,” Nancy says, as the knife cuts in deeper, and the vine grows, and God, she thinks, looking at Steve’s eyes shining in distress, there’s too much, there’s too much in my head; it’s going to drown me, and I’m so worried I’ll drag you down with—

Blinding pain. She sees so much. Too much.

Everything.

And then she’s back, and she’s falling, and Steve is yelling at her hoarsely, and she’s gasping for air, and all she can say is—

“I saw her, I saw her, I saw her.”

She’s sobbing.

“Nance,” Steve whispers. He knows. And then he’s embracing her, and he’s whispering, “You’re here, you’re here,” into her hair, like he needs to convince himself, and she realises that he’s crying a little, too.

When they both can breathe a little better, they look up.

Eddie’s hanging from the rope, hand outstretched.

And Nancy knows he dove right in. Didn’t waste a second.

She takes his hand.

“I’ve got you, Wheeler,” he says.

Together, the three of them climb up, up, up into the light.

#god i love rewriting/reframing scenes #nancy wheeler #eddie and nancy #steve and nancy #robin and nancy #implied steddie #background steddie #nancy and barb #made up fic titles #nancy wheeler fic #steve harrington #eddie munson

[sapphire-weapon]

Thinking about the complete and total role reversal that must have inevitably happened after Leon and Ashley got home from Spain and how how quickly the fairy tale came unraveled as soon as they touched back down into reality.

Fairytale Leon: The strong, honorable, fearless knight who walks through fire and water and mud and shit with his head held high and moves forward, undaunted, towards his goal. Feels more like a force of nature than a man, as he leaves a trail of violence and chaos in his wake, with the blood of his enemies sprayed across his face and in his hair. He's in charge and inescapable; woe betide the man who crosses his path.

Reality Leon: Soft-spoken and almost demure, with his eyes almost constantly turned downcast as he walks to wherever he's told to go -- an unquestioning "Yes, sir" following every order. His body armor has been traded in for a well-pressed suit that seems almost too clean -- and despite having been tailored specifically for his measurements, doesn't look like it fits him right. Always seems at a distance, as though he's perpetually standing just out of reach.

Fairytale Ashley: The warm-hearted and free-spirited princess fair who keeps the light of hope burning and charms the honorable knight with her easy smile and welcoming personality. Her presence is like a home away from home, as she's fair-minded and treats everyone with respect. She's exactly as strong as she needs to be, as she's inspired by the strength of those around her -- which then inspires those people further in return.

Reality Ashley: Cold and closed off for the sake of keeping up appearances. Too afraid to show any emotion that's too strong or hold an opinion that's too controversial due to the looming consequence of potential backlash. Everything in her life is dictated by her station, forcing her into a selfish and self-centered lifestyle that sees her only interacting with her Equals.

Thinking about Leon and Ashley passing each other in the halls of the White House or at some official government event and only allowing themselves a quick second or two to look at the other as though they're just window-shopping for something that they know is forever out of their reach.

Thinking about the cognitive dissonance of "I know you and feel safe with you and want to be with you" lingering from the memory of their shared fairy tale being paired with the reality of "I don't really know you at all, do I?" and the forbidden longing that never gets addressed or resolved, causing each of them to have a certain level of identity crisis.

Thinking about how surprisingly and upsettingly different it feels when they finally take a second to acknowledge and talk to each other. Neither of them really knows what to say or how to address the other. The thought of casually putting a hand on Ashley's shoulder feels invasive and almost wrong to Leon, despite having held her in his arms so, so many times. Ashley wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him -- to adjust the lapel of his suit jacket or straighten his tie, but for some reason it feels like there's an invisible wall between them -- that, even if she were to reach out, her touch would never really reach him. Because they're strangers to each other now in a strange setting, and all of the rules have been rewritten, and nothing feels like it should.

#resident evil 4 #leon kennedy #ashley graham #eagleone #WHY DO I HAVE TO WORK FOR A LIVING I WANT TO WRITE THIS FIC

[centrally-unplanned]

As I am now full-in on the body count section of The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere, I do have growing complaints about how it handles its sort of mystery build-up and reveal aspects. There is an adage for mystery novels to "have your answers ask more questions"; you set up a mystery, you *resolve* the mystery, but that resolution itself just creates deeper mysteries. This of course works very well to keep ratcheting up tension and keep the story moving forward; but it also resolves tension at the same time, you do actually get answers as you go. As an author you can perhaps think of there being a "quota" for the number of active questions for the reader to be considering; if you stack too many at once its both too hard to track them and is frustrating to read about, the story never delivers.

TFTBN breaks this rule; not every time, but a lot. In particular with Su's identity/trauma origin it happens all the time, you get literally dozens of "more mystery" moments behind it before you ever get any answers around it. Its just too coy by half! Why is my narrator like deliberately hiding their own thoughts from the reader across dozens of instances where those thoughts would be extremely relevant? The tension has already been ratcheted to the max, you can set it aside for a bit if you want but if you dangle the question in front of me too often it loses impact.

And even though now we have been getting answers, its *still* playing coy. You have a flashback to a scene of child Su being confronted by Ran over her identity mystery, and she breaks down and starts to explain it, and then the scene just cuts, so you only get a half an explanation. Which is enough to pretty much piece it together, so like the tension is gone? Now when you are coy about it (multiple times after that scene!) its a little lame actually, who ya fooling! But what it did is take away the opportunity to just have a really good scene. You cut away from a character's moment of emotional revelation and interpersonal confrontation.

Mysteries, to simplify of course, do two things for the reader; they make you turn the page in your desire to know more, and they set up dramatic stakes for their reveal in scenes. Its a balancing act ofc but you don't want to sacrifice the latter to keep baiting the former.

I feel this too around the "villain faction" for the story. Right now the villain faction is a virtually-unknown group of actors who have had no interactions or relationships with any of the characters, using mystery tactics to kill people. We are many chapters into that plot, multiple people of note have died, but they are still just strangers - their stated motives minimal and seemingly farcical.

Ofc I am no fool, I understand via meta knowledge and have picked up on the hints they have dropped that they will in fact not be strangers in full - I get how stories work. The problem is that meanwhile we have had like multiple scenes of the group having the traitor debate - "is it one of us?" But that question is silly because I *know nothing about the villains* of substance. Why would any of these classmates betray their group for them? We have no info on that. Oh sure sure I have these like, tiny *mechanical* hints. Like one time Seth? He gave a thumbs up to Ezekiel, when they were supposed to be mad at each other. Sus, my dudes. But that isn't a *motive*, right? Its not a compelling story, its just data. Because the story wont resolve any of its dangling questions, the idea that any of these people is a traitor is just dumb, you would have to like explain the entire plot in one infodump to sell it as interesting. By insisting on drip-feeding every mystery, instead of chained resolution-renewal, these plot threads aren't developed enough to work when they need to.

I do think this comes back to the fundamentals of the pacing issue - there is essentially a desire for this story to be longer than it is. Its a 3000 page book (equivalent ofc), but it isn't, not really. I am ~1000 pages into it I guess, but its probably not even ~500 pages in actual content. I could do this in definitely 400. And this is more than just a padding problem - its that structural thing, to make that length work and still be decent as a story (which it is, its a good story overall) you have to sort of chop up your big moments , which sort of kills them.

Like there is a character, Jia Fang, a fellow student who doesn't go with the group, but is mentioned a bunch as a sort of wild card, and its built up right? They are totally gonna show up somehow, there is tension about what they are up to, and then bam, they literally burst through the door. Its great, they make a huge impact, the chapter ends on that cliffhanger.

And then after maybe a few paragraphs with them the next *multiple chapters* are about a conversation between other people, about other topics where Fang is barely mentioned, and then literally, literally, we get multiple other student's academic thesis presentations, before the plot that Fang showed up to be involved in kicks back into gear. Its self-sabotage right, the literary moment broken apart because the story has to hit quota.

Its certainly a case where the serial nature of the publication would make it ludicrously difficult to fix, that I totally get. Art is really, really hard.

#the flower that bloomed nowhere

[maximotts]

OMG “i’ll kiss you if you want me to” and “i’m not used to being loved. i wouldn’t know what to do” mixed together with leigh… 👀 only if you want, obv :) <3!!

This was such a fun Leigh prompt!! I combined it with another one I got for her that I thought fit well so this request is a little long, but I hope y'all like it!!

❛ i’ll kiss you if you want me to. ❜ / ❛ i’m not used to being loved. i wouldn’t know what to do. ❜ / ❛ you’ve got an awfully kissable mouth. ❜ + Leigh Shaw; smut, angst that gets resolved, fluff at the end because I'm a soft bitch

1.3K words

f. scott fitzgerald prompts

Leigh squirmed under you, her back arching off the bed as you mouthed over her breasts messily. As soon as you'd undone her bra, you had a one track mind, kissing and licking over every inch of smooth skin her open flannel allowed. Impatient was an understatement with how you were marking her up, savoring how her sounds got louder the more intense you are. “Fuck, Leigh, you’re beautiful.” 

Eventually your hand slid into the front of her gym shorts, fingers teasing over where you found a damp patch of cotton. “On your way to drenching yourself already and I’ve barely touched you… Were you waiting that long for this?”

From her soft gasp, you assumed no one had talked to her like this before, the quick shake of her head confirming. The two of you had fallen into bed together multiple times, but lately things had taken a turn. Your casual dates had turned more romantic, signing your texts off with hearts and sweet goodnight messages. All of this was new for Leigh again; she’d told you all about her past relationships and it warmed her heart how understanding you’d been, never rushing her or pressing for too much. Instead you moved forward subtly, with actions rather than words, but still you always wanted her to be upfront with you. 

Part of the new actions was sex and things or the sort. She hadn’t had much experience past her previous husband; being with women was new and fun, especially with how you taught her. Leigh loved exploring new things with you, there was never a time where you shamed her for her curiosities and desires, even when you found that she liked to be teased about them. “Go on, tell me how much you wanted this.” 

“I…” Nimble fingers bypassed her underwear, rubbing over her folds while she tried to keep her composure. “I called you over just for this.” Leigh was shocked by her own confession, eyes wide as she waited for you to mock her. But it never came. Instead your lips traveled to her nipple, sucking as soon as your fingertips hit her clit and leaving her gasping for air. “Oh, please… just like that…” 

You nodded, laving over the peaked bud as your thumb moved to roll circles at the same time. It was addicting, playing her body just to watch her twist and turn and beg for you, sinking two fingers past her entrance was almost as rewarding as fucking yourself. “God, I love you.” 

“W-What?” Three simple words had her head snapping up, eyes fully focused on your now frozen form. She wasn’t prepared to hear that, had really never bargained for a romantic utterance of that phrase again for the rest of her life. Leigh didn’t hate it, she just hadn’t… thought much of it. But her reaction left you pulling away and the instant she saw hurt twist your features, she regretted selfishly leaving you hanging. “I’m not.. mad. I didn’t ask you to stop.”

“Not mad, you just don’t feel the same.” You tried to shake it off with a chuckle, but you couldn’t hide the hurt you felt. You hadn’t been saying it just to say it… You loved her. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to say it, or maybe it was just you. Maybe she only saw you as something temporary— 

“Please, don’t. Don’t do that.” Leigh pulled you back until you were hovering over her, forced to look down at pleading green eyes. It was hard to explain how she simply didn’t expect it; she felt those feelings, but had instinctively shoved them away. “I love you too, I just…”

“Just what, Leigh? You don’t have to force yourself to say it back. That’s so much worse.” You wanted to believe her, Leigh had never lied to you before; one of the things you loved about her was how honest she was with her feelings. Maybe it made her unlikeable to some, but you adored her for it. But currently, right now, she was hard to accept. 

Leigh sighed, raising her hands just to cradle your face. She could feel you pulling away mentally, your internal spiral threatening to draw you away from her for who knows how long. No matter what her insecurities, Leigh couldn’t lose you, not over her own shortcomings. “I love you. Really, I do, but I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

She was more out of practice with love than she was sex. True intimacy meant having more to be responsible for, much more to lose if anything went wrong. The possibility of waking up with you not in her life any more scared her more every day, having grown to look forward to your goofy selfies and tight hugs; Leigh wasn’t stupid, she knew what that meant. “I don’t think I’m good at being loved, or loving people well. Sometimes I ask for too much or I’m selfish and I don’t, I can’t hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me.” You leaned down just enough to nose at her chin, just trying to remind yourself that she was real, she wasn’t rejecting you, and this was just another conversation you needed to have. “I can’t think of a time where you ever felt me feel uncared for, even on your worst days. Give yourself more credit.” She wound her arms around your waist, pulling you until you had to lay on her; all she needed was to feel your weight grounding her. Sometimes Leigh needed a physical anchor during serious discussions, good or bad, and you were always happy to provide. “Tell me how you need to be loved and I swear I’ll do everything to never make you think loving you could ever be a burden.”

You flipped the two of you so she could lay on your chest; Leigh yelped with the sudden change, but she understood. Just like she needed to feel grounded, you liked being able to hold her whenever you were at risk of spiraling too deep into your own brain. As soon as Leigh got her bearings, she clung to you like a koala, trying to hold you in place just in case you decided you’d rather leave. As much as she was known for expressing how she felt, this was completely different, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t had a chance to prepare for. The only bit she could offer was small, just a minor thing where, if denied, she could force herself to smile through it. “I like kisses… I feel like we don’t kiss enough.”

It was true, you had a thing about kisses. To you, they were more intimate than most acts and while you’d often give her a quick peck on the cheek goodbye, it was granted her a full kiss— those you held close to your heart. But you loved her, she loved you.. that came with trusting her to value what those kisses meant to you. “I’ll kiss you if you want me to.”

Leigh smiled, nodding eagerly, “I really want you to kiss me, right now.” Green eyes stared down at you, hoping she hadn’t missed her chance from earlier. She couldn’t remember the last time she wanted something so simple so badly, but right now it was important. Every day you proved you loved her and today you'd said it; it was her turn to show it back now. “I love you. Please kiss me.”

She wasn’t an easy girl to crack, but you didn’t love her because she was easy. You loved her because she was human, missteps, fears, and all. Closing the distance was easy, just a few inches separating you, and when you kissed Leigh now, it felt like the first time you ever did. You kissed to convey emotions and thankfully, you had so many for the woman laying on you. “You’ve got an awfully kissable mouth.” 

#leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x f!reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw x you #leigh shaw fic #leigh shaw smut #leigh shaw fluff #leigh shaw imagine #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss fic #motts writes. #maximotts

[impossiblesongs]

i win (iii-iv) [simm!master x reader, gomez!master x reader]

Summary: This is a gift.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. This is a disclaimer.

AN: this pair hasn’t left me and now it’s everyone’s problem timeline: both fics have timelines included

timeline: both fics have timelines included

✍️✍️✍️fic masterlist

i win (iii) simm!master x reader simm!master timeline: post-10x12 The Doctor Falls

It’s Earth. He’s left you back on Earth, but not just anywhere. You look up from the street at what used to be your old residence sitting abandoned, allegedly condemned if you believe the notice at the fence. You don’t have to be a genius to guess that UNIT was probably to blame for keeping the house unused, as certain protocols called for. You had been devastatingly vague when they caught on to you traveling with the Master, whatever questions they had left they probably hoped to gain from searching your place of residence from top to bottom.

The last time you had seen this building, you moved to America. You had been trying to leave dead things behind, which incidentally is right where Missy had found you.

A morbid curiosity pulls you forward and has you walking the steps you walked many a time as a human on Earth.

The door is slightly ajar when you reach it, which doesn’t concern you initially, but the bloodstain on the handle does. You swirl around, eyes darting to every streetside. The Master said he was leaving you in his own hands, that had to mean he was here somewhere, yet there is no further sight of his Tardis.

You approach the door and resolve there’s nothing more to do than to slip inside.

The inner structure of your past home exists in shadows, and you dig your phone out of your back pocket. You hardly used the dated technology since abandoning Earth, but it does have a flashlight.

Turning it on, it’s easier to make out the place, bare as it is. It’s also easier to see the bloodstains that lead up the stairs. You don’t hesitate, taking two at a time. The writhing figure collapsed on the floor just past the threshold of your old bedroom punches the air from you.

“Ohmygod.”

The phone drops from your hands as you scurry forward and drop to your knees, pulling the Master’s head into your lap. His hair is more silver than peroxide when you run a hand through it.

“Master,” you whisper.

His eyes move behind his eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, but his lips curl wry, “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

His statement pulls a hearty guffaw from your lips, the sound seeming too loud in the dark. "I could very well say the same to you."

His eyes squint open and he struggles to catch a breath, let alone speak. Even coughing blood he shouts, the force causing him to curl at every word, “She. Stabbed. Me!”

“Who did?” you demand.

“Me,” he cackles deliriously. “Always, and I mean always, the women!”

“What can I do? What do I do?!”

“Nothing.” His hand pats the palm you have atop his chest and settles there, “Nothing to do. It’s done. I refuse! See how that suits the abominable quim.”

It settles in you with mounting dread because everything that has happened between you will not happen should he choose not to hold on, to choose despite, to regenerate.  

“No, no, you have to,” you urge fervently, can hear it in your voice. It’s gone high and desperate because you know this incarnation, you're possibly the only one who has bothered to know this him. From his venomous, capricious cruelty to his wickedly childlike sweetness, it is an absolute fact that this incarnation is virtually impossible to sway. “You can’t- you have to,” you sob, “you have to regenerate!”

The Master scowls angrily and tries to pull away from you, “I will not abide another person whinging at my deathbed!”

You grab him by either side of his face and yet he fights you still, the absolute bastard.

“Look at-LOOK AT ME, MASTER! YOU HAVE TO REGENERATE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I NEVER ASK YOU FOR ANYTHING YOU’RE NOT READY TO GIVE, BUT I’M ASKING YOU THIS, PLEASE! REGENERATE! REGENERATE!”

“NOOOO!”

His roar is deafening to your ears, a debilitating finality.

With nothing at all left to lose you rush forward and capture his lips in a kiss. It blindsides him so utterly that his body goes rigid as a corpse. You let your hold on him turn less frantic, turn tender, your tongue following the shape of his bottom lip.

The Master parts his mouth and dives headfirst into the kiss. It’s your first kiss, with this face, and it’s not even marred by the tang of his own blood filling his tongue.

His hands clutch at you greedily, bruising and possessive. The priority of discernment you hoped to uphold gets lost in the heady haze of his kiss, because the man, this man in particular, is an abyss. You're surprised you weren't swallowed whole from the very beginning.

Then, without another warning, he breaks the kiss and shoves you away furiously.

You barely have a chance to shield your eyes as the Master regenerates, howling his dying wrath.

i win (iv) gomez!master x reader gomez!master timeline: right after regenerating from simm!master

At first, you don’t take notice of how the regenerative energy has caught against the walls, the flame steadily building in your momentary enthrallment.

This is a gift. This is a gift. This is a gift.

The Master's final words as you parted from the Tardis replay in your mind, and even as it happens before your very eyes, you still can’t quite believe it. He knew the shape of your anguish with his previous face. The weight of your regret. The haunt of almost was, of what would never be.

Missy appears with a pronounced squeak, her hair a wild frizzy mane haloed around her face. You watch as her fingertips press to her lips first, lingering, before moving to map out the rest of her face. She gives a satisfied hum at the jut of her cheekbones and turns her head to the side to crack her neck. She brings her hands up to her eyesight and wiggles the digits for good measure. She continues her assessment of her new body, glancing down at her slight frame.

She pauses, seems to take in the difference, reaches to cup her breasts, and then proceeds to squeal with unrestrained glee.

She climbs to her feet quick and graceful as a cat and dusts off the Master’s suit, straightening the collar and her cuffs while backlit by the rapidly gaining blaze. Before you can mention it, her razor-sharp gaze flits on over towards you.

Missy raises her arm to rest against the doorway and juts her chin, looking down at you with a predatory leer.

You hear sirens fast approaching in the night and can’t help but glance back towards the stairs, “They’re coming.”

In your momentary distraction, you don’t notice Missy’s swift and silent approach. When you turn back, you’re startled to find her face inches from yours.

She takes secure hold of your wrist and says, “Say wheeeeeee!”

You both disappear in a puff of static.

You materialize on the edge of a cliff, wind whipping relentlessly in your face. Nausea lasts less than a second, but it feels longer. This entire experience doesn’t feel real. When you woke up this morning it was on the planet of Ietis, kipping in a makeshift bed of greenery with your husband at your side.

You suppose you have the same now, be it in another form.

You almost laugh. Technically, you have a mistress.  

The universe could just about stop turning at this point and you'd be none the wiser.

Raising your head you stare at Missy, standing ahead, eyes on the horizon. So startlingly alive. Your grief coils tight in your chest and it takes everything in you not to double over and break it free. 

“Tricky, tricky,” Missy mutters, pulling at her sleeve.

You note a device strapped to her wrist.

She admires the gadget, “For a dead man, he’s been oh, so fortunate to possess us with a vortex manipulator. Come on, up you get.”

She helps you to your feet and stares as if seeming to notice you for the first time.

“You’re older than I saw you last,” she says, running a new fingernail from your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up to her scrutiny. "Still pretty. How fortunate.”

You damn the ease with which you are flustered by seemingly every incarnation, shaking your head to disperse the flush coloring your cheeks.

“What now?” you ask.

“Oh, pet,” Missy grins wolfishly before swiftly twisting her hand through the hair at the back of your neck. “Heaven,” she answers, tugging you forward and pressing her lips to yours.

#the master x reader #simm!master x reader #gomez!master x reader #wyrwtd

[bellamy-taft]

Glass Epilogue: Joey

Joey cupped his hand over the phone screen to block some of the sunlight, and leaned closer to watch Serenity’s graduation video. She had worn her hair braided—he’d never seen her wear it that way before now—and when she accepted her diploma, turned to find their mother in the crowd to give a wave.

“Can’t believe you wore heels for it.”

Serenity bumped her swing into his. “Of course I did. I could hardly wear sneakers.”

“Course you could’ve. More comfortable that way.”

“I don’t think the aim of graduating is comfort.”

Joey still drew stares, but he noticed less of them today. Maybe it was because they saw Serenity first and didn’t expect to find of the of DK7 with her.

He hated the name. Hated the label. Hated the reason for being labeled. Hated a man two-months buried.

Or maybe he burned after he fell.

“Tell me Ma treated you to ice cream after.”

“Hardly. I’m now at the age sushi is a more appropriate celebration.”

“Ridiculous.”

They rocked forward and back in silence, toes dragging ground, letting the weight of all Joey had missed hang between them. It wasn’t only that she graduated. He had left her an awkward teen and come back to find his sister a woman. She lived with roommates and worked at the student center around her class schedule. She told him about her strict professors and her dating coworkers and their mother’s new boyfriend.

He couldn’t tell her about the dungeon cell.

The park wasn’t too busy at noon on a Thursday. A few mothers or nannies sat around while children played on the equipment, and Joey wished he had chosen a different time. They weren’t loud enough. There were still too many quiet moments.

“I still wish you’d called to let me know you were moving,” Serenity said. “I would have helped.”

“Me and Trist managed it all. Not like I had anything too big.”

His dad pawned off everything except Joey’s clothes and some odds and ends. Joey could hardly blame him. If his dad disappeared for three years, he wouldn’t have held onto his shit.

He would have liked to keep his deck, though. Even considering the creator.

“Then I could have come for moral support. Made you a moving playlist.”

“You fishing for an invite?” Joey nudged.

“School’s not so far away. I can be here in an hour, anytime.”

He heard the real offer hidden poorly in her tone, and twisted on his swing to face her.

“I’m fine. Really, Ren. Or you just looking for an excuse to pop in on Trist?”

She twisted to face him too, but her expression read of overwhelming frustration.

“You aren’t fine. You still won’t talk about it.”

“What’s there to say? Crazy billionaire played a blame game and we all got caught up in it. Took him out like we always do to those creeps.”

“You were gone for years.”

“Okay, so we didn’t execute as well as we have before. That’s what we get for letting Kaiba take the wheel.”

“Just…give me anything,” Serenity said. “I want to help.”

“Got the shrink for that.”

Although, he hadn’t told her anything about it either. How to explain magic items and a man trying to revive a dead wife to someone trained to tell him it was all in his head? No one was trained to deal with anything like what they’d gone through. He didn’t need someone trying to convince him that the months alone in the dark twisted his mind.

“I’m your sister.” It came out half accusation.

“I don’t know how to explain it anymore than he knew what to do with us,” Joey said. “And I want that time to be over. I need to put it behind me.”

A horn blared from the street and helped keep Joey grounded in the present. Serenity had grown, but she had been safe through it all. She easily could have been another Mokuba. They were on a playground, like old times. The island was far behind him.

He resolved to keep it there.

Her lips tightened, but the frustration shifted into something softer.

“When you’re ready, I’m always here for you.”

“Never doubted it,” Joey said, and gave her a smile he almost believed was real.

#already posted tea and duke #amazingly those were the first two i wrote

[mareagirls]

Hiii okay since you asked for mini blurbs: how about peter x reader who is flinchy and not used to touch because she's had a history of being bullied and is afraid of ppl getting in her physical space

hey anon! i hope this is okay! i used this prompt to just get back into the flow of writing so i hope it’s okay! between exams and holiday planning and generally being very busy, i feel tremendously out of practice!

You wake up one summer afternoon to the sound of Peter wondering around the kitchen. 

It’s getting dark outside, but he hasn’t turned the lights on yet, so all you get from your place on the couch is his shadowy silhouette. Tall and soft, all sloping angles and agile limbs.

He looks happy, light. You can tell from his frame alone that he’s unperturbed this afternoon and the thought makes your chest feel warm.

You want to keep Peter like this forever

A small part of you really wants to get closer to him too. Pull the blanket around your shoulders and shuffle forwards until you’re resting against his back. Your body fitting behind his like a puzzle piece that’s found it’s place. 

But another part of you ( a louder, meaner part)  knows that touch isn’t always easy. Knows that it can be overwhelming and unwelcome and confusing, even when it comes from those you love. You resolve to stay rooted to the couch instead of moving, happy for watch him from where you are. 

Cosy, and lulled to sleep by Peter’s easy humming, you start to doze off a little, lost in the comfortable place between waking and sleeping. Soothed by his presence and the knowledge that he’s back home.

You’re just about to slip off into sleep when a warm hand lands on your bare leg. 

“Hey, sweetheart. I’ve made dinner-“

Peter’s touch is not harsh, it doesn’t hurt, but your skin stings under the feeling as though you’ve been burnt. Before you can process what’s happening, your eyes snap open and you flinch away - tucking your bare legs in close to your chest, breaths coming heavy. 

Almost instantly, tendrils of worry begin to make themselves known in your body. Churning in your stomach, spilling out of the gaps between your ribs. Thick and fast. The disorientation of still being a little sleepy mixes with the surprise of being touched until you feel sick. 

And it’s not that Peter has never touched you. A sweet bump against your hip here, a gentle hand on your waist there, interlinked pinkies as you stroll through supermarket aisles. But it’s the first time that you weren’t paying attention enough to see it coming. 

Peter makes a soft placating sound with his mouth and crouches down so that he’s facing you properly. Upward turned palms and a surprised expression as he takes in your reaction.

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry, bub. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your boy looks worried, a deep kind of concern pooling in his eyes as his gaze tracks over your tight frame. You feel vulnerable and raw as he looks at you. You feel far more seen than you’d ever want to be.

“No- No you didn’t scare me.” The fumbling lie tastes wrong in your mouth - sleep addled and sour. “I’m just being a baby. It’s stupid, I’m sorry.” An apology escapes you before you can even really think it through. 

Something heartbroken ghosts over Peter’s features at your words and he shakes his head. 

“It’s not stupid. And you’re not a being a baby, sweetheart. I scared you. I should be the one apologising.”

His fingers stretch by your side without ever touching you, like he’s craving the feeling, but doesn’t want to cross any boundaries. You feel the love you reserve for him in the garden of your chest bloom a little more at his actions.

“I shouldn’t react like that when you touch my leg, Peter.” There’s an aching sort of sadness in your tone that the two of you pick up on.

“It’s not something you can control, bub. I know you’re not so keen on touch. I should have asked.”

And now it’s your turn to be surprised because you’d never considered for a second that Peter might have caught on to how finicky you can get about being touched.

“You realised?”

“Course I did, Y/N. It’s kinda my job to realise things about you.”

“Oh.” It leaves you so quietly that it’s more a sigh than a word. 

Peter gets up, brushes himself off and you think for an awful moment that he’s getting up to leave - bored by your anxiousness, sick of how you’re acting. 

But the boy limits himself to sitting next to you. 

“Scooch over, lovey.”

You do, obligingly, shuffling to the side but leaving half of the blanket free so that he can slip under if he wants. 

He does, easily keeping the distance between the two of you. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He looks so earnest in that moment that you think you would talk to Peter Parker about anything.

You clear your throat and knot your fingers together, forcing yourself to try and relax. 

“People weren’t always nice to me at school.”

Peter nods, eyebrows furrowed as he silently encourages you to continue. 

“I'd get pushed around sometimes, tripped up. Some of the kids in my year were awful. And I was so shy. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself or ask them to stop.”

A pause. You avoid Peter’s gentle eyes.

“I guess now being touched can feel overwhelming sometimes. It reminds me of being hurt when I was younger. And I don’t want to be afraid or panic, but I do. I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Peter is  quiet for a while, concentrating, gathering his thoughts before he speaks. When he opens his mouth, you brace for impact. 

But then,

“You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, lovely. No one does. You know that, right?”

Something warm and honey-like fills your chest tentatively when he says it. You nod and meet his gaze. 

“You didn’t deserve it at all,” Peter continues, looking down at where your hands rest . “I hate that you had to go through it alone, and that now you associate being touched with bad things because of it.”

“Are you.. Are you okay with it?”

Peter’s head snaps up, tangibly suprised. 

“Of course I’m okay with it, bub. I love you. Nothing you’ve told me right now has changed that.”

“Your love language is physical touch, Peter.” 

It’s pretty obvious to you. You’ve seen the way he is with his loved ones - all hugs and hand squeezes and achingly playful shoulder nudges. Peter Parker is a tactile boy. Open where you are shy, touchy where you’ve learnt to be reserved.

“Sweetheart,” Your boy shakes his head in disbelief. “My sweetheart, my love, my baby. There are a million different ways I can love you and touch doesnt need to be involved in any of them.”

He says it like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said and your eyes start to sting in return. 

Peter just moves a little closer. Still far enough that you can enjoy your own space, but close enough that you can feel the heat on his body spilling onto yours.

“If you want to start getting used to being okay to be touched again, we can figure it out. If you don’t feel ready yet, that’s okay too.” His tone is serious. 

“If I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable, you let me know and I’ll stop straight my away. Okay? Even if it’s just a pat on the back.”

You open your mouth to retort that you don’t want to keep him from acting in a way that comes easy and natural to him, but Peter raises an eyebrow.

“I mean it. We’re a team. I got you just like you got me.”

That night the two of you hold hands whilst you eat. His, wrapped loosely around your own. It’s new and different, but not overwhelming with Peter by your side. The sensation makes you happy

When you tell him so, Peter smiles at you.

“Good,” he whispers from the other side of the table. “Stay like this forever.”

#peter parker fluff #peter parker imagine #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker imagine #andrew garfield spiderman x reader #tasm peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #peter parker oneshot #peter parker drabble #hurt/comfort

[littlemisssquiggles]

...So...about the TENTH episode of RWBY V9 a.k.a the season finale....

There is so much to unpack from this finale episode. Forgive me if my thoughts and musings are going to be all over the place since…that’s honestly how I felt walking away from this episode.

Where do I even begin?

Okay---first impressions only---I’m just gonna come out and say that I was a bit disappointed that Ruby didn’t change at all in the end. I mean, I figured she would keep some aspect of herself but the fact that she basically came back as the old her left me feeling…I dunno, baited?

I mean what was the point of having Ruby go through all of that if ultimately she was just going to remain her old self?

I mean, sure. Her experience in the Ever After probably changed her in some way from a psychological standpoint but…on the surface, Ruby just looked like the only thing she gained was her confidence in herself.

And when I look at it from that point of view, I guess it’s not so bad. But, on the other hand, I can’t help but feel like it almost cheapens everything that Ruby went through in the season.

All that angst just for her to come out the same way? Really? They couldn’t even have her change her weapon or change her outfit? Something to symbolize a difference?

I dunno. I mean, I’m glad Ruby didn’t change too much in terms of her design but I’m not gonna pretend that I’m not slightly soured by the fact that, after all of that development, nothing really changed about Ruby. She’s still the same. I could only assume her personality changed. I guess we’ll have to see how much the Ever After has affected Ruby moving forward into the next chapter of the story.

Another thing that bummed me about the conclusion to the Ever After story was that after all that, it still didn’t help solve how the heroes are going to stop Salem though? So in a sense, we’re back to square zero somewhat with our heroes returning to Remnant with no knowledge of how to stop Salem.

There is one interesting detail though. We now know that Raven is connected to the night that Summer Rose disappeared and presumably died. I find this little detail quite interesting and a bit strange cause, correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t there a RWBY DC comic that took place after Summer had died in terms of storyline where Ruby went around asking about her mother and then she met Raven, in bird form, who said a bunch of mean things about Summer, giving the impression that there was some animosity towards Summer from Raven.

Yet, here in V9 finale, it was revealed that Raven was there the night she disappeared/killed by Salem. So what happened? What really happened? Just when I figured the whole mystery behind Summer was resolved last season in V8, V9 just swooped in and completely obliterated that.

So there is more to the story and apparently whatever choice Summer made that night she took off on a mission will probably hold the true key to stopping Salem somehow.

Pushing aside the negatives I had with the episode, I thought this finale was epic. The final fight between RWBYJ and the Curious Cat was some of the best combat animation I’ve seen from the show in a long time.

I also loved the extra bit of lore we received from the Blacksmith. So basically, the Blacksmith is the personification of the Tree and in another surprising twist, it turns out that the Brother Gods are creations of the Tree.

Here I was thinking that the Ever After was another world that the Brothers created together when in actuality, the Ever After created the Brother Gods.

I also liked the tidbit from the Blacksmith about how when the brothers created the Jabberwalker, despite its destructive power, the Brothers---at least the God of Light, refused to kill their creation.

I found this interesting because it provided an explanation as the why the Brothers---at least the God of Light, never got rid of Salem. Technically, Salem got her immortality from the God of Light after she first fell into his pool. Although the God of Darkness was quick to eradicate all of humanity---highlighting that Darkness has no problem killing his own creations. Light on the other hand is strongly against this which would explain why Salem was just left to her devices.

I mean, it still doesn’t provide the best explanation for that little plot hole from the Lost Fable, but it’s still something that makes sense within the lore of the show so I’ll take it for now.

That being said, since the Brother Gods who made Remnant are the by product of the Tree of the Ever After then surely this will NOT be the last time we see of this mysterious world and the Blacksmith.

Our heroes will have to go back to the Ever After at some point since a) we’ll need to see what happened to Neo following her transformation, b) we’ll need to see what became of Little Somewhat and Juniper after RWBYJ left and most importantly of all, if the Ever After created the Gods then surely there must be a way to undo Salem’s immortality in the Ever After; specifically the Tree.

Unless it’ll be the case where Salem will learn about the Tree and set her sight on going their herself? Who knows. Will see how that goes in time, I suppose.

Glad Jaune was able to get some closure for what happened with Alyx. Also glad to see that they deaged him back to his younger self but not exactly?

Anyone else noticed that Jaune-y still kept his ole man streaks? So even though Jaune is back to his old self, his memories and experience from the Ever After still remain with him.

So for all the Jaune stans in the audience, Jaune is gonna probably be a badass next season combat-wise cause, he's still "mature" on the inside despite being young again. I kinda like that touch.

Also Weiss giggling at Jaune reacting to his old voice is giving me hope for White Knight next season. Just cause Jaune is young again doesn't mean he isn't mature on the inside so Weiss might like that a lot next season.

Then there is the ending where the Blacksmith dropped RWBYJ.

I find it interesting that the Blacksmith told RWBYJ that the door will take them when they are needed the most. Not where.

When meaning a specific point in time when they are needed. So…does this mean there’s a timeskip?

When RWBYJ walked through the portal, they were in front of Vacuo but…Amity Tower (or what looks like Amity Tower) is there and there are (what looks like) Altesian airships in the sky above the kingdom?

I could be deeply mistaken about the airships being Atlesian since Atlas fell but that is definitely Amity Tower??? Which means Maria and Pietro are alive?

All in all, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a timeskip between the time RWBYJ disappeared into the Ever After. Whether that skip was in months or years, we’ll have to wait for a V10 to confirm.

Either way, I truly hope there was a timeskip.

All in all, that’s all I have to say for the season finale of V9 as a first impression.

Overall, not lying to say, I think V9 was really good season. Definitely BETTER than V8. Unlike V8, I’m leaving V9 with rejuvenated faith in the writing and story of RWBY. V9 was a solid season. Even though I had some issues with one or two things from the finale, I enjoyed pretty much every episode of this season. There wasn’t an episode where I felt bored or disconnected wit

Y’know what I just realized. Neo, in a sense, became both the Jabberwalker and the Curious Cat. Not only did she kill or absorb the Jabberwalker (somehow) but she also killed the Curious Cat. The last scene with her before she went to the tree is her summoning the Jabberwalkers to kill the cat.

The Cat was created to fix broken Afterans while the Walker was made to balance it out. But as of now, neither the Walker or the Cat exist anymore since Neo kind of killed them both. So, does this mean that Neo will become a sentient being meant to replace both the Cat and the Walker?

That’s what I wanna know. What will Neo become in the end? But that’s a potential story for another prospective season.

Overall, I enjoyed V9. For me, V9 is the best season to come out of the CRWBY Writer Quartet. Certainly their best work together coming off of the mess that was V8 which I thought was their worst work.

As to where V9 stands for me compared to previous seasons---while V9 will never top V2 (that still remains to be my personal favourite season of RWBY), I do think it deserves a spot in my top 3 picks for the best season of RWBY.

As it stands, I’m willing to put V9 as my second favourite season of RWBY. While I still love V3, I’d say V9 did well enough on the writing to be in second place for now. While this could change for me later after I’ve had more time to think about the season as a whole, for now, V9 is second. Like I said, definitely in the top 3 picks for RWBY’s best on this squiggle meister’s list.

Congratulations, CRWBY Writer Quartet, after several years, you have finally produced a post Monty era season with writing good enough to trump two of my favs from the Beacon Trilogy.

I hope moving forward, the showrunners maintain this level of quality in the writing in the event that V10 is greenlit.

For what it’s worth, I’d like for RWBY to at least get one more season to tie everything together. While I don’t need another trilogy of seasons (I feel like that will be asking for too much now), it’d be great if the show gets at least ONE MORE VOLUME to go out with a bang, y’know what I mean.

But only time will tell. As for now, I enjoyed the episode. I enjoyed the season and I honestly would like for there to be a V10. That’s all I’ll say for now.

~LMS (2023)

#squiggles talks: rwby #rwby volume 9 #rwby volume 9 spoilers #rwby volume 9 finale #ruby rose #jaune arc

[everythingisblue-if]

Hiii how ya doing? I hope u are keeping well and having enough of rest 😇... I wanted a scenario ask... I wanted a scenario of lane and henry's reaction on an F! Mc acting distant and seeming to hide smthing and when the ros confront her she will tell him it's because she's pregnant with their child ... How would lane and henry react to this news,😊😊🥰... Have a very very good week ahead of u! 🥳

sry I’ve been out, just needed a tiny break from asks, and all my asks are like full on, long scenarios and I was not mentally prepared lol. But I’m going to try work my way through

~

(Beginning)

You peek your head through the threshold of the bathroom, steam coming off your shoulders. You had a white, fluffy towel tied around your body, water droplets dripping from your hair. Your eyes raced back and forth across the bedroom, making sure you were completely alone. You let out a sigh of relief, holding the towel closer to your chest. You tiptoe from the bathroom, leaving trails of water behind you. You work your way across the room, heading straight for your wardrobe closet. Turning the blue handle, a figure bursts out from the array of clothes…

~

Lane stood before you, his hair slightly disheveled, but his gaze was hard. You back away, clutching your towel tighter. You gestured to the closet. “Why were you hiding in there?”

Lane looks back at the closet as if noticing it for the first time and closed the double doors. He releases the handles, and peers over his shoulder at you. “Why are you hiding?”

Your eyes widened and you sputtered out words, never seeming to form a sentence. Lane raises his brow, watching you with utter curiosity. When you don’t give him an answer, he tugs at the towel around your body. You hold it tighter. “Why,” he began, “did you not have one of the maids bathe you?”

You move away from him, letting his hand drop from the towel. “You know that makes me uncomfortable.”

He gives you a slow blink. You blink at him as well, but your resolve was slowly crumbling. “It never makes you uncomfortable when you are too tired to bathe yourself.”

You scoff, but you were less than annoyed. You were nervous. You weren’t sure if it was sweat bedding on your forehead or the water from your bath. You knew you had every right to tell him what’s been going on. But all you heard was ringing and all you’ve seen was Lane’s mouth moving dramatically.

You take a deep breath and the ringing subsides, replacing the bells with the tone of Lane’s voice. “—I’ve barely seen you, and that is outrageous considering how we live together.”

You purse your lips, lifting your shoulders in a small shrug. “It is a big castle.”

Lane closes his eyes and clenches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Buying your lip, you move forward, placing a hand on his chest, letting your fingers grasp his blue shirt.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

Lane’s eyes popped open, his hand falling away from his face immediately. He furrows his eyebrows, his mouth slightly open. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

You give him a tiny smile, rubbing a small circle on his chest, which helps him relax a little. “I know you heard me.”

He stares at you for a moment, his mouth gaping. He then closes his mouth and clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think I need to sit down.”

———————

Henery rose, coming face to face with you, his chest brushing against yours. Your eyes widened and you flinched away from him. Your mouth was open in shock as you gripped the towel tighter against your chest. “Why are you in there?”

He scoffs, walking around you towards the bathroom you just left. Your forehead wrinkles as he goes inside, hearing the sound of clattering and banging. You shuffle over to the room but stop suddenly when Henery emerged.

“Where is he?” Henery demanded.

You look around the room, the cold air now afflicting your warm skin from the bath. You furrow your brows, confusion all over your face. “Where is who?”

He took a dangerous step closer, towering over you menacingly. “The man.” He lets out a shuddered breath. “The man you’ve been seeing.”

The man you’ve been seeing? The only man you’ve been seeing is Henery and the other members of the castle. But then it dawns on you. He believes you’re cheating. Having affairs behind his back.

You close your eyes, sighing heavily. You could not believe him. But he believed it. He continued talking about your associations with a man that never existed. “—the rumors have been plaguing the castle. As you’ve been avoiding me, there has been a little thought in my mind that it might be true.” He heaves a sigh. “But now the thought has grown.”

You hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder and you feel him tense. Looking up at him, the words flew past your lips. “I’m pregnant.”

Henery tensed even more, and you felt more worried than before. His eyes bore down on you. “Are you sure it is not a man?”

~

Thank you for your ask! Mwah 💋👑

#everything is blue #tried my best #if #ro asks #ros #Henery #Lane #interactive fiction #romance #asks #ro

[electrasev5nwrites]

Ninja Daily: AIC 1

It would have been really fucking cool to use Hiraishin seals to bring objects to her instead of traveling to objects. Aiko kept that thought in mind, and not how phenomenally the experiment had failed.

'Fuck if I know why I ended up where I did. Fucking random. Shouldn't I have ended up near a seal?'

There was exactly no chance that Aiko had ever left a seal in Mizugakure.

"Bloodline user!"

Especially not, you know, in the reign of Yagura. Who was giving her an unpleasant look, and leaping backwards as his guards moved forward with blood in their eyes.

At least it wasn't her first time travel mishap. She quickly focused on the important part.

"I was not!" Aiko retorted, ducking under a machete that should have taken off her head. It made a slicing sound when it passed over.

Unfair. What kind of idiot assumed a bloodline was responsible when someone appeared out of the shadows-

Oh. Shit.

She cheesed it, sprinting past the surprised shouts and reflexive projectiles. Aiko went up a building face, scorching the stone facing and accidentally blowing chips off with too much chakra. At least three Mist-nin followed with more grace.

'Did I just start the Bloodline Purge?' she wondered in the part of her head that wasn't going 'oh shit oh shit oh shit when the hell am I?' because history had never been her strong suit.

That would be embarrassing. But at least it wasn't boring…

Luckily or not, a few days later Aiko managed to track down a newspaper that confirmed she should find a textbook when she went home.

'So how long do I have to wait until Mei-nee-chan kills Yagura and I can have a friend with an important hat?'

Ugh. Aiko turned the newspaper to the front page to glare accusatively at the date again. The man selling the papers cleared his throat.

"Have a cold?" she asked, not really caring.

'I'm eleven at this point. Or…' Aiko looked down to confirm that her body was very much that of an adult, as it should be. 'Well. One of me is eleven.'

It'd be a while until that shitty situation was resolved in Mizu. Not that it was like, Aiko's problem or anything. She didn't care.

Aiko scowled, crumpling the newspaper in disgust and stomping off.

Even in her short-circuited confusion, Aiko had had enough sense to travel west. She'd lost her pursuers when she'd vaulted over the village wall and blown up a cart full of goji berries. She had only felt a little sorry for the tradesperson she'd probably bankrupted, because it had been pretty funny.

She'd had to switch to traveling over the water after only an hour of running after losing her pursuers, at which point she'd relaxed the pace down to a ground-eating lope. Island nations were funny that way. Nothing like Konoha.

'Is that where I should be going?'

Aiko sighed and ran her hands through her hair, fingers catching first on a knot and then the tangled mess that had been a braid.

First of all, she should find somewhere to stay for the night and get cleaned up. She was attracting sideways looks. But she didn't have a change of clothes, damnit, and what she was wearing would not last well through repeated wear.

But come on, it was normal to do things like seal experimentation in one's pajamas. If it had worked, she would probably have at most endured the awkwardness of bringing Yamato to her kitchen along with the kunai in his possession. Instead, it had been like… like her sense of her seals had caught, stuttered, and then re-focused on nothing that she recognized. Like she was suddenly on the wrong radio frequency, tuning into someone else's conversation.

Instead, Aiko was wandering the business district of a smallish city two islands away from the capital of Mizugakure at twilight in puppy-patterned shorts and a wide-strapped tank top. At least she had real sandals on; through they were leather-bottomed strappy affairs and not shinobi grade equipment. She started to keep an eye out for a hotel to spend the night.

Wait. She didn't have any money with her.

Well, she could just go home and-

She couldn't. Not really. Her gut churned. At eleven, she was an unfriendly Chuunin with more arrogance than experience. Okay, even if she got past village security, and the Hokage believed her (okay, he probably would, since they had gone through this time travel thing before), what was she expecting? Who was going to leap to help her? Jiraiya could probably help her figure out what she'd done, but he wasn't in Konoha.

Figuring out what she'd done wouldn't get her back home, though. It might not even be possible. She couldn't sense her seals at all. Was she going to have to live out the next nine years until she was back where she was supposed to be?

That didn't quite make sense. She couldn't resume her own life, because she would already be living it.

'So… do I need to find a new life and live it?' Aiko wondered. 'Just… do whatever feels right and will keep me amused?'

Terrifying. Annoying. Also interesting.

The worst part was that no one knew who she was, and her hard-earned reputation was gone. The best part was that no one knew who she was, and she could do whatever the hell she wanted with no consequences whatsoever. Who was going to stop her, Tsunade?

She stopped smiling, because the expression had grown so wide that all her teeth were showing and a woman had just jerked her child out of Aiko's path with wide, appalled eyes.

'You know what would be really funny?'

Yes. Yes, she really did. Aiko took a moment to think it through, coming up with the vague notion of baffling and tormenting people she didn't like. If she went cross-continental and set up a skeleton of Hiraishin tags, it'd be a lot safer. She plotted out the easiest route to cover absentmindedly, jiggling open a third-floor hotel window and hoisting herself in. She showered first, using all the complimentary shampoo and conditioner. Aiko wrinkled her nose, but laid out the same outfit for the next day, and crawled into bed.

'Now that I know my tags are at risk if Obito grabs me through kamui, I just won't let that happen. If he moves toward me, I'll just up and go. It's not like he'll know who I am, or have the same interest in me.'

Aiko woke up in the dead of the night to go shopping. Whatever city she was in had a vibrant nightlife, but she actually seemed less out of place than she had during the day. Smiling, Aiko nodded at a group of drunks stumbling down the street.

'I should get more changes than I think I'll need. Nothing I can buy here will be the industrial, reinforced materials that I'm used to in Konoha.'

That didn't bother her, to be honest. That was what she'd made do with when she was running with Obito, and it wasn't like armor was integral to her fighting style.

When she found a likely looking boutique, Aiko slipped around to the alley and forced the back door open. The clothes she found were a little off-putting, truth be told. Civilian fashion in Mist nine years back had apparently tended toward pastels and very low necklines, cut in dramatic vees. They would look a lot better on soft, curvy civilian women than they would on her. She frowned at them. After a little digging, she found a less unnlikely blue top with a silvery modesty panel, and paired it with a green knee-length skirt. She changed right there on the sales floor, eagerly dropping her day-old pajamas. Aiko walked away from the dirty clothes, keeping an eye out for the next item on her list. She found a reasonably secure and chic pink backpack- a tiny purse sized thing with spindly straps, but at least it wouldn't flap around like a purse would when she ran.

At the counter, she found a pad of stationary and a pen. She took the whole thing, scribbling storage seals on the first pages and picking out spare outfits to tuck away. Her pajamas went in too, as did all but one of a packet of headbands and some scrunchies. Aiko took a moment to make a pouty face at her reflection on a mirror, taking care to make sure her hair fell nicely around her new accessory.

There was absolutely nothing useful in terms of footwear, unfortunately. Her sandals were drastically out of place, so she packed up and went on search of another, more promising store.

When she thought she had enough equipment (and it was a damn shame that she didn't have a single weapon of any sort, how annoying) Aiko hefted her little bag and the notepad inside. She set out, taking care to brush not one but three seals into the coastal city she'd ended up in. It seemed like a pretty safe little hideout, truth be told. Then she left over the water, headed for the mainland. She came ashore in Wave Country.

'Isn't this nostalgic?' Aiko tilted her head, slowing to a walk as she crossed a bridge. She was pulling her hair up into something neater to cope with the humidity and heat when she noticed the first thin, hungry-eyed civilian.

That was what she remembered. Hmm. Yes, she was only about a year away from when her team would swing by and kill Gato, wasn't she? He must be in his heyday. Curious, Aiko made a detour for the little town she remembered, bending to scoop up a rock, plant a seal on it, and then toss it into the underbrush.

The civilians were already starving, thin and desperate under the despotic reign of someone with no concept of ensuring a capable workforce. Aiko frowned, wondering why Gato was so incompetent. There wasn't really any point to brow-beating the civilians like this. If he was greedy, why wasn't he attempting to profit off of this? He was already the only game in town. He could offer jobs with low pay, stifle the competition, especially since there was currently no easy connection to the mainland, and make a helluva lot of money. He didn't even have to be hated to do it.

'I'll never understand some people.' Contemplative, Aiko perched on a tree and swung her legs. The town woke sluggishly. A few people kept chickens, and they were up at a decent time to take care of the poultry. Fishermen and women headed out next, craggy and sun-burnt people with scarred hands. And… that was it? She frowned. There should be kids heading to school, businesses opening, that kind of thing. But there just wasn't.

Boo. Maybe she should do something.

On the other hand, she wasn't interested in heroics, and they'd be saved in a year anyway. But jeeze, it seemed kind of bitchy to leave them to suffer for so long. Aiko frowned, trying to pick out why she was so reluctant to interfere. It wasn't like she cared about making sure the mission went as planned when her team came out, so that wasn't it. Was it? Not exactly.

'That's the first time they're really out of Konoha- the only location I can reasonably confirm. If I leave this situation fundamentally unchanged, that'll be my first opportunity to see familiar faces from Konoha.'

And maybe, if she were totally honest, she was a little interested in being scouted by Konoha. She wasn't a missing nin on anyone's books, so she wasn't a criminal. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She'd stolen from other towns, but she wouldn't take from already starving mouths here.

She could just be a wandering shinobi- someone who'd picked up their trade from a village outsider. It was no crime to be taught by a missing nin, or a parent.

'And Konoha likes Uzumaki. I mean. The Sandaime just scooped Karin up like she was an extra tomato at the market or something.'

She felt cheered, for a moment. Then she realized-

'I don't actually have the traditional Uzumaki looks.'

Okay. When she stood between Naruto and Karin, it was obvious that she belonged. But on her own? Uzumaki wouldn't be the first thought.

Her hair was red, but not the iconic shade. Her face was too pointy to be the feminine ideal, yeah, but her features tended more toward the sharp eyes, brows, and thin lips of her dad and not the wide cheeks, pointed chin, and sharp-tipped nose of her mom.

'Well. I'm close enough. I have chakra chains and I know a lot of fuinjutsu. Anyone who's familiar with Uzumaki traits would put that together.'

That sounded like another reason to wait for team seven. Uzushiogakure had fallen long enough ago that there weren't many active ninja left from its heyday. Like, Tsunade was a bit young to have had much interaction, and that was a bad sign. But Kakashi had known Kushina. He'd clue in, if she was obvious enough.

'I don't know if it's a reason or a pretense, but that's what I'm going with.'

That did leave Aiko with plenty of time to kill. Sort of.

'How do I know when we're about to come? I'm not going to hang out and wait for a year.'

Not in this dingy little backwater, anyway. Besides, she had plans. She had people to pretend to meet for the first time, people to kill, and, uh, people to confuse. She was starting to notice a theme. Hmm.

'Is it possible that I'm just a really rude person?'

Maybe. Oh well. She dismissed the thought for more important matters.

'Zabuza. He's a big enough name that word gets around. If I keep my ear to the ground and pay attention to what he's doing, I can be reasonably certain of the timing. I'll just wait for him to move into Wave to work for Gato.'

Feeling cheered, Aiko added several stops to her cross-continental tour to check for information. She stopped in disreputable bars, a harbor with a significant smuggling presence, and one opium den that she was familiar with from her time running illicit materials.

It turned out that it was hard to coast on the reputation of her dangerous terrorist organization whilst

A. the terrorist organization was currently obscure to the point of irrelevance B. she was not a member of the terrorist organization anyway

"Please let me see your books?" Aiko tried, tilting her head to the side.

The information broker looked unimpressed, crossing enormous tattooed arms. "Smiling isn't going to work. Flirting isn't going to work. Violence isn't going to work. If you don't have the cash, you'd better either leave or just kill me now." His expression dared her to try.

Sullen, Aiko held up a finger to indicate one moment. "I'll be back."

"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out." He picked his romance novel back up.

'Information extracted through torture is the least reliable,' Aiko reminded herself. Her hand curled into a fist. Instead of leaving, she exited the sideroom into the bar area, taking a moment to primp. She pinched her cheeks and lips. She took down her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair. Then she plastered a glassy, half-drunk-and-happy-about-it expression on her face and sauntered into the bar.

She scanned the room. Forty-two people, one drug deal, seven couples, one group of three who weren't friends, and-

One man eying her up from behind a nearly empty glass with some dark liquid nestled in ice.

Aiko made direct eye contact, raised an eyebrow, and indicated the bathroom with about the level of subtlety one might expect from drunks.

There was a moment of, 'Cool, really?' before the dark-haired stranger excused himself from his friends and started towards the restrooms, glancing at her questioningly. Aiko gave a huge, visible sigh, and walked into the men's restroom, fully expecting him to follow. She closed her eyes, focusing just enough to force her eyes to filter to the Rinnegan.

When her new friend opened the door, Aiko immediately whammied him with what was probably an unsafe amount of chakra and the compulsion to sleep. He dropped like a fish. Like, physically dropped.

'I always forget that part.'

Aiko lunged to break his fall, and wished she'd waited a second longer to jump the guy, because the door caught on the poor chump's foot. She wheezed, painstakingly dragging her victim out of the way. The door shut sheepishly, cutting off the ambient noise of conversation and distant radio programming.

His wallet was in his back pocket. Aiko picked out what she needed and fished the pen out of her bag to scribble an apologetic face on the back of a receipt. Before leaving, she propped the poor civilian up against a clean-ish wall and hid his wallet in his shoe. Getting robbed once was probably enough.

'The stealing is getting old. Besides, it's sloppy procedure to leave a constant trail like that. People talk.'

With that in mind, Aiko left a meeting with the now pliant-if-not-pleasant information broker with the knowledge that Zabuza had last been seen in Grass and the additional tidbit rumor of a nearby client who could use a hand with something he'd rather not approach a shinobi village for. She felt better with some good, honest work on the radar.

Well. You know. As honest as she felt like being. Aiko didn't give it too much thought, because serving as some rich bratling's inconspicuous guard paid pretty well and she only had to step in occasionally when her employer's drunk kid insulted someone bigger. Besides, the gig came with all the knives she could pocket from the jumpy genin washout who was working as the partygirl's other escort. Aiko needed them more than he did anyway. He was a genin working outside the village system, for crap's sake. He wasn't going to last the year.

'Maybe that means he needs the weapons more than I do?'

Well. She could use them better, anyway. Aiko ended the mission with money in her pocket, four kunai and an increasingly paranoid, twitchy coworker.

He stayed.

Aiko considered leaving without saying anything. It wasn't really her business. But they hadn't been a bad team- he looked like hired muscle and drew the attention, while she looked like another vapid rich kid slumming and hit the people who were still looking suspiciously at the genin. It wasn't a bad system, although it was one in which he was tragically disposable if his partner didn't care to watch his back.

'It is not going to be long before he runs into someone he can't handle. He looks big and scary, but he's just a baby, really.'

"You should probably get out while you're ahead," Aiko commented as she counted up her pay notes. "You're not cut out for this." The genin stood abruptly and walked out without comment.

'Fine. I tried.'

The next jobs she picked up were head-hunting gigs. They paid without any questions and she didn't risk making any friends.

Months passed in that way. Aiko slipped around the cracks of human refuse, slumming at the bottom of the barrel and taking missions that were advertised as better for a team. There was increased risk and hard nights without sleep, but she made bank by pocketing pay meant for more people. She saved up a fair bit of money.

It was… Thrilling and satisfying, actually. But lonely, yeah. She tried summoning her dogs- it didn't work. She could summon other animals, but not the ones she knew and cared about it. That was a harder blow than the loss of her Konoha citizenship, truth be told. She could probably go back if she really wanted to, and worm her way into the lives of people she might eventually miss. But if Mitsuo and Hōseki weren't answering her call, it meant that they were unable to.

They were never going to be able to.

Melancholy, Aiko spent far too much money in a bar that night. Nothing cheered her up- not the alcohol, not fleecing civilians at dart games, and not throwing an offended patron through a window when she became increasingly buzzed and forget to downplay her aim.

'I haven't heard anything about Zabuza in a while,' Aiko mused. 'I'll treat myself. Do something fun. Just be a real shithead. Then I'll check in on him.'

Still tipsy, she checked into a dive hotel for the night and tried to judge her location on the decent map of Hiraishin tags she'd made in the time she'd been stranded.

She determined that her geographical abilities were lacking enough that she would not attempt to relocate herself to a safehouse she hadn't been to in years while buzzed.

Sober, the next morning, on the other hand, Aiko seamlessly tugged on reality. It deposited her in the attic of the Akatsuki safehouse she'd been aiming for.

Aiko shrugged. Close enough. She jogged down the stairs and idly held up a hand in greeting when she passed by an open bedroom door. "Yo."

Iwa no Deidara grunted in response. By the time he'd jerked his head back up with a, "Wait, what?" Aiko was stepping into the kitchen in search of liquids that would chase off her hangover.

"Morning." Aiko nodded, keeping her tone bored.

Kisame opened his mouth and let coffee splash onto the table. He gave her a bewildered look.

'More cautious than I thought. He's probably wondering who brought me, and if Pein will kill him for attacking me. For all he knows, I'm a new hire, or someone from management.'

"Need a rag?" Still pretending that she belonged there, Aiko pulled open the top drawer, rolled her eyes at the measuring cups inside, and then tried another drawer down. The ex-Mist nin accepted the cloth she tossed.

'Don't smile. Don't. It'll undermine what I have going on here.'

She could feel her lips twitch. It was okay. She was turned away enough that he couldn't see it. Aiko controlled her expression and pulled down a teacup and saucer. When she turned around, she was all business. "Is there anything half-decent?"

The Mist Nuke-nin nodded cautiously, jerking his shoulder toward a cupboard. "I'd avoid the ocha. It's old. The rest is fine."

Uchiha Itachi wandered into the kitchen, made himself a bowl of green tea ice cream, and left without acknowledging her presence. It took half an hour for Pein to notice the intrusion, or to decide to deal with it. When the most familiar Path strode into the kitchen, Aiko was in the middle of checking the math in Kisame's checkbook.

"Kunoichi."

Aiko waved him off. "Just a minute," she said distractedly. "Thanks."

Inconspicuously, Kisame pushed his chair away from hers. He didn't reach out to pull away his checks, though.

"I do not repeat myself." Pein intoned darkly.

'Oh god, this is too easy.'

She cupped a hand to her ear. "Sorry, what?" Aiko mimed confusion. "I didn't hear that."

"I do not-" Pein cut his automatic response off, giving her a downright vicious glare.

'Moron.'

Aiko leapt across the table and tackled Pein to the ground.

Or, like, that was the idea. Instead she smacked into him with about the result she'd expect from charging a wall. The teacup in her hand even shattered from the collision, leaving her holding onto a curved shard the length of her bent finger. Because she was in fact a kunoichi and not a professional wrestler, Aiko flipped away and flung her kunai. They tik-tik-tik-tikt into the walls as he dodged them, moving all the way around her.

Which was, you know, fine. Because she now had two kunai embedded in the east wall, one in the south, and one in the west wall, and they were all Hiraishin.

Pein really literally did not see her coming. She appeared behind him, already jabbing her piece of broken glass forward and up through his brain stem.

'It's not really him anyway.' Aiko stepped back hastily to avoid the falling body; because Pein's favorite corpse to puppet around was super heavy with metal and what was probably ten years of slow rot.

The actual Pein was probably blinking somewhere from the sudden loss of sight and kicking at his wheelchair.

'I bet he's so confused.'

She cackled, tossing her head back and letting her blood-stained china fall from her hand.

"Serves you right, asshole," Aiko wheezed. "With your creepy jutsu and shit." She controlled herself enough to bend and wiggle out one of the metal piercings powering the corpse. She was kinda curious about how that worked. It wasn't really her style to be so far removed from a fight (that seemed like it would take the fun out of things) but it never hurt to pick up a technique.

Kisame cleared his throat just as she tucked the jewelry into her bra for safekeeping. Aiko turned around to see that he was holding out a clean teacup with a suspiciously neutral expression.

"Thank you." She took it. She let him pour her a new cup.

'Well, he did come from Mist. I think succession does traditionally go that way.'

"What now?" Hoshigaki Kisame was completely unfazed. Perhaps he could be described as politely interested, but that would be a stretch.

Aiko shrugged. The answer was obvious. 'Pein will regroup and come charging in here, a lot more prepared this time, at which point I will get the hell out of town.'

Of course, she knew that, and Konan would know that, but no one else would. It wasn't like Pein went around explaining the fundaments of his techniques and letting the implied weaknesses hang in the air.

"I'm taking command of this boyband," Aiko decided, spinning her now empty cup around the table with a finger. "You will be the cool one. Kakuzu-kun can be the one with a beard; Deidara-san is the eye candy, and Konan-chan is our manager. Oro- is Orochimaru here? If so, he's our androgynous, hypnotically dangerous backup singer." She pretended to think, tapping at her chin. "And Itachi-kun can just go home and think about his life choices."

Kisame eyed her up for a long moment. He shrugged without offering comment.

There was a snigger. "I am the cute one," Iwa no Deidara agreed from the door, delighted. He stepped over Pein's feet and pulled out a chair with an obnoxious scraping sound. "So who the hell are you, yeah?"

"Aiko, pleased to meet you." She favored him with a nod. Both men stiffened a little when she clapped her hands as loudly as possible. She injected seriousness into her tone. "Okay! So. The actual plan." They waited. She noted that Uchiha Itachi and Akasuna no Sasori were listening from another room. "You will play the biwa," Aiko decided, pointing at Kisame with her whole hand. He lifted an eyebrow. "Deidara-san, you're on percussion. I'm talking controlled explosions, in the crowd, laying down the beat."

The blonde leaned forward, enraptured. Someone, probably Sasori, made a disgusted sound from the back of their throat. Kisame just shrugged, not protesting or agreeing.

And Pein was moving toward her position fast, angry and covering a lot of ground. Aiko made one last brilliant attempt to baffle them with bullshit, forcing her body language to remain loose and untroubled as she got up to rinse out her cup. "Anyway, eat your vegetables and look both ways before you cross the street. Tell Konan that I'm sorry about her shoes when you see her." She probably cut off her last word, using Hiraishin to flee the country when Pein blew through the front wall.

#vapors #uzumaki aiko #electrasev5n #ninja daily #fanfiction #naruto fanfiction #clarity #AIC #Aiko in Canon

[cheswirls]

there’s something bothering sabo.

ace doesn’t have to wait for confirmation to see something is wrong. maybe wrong is the wrong word, but ever since the accident –incident, ace corrects himself– sabo has been all bottled up, and it’s the only descriptor he can come up with that matches. 

sabo hasn’t said anything, and he doesn’t need to, either. ace can just tell, like he can just tell when luffy’s in trouble, or when a pop fly drops down right behind second. he knows sabo better than he knows himself, because he’s observed sabo more, explored sabo’s inner machinations more, and (if he’s being honest) cares more about knowing sabo in and out than he does himself. 

they really need to iron this out. it’s giving ace hives to see sabo so uncomfortable, even if he does his best to play it off. but sabo sucks at talking about his feelings, and ace sucks at pushing him, so they stretch into a long impasse, an endless back-and-forth, until someone else comes along to drive them together again.

“i’m so ugly now,” sabo confesses, saying the words to lami late one night. lami’s eyes slide up from her textbook to watch sabo’s fingers skirting over the fabric of his left sleeve. it’s easy enough to guess what he’s referring to.

lami snitches. not with ill-intent. she’s just exasperated that sabo would tell her this instead of ace, because ace is where the insecurity lies, where it really matters, and nothing was going to get resolved the longer they kept dancing around the issue.

ace grabs sabo that same day and pulls them both into his room. things aren’t awkward, have never been awkward between the two of them, but it’s about to get uncomfortable. sabo catches that something isn’t quite right by a glance at ace’s face, and he frowns, growing cautious. it shows in his movements, when he goes from reclining on ace’s bed to sitting up off of his hands, curling his stretched-out legs closer to his body. 

before he can ask, ace looks away, sighs briefly, and then crawls closer, settling down right at sabo’s side. he bends over, stretching to push one hand into the mattress near sabo’s opposite hip, crowding him close enough to breathe warm air on his lips.

his eyes lid, mirroring sabo’s, but he doesn’t close the gap. it’s only a distraction, really, as his other hand worms easily past the cuff of sabo’s shirt, fingers brushing over the front of his wrist and hovering near the gnarled skin along the back.

the reaction is immediate. sabo stiffens, just barely, and then forces himself to relax. draws his pinched brows back down. opens his eyes back up a little more. draws his lower lip out, the beginnings of a pout, which he knows ace can’t resist.

to be fair, he doesn’t want to. sabo always looks so cute like this. why resist temptation when he can just indulge himself? 

he circles sabo’s wrist with his thumb and index finger, a promise and warning all in one, and then leans forward the last little bit.

ace pulls back too soon, sabo trying to follow. that’s not the point, though, and he skirts his pinky up sabo’s arm to draw attention there. it works. sabo pauses, briefly, uncomfortable again. 

“you’re not ugly,” ace says, keeping his voice low.

sabo’s eyes open back up again, an impatient noise bubbling in the back of his throat. he moves his arm back and ace releases him with a roll of his eyes. 

“no, hey, don’t clam up.” ace raises his other hand to catch sabo’s jawline lightly, keeping him from turning away. “we’re talking about this. lie back.”

sabo goes willingly, but ace still helps, giving him a light shove so he falls back fully onto the mattress. he sighs and gazes at the ceiling and ace puts himself in his line of sight before he can get worked up in his own thoughts. 

then he drops further and puts his lips on sabo’s neck. that does the trick as well as any, sabo sighing out, tilting his chin up to grant ace more access. his right hand moves to rest in ace’s hair. ace pushes higher, tickling his chin, if the muffled noise he makes is anything to go by. 

with careful movements, he once again winds his fingers around sabo’s wrist, and then pushes his sleeve up to bare his forearm. 

“ace,” sabo breathes. his fingers stiffen, locking in the strands. 

ace hums, rising up just enough to murmur into sabo’s skin. “you’re okay,” he follows, letting his fingers skate up the scarring. “feel that?”

sabo shifts underneath him, just a little. “somewhat,” he admits. “most of the nerve endings are dead, i guess. not all of them though.”

“yeah?” ace smiles, careful, and runs one finger until it’s blocked by fabric. he gathers a couple more and crooks them into the sleeve to pull it down from up top, baring a sliver of sabo’s collarbone. ace noses it over further, until the damaged skin on his shoulder comes into view. sabo shivers from under him. “feel that?”

“yes,” sabo whispers, the word barely out when ace presses his lips there. he throws his head back and breathes out and his fingers move to twist into the back of ace’s neck, holding there gently. 

“good?” ace asks, tracing a path back up to the damaged part of sabo’s neck.

“fine,” sabo replies. it’s not what ace wants to hear, and he breaks away, leaning up just far enough to catch sabo’s eye, when he peers one open. 

“you’re not ugly,” ace repeats. “you have to know i don’t care about this. it’s part of you, now. please don’t . . . worry. about what anyone thinks. what i think. doesn’t matter. okay?”

“my opinion matters, though,” sabo murmurs. “and i hate them. i wish they would just go away. they’re so big and splotchy, and they pull at my skin weird, and they stand out so much. and they’re, like.” he flops out an arm, baring more of his chest. “a reminder. of what happened.”

“hm.” ace listens patiently, and when sabo is done, unceremoniously flops down to lie on him fully. sabo chokes, the weight unexpected, even if only half of ace’s form drapes over his own. 

“think that’s pretty normal,” he says, muffling the words on the side of sabo’s neck. sabo snickers as he’s tickled, and ace’s lips stretch wide in a smile, tickling him more. “you’ll get used to it, though. nothing else to do but get used to it.” he pulls back just a little, chin propped up by sabo’s shoulder, and sabo slides his head over to meet his gaze. “if i could take them away i would,” ace promises, words somber. sabo blinks in understanding.

“don’t ask the impossible,” he huffs back. still smiling, though, lips barely crooked up but just enough for ace to consider it a victory. “thanks for making me feel better.”

“what are best friends for?” ace breathes, watching sabo’s eyes soften. this time he’s the one to come to ace, pressing a soft kiss to ace’s nose and then meeting ace’s open lips temporarily. 

“you’re a little more than that,” he pulls back to say. ace hums, agreeing, and then pushes back into sabo’s mouth.

#saboace #system stuff

[angelictyphoon]

🎲 for meryl

43. a bloody kiss

There hadn’t been time. Between the series of disasters that beset Jeneora Rock, crashing (literally) into Wolfwood at the waystation, and cutting their way through the belly of a Grand Worm, then cramming themselves into a tiny news van for a journey through the seemingly endless sea of dunes and rocky plateaus, there hasn’t been opportunity for conversation. 

Roberto has refrained from making any commentary for once. Nicholas could likely sense it too, but he hadn't been there. 

On the surface, Meryl seems fine. Ever ready to snap at her passengers in the rear seat whenever their bickering got too heated or rowdy. Vash recognizes that newfound sadness all too well. He can see it when she looks away from the sand sea stretched out before them, when her eyes linger in the rearview for a touch too long. The kind of sadness a person hides like a bird with a broken wing. She's dealing with it in her own way. 

He resolves to talk to her when they reach the next town. It’ll be a chance for them to restock on supplies. Food, water, ammo. Roberto and Nicholas go off down some other avenue in search of less dire necessities (namely more cigarettes and alcohol), but still necessities, according to them.

“Here, let me carry some of those,” Vash offers, extending a hand to take several of the grocery bags hanging off Meryl’s arms. Not all of them– she is perfectly capable of carrying her own burdens too. “You and Roberto have helped me out a lot.” 

More than they should have, more than he has any right to deserve. That’s not his focus right now, but the least he can do is share some of the weight.

“Back in Jeneora…” The bags hanging from his fingertips rustle as he twists one way and then the next in search of the right words. He can see Meryl’s head snap back towards him with a protest burgeoning in her eyes. “Hold on, now! I’ve got a lot of experience dealing with this sort of thing.”

With despair. With failure. With wishing the past could play out differently. He smiles his sad smile as they walk, two pairs of feet kicking up dust down the path. 

“Turn it into something else. Something that gives you the strength to keep moving.” To do better, he does not need to add, because Meryl does not need to be told what she already knows.

Meryl chews on her bottom lip with a frown. "But Tonis…"

"Is still alive," he finishes. "Sometimes that just has to be enough."

Delnashville is a bigger town than most. They have their own bank, their own radio tower, a fully-staffed hospital, several neighborhoods and the retailers and grocers needed to support them. It lies on the cusp of becoming a proper city, somewhere between urban and rural. 

More people means they run the risk of a higher chance that someone will recognize the Humanoid Typhoon. Vash has been scanning for the spark of recognition ever since they stepped foot into town. Maybe they had been overly optimistic. Certainly they were dealing with an issue that constantly saddled it's only a matter of time. 

Vash surveys the open windows of multi-story buildings, linens on their lines, down to cross-armed men standing in the shadows of awnings with menacing stares. Greed is as potent as any drug. He can feel their hunger trained on him. Sixty million could change the trajectory of an entire town. For a smaller crew, it meant they would never want for anything again.

"Y'know, I think we should go this way," he announces suddenly, hip-nudging Meryl in the direction of a narrow back street with plenty of cover. 

"Hey! That's Vash the Stampede! Don't let him get away!"

"Hahaha…right now," Vash laughs nervously, lifting both hands to hurriedly usher Meryl forward as his pursuers tromp in their direction. Just in time for the first desperado to level their revolver at him while they attempt to flee.

"Ahh! Wait, don't shoot, don't shoot!" Vash yells, disappearing behind a cloud of splintered crates and exploding vegetable matter. 

“Vash!”

He can feel Meryl grappling with the shoulders of his coat as she attempts to drag him behind a cluster of crates and barrels.

“Oh no…No, no no, you’re covered in blood.”

“That’s right…I’m sorry, Meryl. This…might be it…Please…” Vash groans, fisting into the front of her shirt.

“Wh…What can I do? What should I do?!” 

“Just. Come here. Closer. I just want to give you one last thing…”

Her face is pinched with trepidation, but Meryl nevertheless leans in close. She mouths the words ‘anything,’ and ‘not like this’ under the same breath. Vash pulls her down the rest of the way into a kiss.

And then she starts pounding the sides of his face and torso with a flurry of angry punches.

“It’s KETCHUP!”

#meryl. #[ 0104 planet era ] #eventheodds #the space between will slowly disappear -- eventheodds. #v. hug the sunlight.

[vipier]

TRIS HAS LOOKED WORSE, BUT HE'S ALSO CERTAINLY LOOKED A LOT BETTER IN HIS TIME, TOO. if he were a better person, maybe he would have skipped showing up here altogether, at least for the time it took to make himself look halfway decent. frankly, if he puts together each step of his reasoning, the end result is almost undeniably selfish. he knows he hasn't shown up at her window for her benefit, but rather for his ; to have a safe place to rest his head, to recover for at least a few days, to see her for a moment even at the risk she might be furious enough at him to turn him away ... and perhaps all encompassing of all of these sensations at once, to be somewhere he actually wants to be.

the vast majority of his life he spends drifting from place to place, on orders or out of necessity, without any particular desire to be in any of those places. he moves because he must, slithering through life from one survival to the next, rudderless, anchorless, his only goal to survive and to keep moving forward through the next stage of his miserable and violent life. he finds his distractions here and there, strange and brief hobbies, individuals who interest him for a day or two before he moves along as though they never existed, a new record to absorb and then pass along in whatever form he chooses in the moment. but time is a void, pulling him in, reminding him day by day that his time grows shorter and that he is in no position to make the most of what he does have. perhaps it would send others into an irretrievable spiral - but tristan has always been a survivor, even during his most dismal and damaged days.

even though he can't feel the heat from inside the apartment, he somehow still feels warm. there remains a light or two on, no doubt to deter other would-be burglars or unwanted guests from slinking inside when nobody's home. for his part, he knows well enough the routines to abide by them. it would be easy enough to slip inside and he's certainly accomplished it enough times that he doubt the act itself would alarm her much. what would alarm her is the state in which he finds himself, although the hood he wears hides his heavy bruising and broken nose well enough - and the gunshot wound he took to the ribs that somehow missed anything vital certainly isn't visible under his jacket, at least not yet. the concussion has subsided, but everything else still feels fresh, uncomfortable, despite the fact that he's certainly had worse. a soft introduction is best - and besides, at least out here, he can smoke until she finds her way home.

he's half-reclined on the steps of the fire escape when the main light flips on inside, further expanding the little pool of light already created by the window. tris exhales a thin line of smoke, listening for the inevitable pause in the rustling inside, then the hurried footsteps to open the window to the outside. with her comes the familiar scent of her apartment, something he's keenly aware should not be as comforting as it is. he's not sure whether to expect scolding, or relief, or some combination of the two - but he receives neither. instead, silence falls between them, only briefly, but enough to pull his chest just a little tighter in a way that he convinces himself must just be the stitches. finally, when she speaks, it's soft, almost baffled, without the edge that he'd expected.

@wtrss sent : do you want to come in ?

❝ uhh ... yeah. ❞ he hesitates not out of indecisiveness, but only out of the closest tristan patel is capable of sheer sheepishness. it isn't fair to spring this on her ; it isn't fair to show up without warning. what is, perhaps, the most unfair is that he already knows he's keeping something from her. whether or not she'll like the news is irrelevant ; it's something he knows he could have told her days ago, if he'd had the resolve to pick up the phone. but tris has rarely taken the path that makes sense when it comes to his emotions.

stubbing out his cigarette, he turns and slides easily through the window, pausing only briefly at the twinge that travels up his side. he can hear her intake of breath when she gets a good look at him and he shakes his head instantly, although he knows it will do nothing to dispel her worry. finally, brow furrowed, he turns to her and pulls the hood away from his face with a frown, reaching out immediately to grasp her arms in a perhaps moot effort to keep her from panic. it's all there, in her eyes, exhausted from work and somewhere between confused and elated by his return, and something about them pulls him in, draws him to press his mouth against her temple as though it were an impulse of some kind, as though his body reacts without his permission.

❝ easy, ❞ he soothes, grip tightening, sparing her the sight by simply holding her there and refusing to pull away. tristan expels a breath, feeling his mind begin to turn in circles as he contemplates exactly how to introduce what he has to say. ❝ it was ... necessary. big sacrifices for big purchases, you know? as it turns out ... ❞ once again, he hesitates, still almost unable to conceptualize the truth of what he's about to admit aloud, ❝ ... freedom is rather expensive. ❞

#wtrss #contract accepted. ( responses ) #trust him to introduce this idea in like the most CASUAL way possible i hate him #anyway i rambled like a lil bitch but i hope you ENJOY <3

[sencire]

With her back pressed to the table, Lexa is unable to move unless she uses force. Clarke keeps hissing insults at her, or something of that flavor, although Lexa is distracted by the fire in her eyes. She debates a few responses in her head, half-heartedly because Clarke isn’t even wrong. The commander backed into a table, though? Unheard of. Lexa could use her hands — right now clutching the edge of the table — and bring them around Clarke’s neck. It would be easy. Clarke is wide open. Lexa could use her forehead in the same way and break Clarke’s pretty nose.

But no. She won’t. There’s something so utterly fascinating, watching the girl gain the upper hand even more, moving in until they’re almost touching. She isn’t a real threat, not physically anyway.

Lexa lifts her chin slightly but does nothing else, only stares back stubbornly.

Silence. A long, sizzling silence. Waiting.

It unnerves Clarke, although it takes a minute, and she backs away a little. She clamps her mouth shut, but her eyes keep darting across Lexa’s face trying to read her. There’s vivid, red-hot anger in them, but surprise is woven into it now.

Lexa wants to kiss her. She blinks at the realization. She wants to kiss this girl, who speaks to her in such an infuriating, disrespectful, fearless way. Who cannot be intimidated and can’t be stopped. Lexa wants to grab her jacket and pull her close and kiss away all those words that tumbled from her mouth.

She lets go of the table, following the dare of the impulse and takes a small step toward Clarke.

Takes another step.

Clarke doesn’t move. She only keeps her icy glare fixed on Lexa’s face, furious still, but with a flicker of uncertainty now.

Lexa takes the last step, bringing them face to face, hoping her eyes won’t disclose any of the turmoil inside. Years and years of training, and now, here, Lexa feels her resolve falter. Clarke doesn’t budge. She digs her heels into the carpet, presses her lips tight and leans her upper body forward. Just slightly but enough to bring the message across. She won’t back away. She isn’t afraid. Never will be.

Lexa grabs her collar and pulls Clarke toward her, a swift jerk, using Clarke’s unsteady stance. She almost falls into Lexa.

This doesn’t need more words.

Lexa kisses her, roughly at first, mercilessly, firmly, until she feels Clarke’s body soften just enough to be sure she won’t slip away. Lexa isn’t sure who gives in first, but Clarke kisses her back, softening her lips to melt against Lexa’s. Her arms slide around Lexa’s waist, up her back, one hand grabbing a fist of her hair, forcing her to turn her head, angle it differently, and Lexa gasps into the kiss. The sudden shift in power is a surprise, but not unwelcome. Lexa’s heart thunders in her chest. It stumbles, rages against its constraints, and a small sound escapes from Lexa’s throat.

“Shhh.”

Lexa heard it. Just before Clarke deepens the kiss even more, and she wonders if this is the moment she’s been so afraid of. If this is her greatest victory. Or her greatest defeat. Clarke’s tongue swipes into her mouth and Lexa stops caring. Her eyelids, still fighting against giving in, give up and flutter shut when a hand cups her cheek and the other grips the collar of her coat. She can still faintly hear the voices of her men outside the tent, unaware of the small war inside of it that’s still trying to find its victor.

And then Clarke’s lips are gone, her hands fall from Lexa’s face, from her chest. Clarke staggers backward, her eyes wild and dark, breathing heavily. Her mouth moves as if she’s trying to say something, but she closes it again.

“I do trust you, Clarke,” Lexa tells her. “But you will have to trust me as well.”

There’s a faint nod before Clarke turns, leaving Lexa to watch the curtains fall closed behind her. She sighs, turning her face toward the ceiling, blinking furiously as she tries to swallow through the thickness in her throat.

She has to bite her lip, though, to keep the grin at bay.

“Gustus!” she calls, waiting only a second for the warrior to enter.

“Heda.” He stands, his eyes on the floor, awaiting her order.

“Make sure Octavia is safe.”

#revisited #part 3 #clarke x lexa #clexa mini fic