#this “”“piece”“” was not meant to be anything more than a careless sketch and by god it shows

[jackalmeat]

the house is haunted by the memory of your favorite song 📻

#Trigun #Legato Bluesummers #this “”“piece”“” was not meant to be anything more than a careless sketch and by god it shows #apologies for the quick reupload; I didn't realize just how dark the first version was #this is why we check the appearance of our work on multiple screens if possible kids #now: bear witness to my 'long/strong nose + dark circles + thin mouth' Legato truth

[catxsnow]

DRAW ME D.W.

Summary: Damian never knew his drawings could lead to something so great. Older!Damian

Warning: the cringiest reference but I couldn’t help it, fluff

A/N: I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again, Damian’s skills are not showcased enough 

Gif not mine

Word Count: 2.3k

Everyone knew how amazing of an artist Damian Wayne is.

He would sketch whenever there was a pencil and paper in front of him no matter if he was supposed to be paying attention to something or not. He loved to draw, to paint, it was the easiest way for him to express himself since words and actions didn't come out as easily to him.

Damian would draw anything and everything. He drew his dog, batman, even the gargoyles that he would perch beside in the dark of night. Drawing was his escape and not to brag about it, but he was pretty damn good at it too. Bruce was always impressed by his son's skills.

He began to challenge himself more - drawing things that were more realistic. He had nearly perfect Titus and was almost there with his father. However, when it came to drawing you? Damian had dozens of sketches of you, each one not coming near to how perfect you really were.

You and Damian had been friends since he stepped foot in Gotham - at least you considered him a friend for that long. You met him at school, first day of class and bumped right into him. Damian yelled at you - calling you dumb names for being so careless. Lucky for him, you were on a good day.

Rather than some snarky response that surely would have gotten you a one way ticket to the principals office, you smiled at him. Damian was taken aback by your response, he wasn't used to this kindness. You had apologized to him, asking if you could make it up to him by buying him lunch that day.

For some godforsaken reason, he agreed.

The two of you had been best friends ever since. It had been years since that day, the two of you were older now - fresh out of high school and awaiting university that fall. You planned to spend as many hot summer days with Damian was you could. He did just the same.

Over the years that the two of you had been friends, Damian had gained these... feelings, for you. At first, he was unsure of what they meant but after a talk with his brother, Dick, he had confirmed them. Damian had a crush on you, and for the first time in his life, he was scared of something.

He didn't want to tell you that after all these years, he had fallen in love with you. There was no way that he was willing to risk your friendship, you were his closest friend besides Jon. Besides, with him being Robin, it was way to dangerous for you to be involved anymore in his life. It was easier for him without you knowing his secret.

So, he kept his feelings hidden. He hid his blush every time you would touch him or kiss his cheek. He hid his desire to hold you in his arms. He hid his endless drawings of you, each one trying to perfect the happiness that was in your eyes.

"Whatcha drawing?" It wasn't very often that someone could sneak up on Damian - rare, in fact. However, he was so engrossed on his sketchbook that he didn't even hear you walk into his room. Damian nearly jumped out of his chair at the warmth of your breath against his cheek.

You rested your chin on his shoulder and wrapped your arms around his upper body from behind. Damian wanted to lean back into your touch, he wanted to turn his head just enough that your lips would touch. Instead, he stayed still, twirling his pencil between his fingers.

"My mother," Damian responded. He had the upper half of Talia drawn and was just starting on the details of her lower body. It was excellent work so far, especially being from memory. It was rare to ever see him talk about his mother, you never really asked about her in case it was a sensitive topic.

"She's beautiful," you commented. Damian nodded his head. He set his pencil down on his desk as you pulled away from him. "I was wondering if you wanted to go to the art show with me this afternoon. They have some new pieces I've been dying to look at and you're the only one that's going to appreciate them."

"I'd love to," Damian agreed to your plans.

"Perfect, you didn't really have a choice," You grinned. "Now get dressed, it starts in less than an hour and I want to be the first ones there."

"Get dressed?" Damian raised an eyebrow. You chuckled and looked him up and down once before meeting his eyes again. He looked down at himself, just to realize that this whole time he had been in nothing but his boxers. A blush crept up his neck - he hadn't left his room all morning and had completely forgotten to put on clothes.

"I think you some how got more fit since the last time I've seen you half naked." You didn't think that it was possible for that to happen, but here you were. Damian was in impeccable shape, and you never could understand why. He never did it to impress woman and he wasn't narcissistic enough. Either way, you didn't complain about the view.

"I'll meet you down stairs," Damian avoided your compliment.

"I think I like the view too much to leave," you leaned against the doorway. Damian stood in the middle of his room, obviously feeling uncomfortable under your gazing eyes. After all this time, he still wasn't used to your flirting. You did it a lot, which had made him realize his feelings for you even more. It also made him a hell of a lot more confused about how you felt about him.

"(Y/N)."

"Okay, short-stack," you finally agreed. Upon first meeting Damian, you had been much taller than him. Now, he towered over you after a massive growth spurt. He hated the nickname even more than he did when you were in fact taller.

"I'm taller than you now!"

><

Damian had never felt his heart flutter more than he did at that art show.

You looked so effortlessly beautiful as you admired the paintings. The way your eyes lit up as you talked about a certain piece to him made his breath catch in his throat. He didn't even care about looking at the art, he was too distracted by you the whole time. You were the only art he ever needed to admire.

The whole time you nearly dragged Damian around by his hand. You wanted to see everything, to appreciate ever stroke of the paintbrush. It was incredible just how talented these people were. You never acknowledged art until meeting Damian, he had been the one to get you into the history of it all.

By the time that you left the show, you were nearly skipping down the street with excitement. The most beautiful smile wouldn't leave your face. Damian wanted to see you like this all the time. He wanted you to be happy and never to be tainted by the darkness that was in his life.

Damian had offered for you to join him back at his home. You agreed, of course. The number of hours in the day couldn't compare to the hours you wished to spend with him. Damian was the one person that you didn't think you could ever get tired of seeing. You just hoped that he felt the same way.

It was raining as you came back to his home. The short walk from the car to his front door had left you both soaked to the bone. You hair stuck to your skin and your clothes were nearly see through. It was pouring out, but that was nothing new for Gotham.

Damian offered you a set of his clothes, which you happily accepted. He left the room while you could change into his sweats and hoodie. They smelt like him - an intoxicating scent that always lingered on your body from being with him so much.

A cold gust from his window sent a chill down your spine. You closed his window and wrapped your arms around yourself in hopes to warm up.

The sketch book that he had been using that morning was still opened. However, instead of the drawing that he was doing of his mother, it was on a page of you. It was incredible how he had perfected this drawing of you. From every flaw on your face, to the mixed colors in your eyes. He had done an excellent job.

You carefully grabbed the book from his desk, flipping through the pages of everything that he had done in the past several weeks. Damian was never particularity excited to show you his work, but he didn't hide it from you either. As you turned the pages, you realized just how many times he had drawn you.

They were beautiful. Damian had come back into his room, assuming that you were dressed. His eyes immediately went to the book in your hand and his eyes widened. The last thing that he needed was for you to think of him as a creep for drawing you without your knowledge.

"Dames, this is incredible," you gawked at his work. "Like holy shit, this looks like you just took a picture of me, of everything in here! Why have you never showed me these before, I love them."

"You do?" Damian asked. He didn't realize how much your praise of his work would mean to him until hearing it.

"Yes!" You exclaimed. The smile that Damian loved grew and grew on your cheeks. You sat down on his bed, gesturing for him to sit next to you as you went through each page of the book. You complimented each of his drawings and expressed how good of an artist he was.

It wasn't until you reached one of the more recent drawings of yourself did you pause. You could feel Damian tense next to you as you stopped on the page. He had forgotten the drawing. It was of you - just like every other one in this book - however, around it were dozens of tiny little hearts. The corner of the page read 'my beloved' in the most beautiful calligraphy you had seen.

He had drawn it on a day that he found particularly difficult to hide his feelings for you. Drawing it out had been the only reason he hadn't blurted it out.

"I love this one," your finger tips outlined one of the larger hearts on the page. Damian let out a breath of air that he didn't realize he was holding. You looked up at him, trying to figure out what was going through his head in that moment. He was always a closed book and as much as you had gotten used to it, he still frustrated you.

"I love you," Damian blurted out. His eyes widened at his words and you could see the panic growing on his face. He didn't mean to say it out loud - it wasn't like him to just admit how he was feeling. "Fuck, I didn-"

You didn't let him finish whatever kind of bullshit excuse that he was going to come up with. No, Damian Wayne was a once in a life time kind of person and there was no way that you were going to let him talk himself out of whatever the hell was thinking. So, you did the first thing that came to mind.

You grabbed Damian by the collar of his jacket and pulled him in so you could kiss him. You kissed him with more passion than you ever had for art, with more love than you could have for yourself, and with more confidence than you had ever given off. You kissed him like you had been waiting for this moment since the first time you saw him.

It took Damian nearly too long to pull himself out of his shock and kiss you back. His hands went up to the side of your face with more tenderness than he thought he ever had. This was the kiss that he had been waiting for, for years. Just as he had imagined it, it was perfect - just like you.

"I love you, too, Damian," you confessed. It had been just under a year since you realized your feelings for him. The yearning for him never went away until the second your lips touched. "Fuck, do I love you."

"I should have shown you those drawings earlier," Damian chuckled. He brought you in for another kiss. Without pulling away, you set the book down on his desk once more so you could crawl up his bed. Damian didn't miss a beat and hovered over you. His legs trapped you below him and his arms caging you in even more.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging right at the roots to elicit a quiet groan from him. Damian trailed wet kisses down your neck as his hands slid up the sides of your shirt. He pulled it over your head, and took in even more of your beauty.

"I think I've got a new drawing project for you," You offered, playing with the hem of his shirt. You had just seen him without it that morning but the small taste of it wasn't enough. You needed more, you needed him. A coy grin threatened your smile as you continued your plan for him.

"Draw me like one of your french girls."

#damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne oneshot #damian wayne x reader #older!damian #dc imagine #dc one shot #dc #batfam imagine #batfam one shot #batfam #fluff

[himbowelsh]

I clicked on your "Love language" band of brothers post and almost passed out with inexplicable emotions... don't know if you've done one for the Pacific, could you do that + including Daniel Jackson?

right, so it took me genuinely forever to write these up, because there were a lot of boys here...  and in the meantime, i answered this ask about the pacific characters falling in love which turned out super similar.  give that one a look for more gushy romantic content!  i also included all the spr boys, because just doing jackson felt...  lonely, idk.  anyways here’s wonderwall

The Pacific

John Basilone: Acts of service. John’s the sort of guy who needs to be needed by his loved ones. He gets restless whenever he starts to feel stagnant, so always having something to do  ---  especially if he’s doing it for others  ---  keeps life interesting. Sometimes, John does favors for his partner before they even realize the favors needed doing. No, they didn’t notice the sink was leaky, but it’s great that it no longer is now; no, they didn’t see their mailbox get blown away by last night’s storm, but this brand new one is certainly nice...  it can get a bit overbearing if he doesn’t have much else to do. John’s good at focusing all his energy into things, which is frankly why he needs hobbies. Just take up couple’s yoga or rock climbing, he’ll love it. (Yes, Quality Time is also one of his love languages.) Robert Leckie: Words of affirmation. How cliche can Writer Man get? Very, and he only gets worse from here. Honestly, though, Bob is always verbal about his affections. He likes putting things into words, is the thing  ---  it’s how he makes sense of his own emotions as they run through his head. He speaks in metaphors and poetic phrasing, romanticizing emotions that aren’t always gentle...  but when he loves someone, his partner gets to hear about it. His friends get to hear about it. His neighborhood mailman gets to hear about it. This man cannot, and will not, hold back. Giving gifts might also count as a secondary love language, because he particularly enjoys showering his partner with surprises  ---  like a sonnet he wrote himself, a piece of jewelry he thought they’d like, or dinner reservations at their favorite restaurant together. He just...  loves seeing the surprise on their face. Eugene Sledge: Quality time. Eugene is a simple man who prefers a quiet life  ---  he really doesn’t need much. Spending time around someone is good enough for him. As an introvert, he values a partner who he can share space with, without feeling weighed down; when Eugene is close to someone, he ceases to be drained by their presence, even sometimes recharged just by being around them. His love language is calm and quiet, each partner doing their own thing in the same room, utterly content. If he gets to share things with his partner, like interesting books or sketches of birds he’s done...  well, that’s even better.

Chuckler Juergens: Physical affection / Acts of Service. Like...  Chuckler has a dozen ways of showing affection, and is very open about it. He doesn’t hold back in any way; physical affection comes easiest to him, being an enthusiastic tree of a man, so he’s more than willing to hug and even lift people off their feet under the right circumstances. He enjoys touch; he loves receiving touch, and it makes him feel most loved. It’s hard to call that his primary love language, though, when that’s not really how he gives affection. Chuckler’s care is made obvious through his instinctual doting, the way he gives to his loved ones constantly without the expectation of recieving anything in return. He looks after them...  but to be looked after in return isn’t something he’d know what to do with. He’s at his happiest being hugged by a partner as they stroll through a rainstorm, while he holds an umbrella over their head  ---  the best of both worlds for him. Runner Conley:  Literally a mess. He doesn’t have a love language, he just bounces back and forth with a little bit of everything. Look, he got them something cool at the store, because it’s a funny shade of purple that reminded him of them! Look, his favorite movie’s playing, let’s watch it together! Look, their sink pipes are making a weird noise, he can totally fix them! (No, he cannot, but he did pay the plumber who cleaned up his mess generously.)  One of those people who genuinely don’t have a love language, because they’re a little bit of everything. A relationship means figuring out what your partner needs in real time. Runner just rolls with the punches. Hoosier Smith: Quality time.  Hoosier is very particular about who he spends his time with; the sheer act of accepting someone into his space means he cares about them. He betrays his affection for his partner in fond smiles and tiny gestures, like sharing a blanket or offering a bit of the food he’s eating (!! generous hoosier spotted in the wild!).  Should he actively seek out his partner’s company, it’s a revelation for everyone involved  ---  there’s no surer sign that Hoosier’s truly in love. Sid Phillips: Physical affection. While Sid is absolutely a gentleman in love, he’s also a very physically demonstrative lover, and enjoys physical affection in return. He can get a bit clingy at times, just because he enjoys being close to them. Tucking his arm around their shoulders or feeling their body against his side comforts him; he needs physical touch to be assured that they’re still there. Nothing makes him feel more loved than when his partner dotes on him, cupping his face and peppering kisses over his brow. He’ll turn bright red, but won’t be able to keep the grin off his face, which makes it all worth it. RV Burgin: Acts of service / Words of affirmation. Burgie’s a generous lover in every sense of the word. His instinct is to give  ---  after all, what better way could there be to show someone he cares for them? While not shy about his verbal praise, and he certainly grows more confident in speaking his feelings aloud over time, Burgie’s willingness to help his partner with anything  --  even things he knows nothing about, like fixing a car or shopping for a new toaster  ---  shows exactly how devoted he is. He’ll rearrange all his day plans just because someone he cares about needs something. Jay De L'Eau:  Quality time. Literally he just wants to be around his partner  ---  he enjoys it so much, and is so happy just to be with them. Yes, this means he occasionally gets dragged into things he’s got no interest doing. Does he really want to be involved with brunch? Did he needs to volunteer at an animal shelter for six hours? No, but it meant spending more time around his partner, and getting to know them more, so it’s worth it. He doesn’t ask for the same in return, but a partner who took interest in his interests would absolutely delight him  ---  he’d feel so loved. Bill Leyden: Acts of service. As mentioned in the previous headcanons, he’s...  such a nice person when he’s in love that it’s weird. He won’t just do favors for his partner  ---  he’ll do them for his friends, without being asked, and without bitching about it once. Usually, he’s doing these favors while his partner is around to witness it. (Wow, look what a great person he is! What a generous friend! What husband material!) Bill knows what’s up. He’s doing fine.   Snafu Shelton: Giving gifts. Are they gifts any sane person would necessarily want? Not really. How’d he get into their house to leave a doll made of sticks on their pillow? Who the hell knows? Is it a threat? Possibly. He just... he doesn’t really know how to go about it any other way, so he gives things. They’re not expensive things, cause damn him if he’s got money to burn...  but if he were to splurge on anyone, it would be on his partner. If he spots something he knows they’ll like on the store shelves, or just something that reminds him of them...  hell, he might even save up for it. Just for them   ---  nobody else in the world. Andy Haldane: Quality time. He really adapts to the other person, trying to figure out what they need/want the most. Andy can perform of the five love languages well, and it’ll mean the most coming from him...  but he’s most comfortable just spending time around his partner. That’s all he needs. Intimacy, emotional and physical, is so important to him...  being able to have a companion who he can share space and thoughts with makes all the difference. He wants a confidante. He wants someone to share with  ---  not his thoughts, all the time, but everything he loves the most about life.  If they can find moments to simply revel in each others’ shared company, Andy’s a happy man. Hillbilly Jones: Acts of service. Devotion is Hillbilly’s greatest virtue; when he’s in love with someone, they become priority, and he’ll have their back through anything. This includes doing anything for them. Not little things, like tying their damn shoes, because a body has to be able to stand on their own  (and frankly, Hillbilly loves a partner who can look after themselves)...  but big things. If he knows something is stressing them out, he’ll try to take care of it behind the scenes to make their life easier. He wants to manage problems before they become problems, just to keep them off his partner’s plate...  but the quietest gestures, like the plate of breakfast he puts together in the morning or the massage he offers after a long day, speak the loudest for how he truly feels.

Saving Private Ryan

John Miller: Words of affirmation. He understands keenly the value of words, and what impact the right ones can have. John is never careless with what he says; he always means them, and expects those around him to mean them too. When he says he loves someone, there’s no room for interpretation: he loves them. He’s best with verbal interaction, values communication in a relationship, and will often hold onto a fond word said by his partner weeks  ---  even months  ---  after it leaves their lips. John’s got an elephant’s memory for words, and each one has meaning to him.

Mike Horvath: Acts of service. Of course, Mike’s more than willing to tell people what he’s thinking outright, but to him, caring for someone is more about what’s done than said. He’s an action guy. Being able to help someone he loves in any way  ---  whether it’s fixing a leaky sink, pushing a broken down car, or getting them take-out when they don’t feel like making dinner  ---  means enough in the long run. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, but Mike’s a reliable presence; when he cares for someone, he’s always there when they need him, ready to help.

Stanley Mellish: Words of affirmation. Just because he’s a loudmouth doesn’t mean he doesn’t care; Stan shows his affection through teasing and remarks that are half-straightforward. It’s hard to tell when he really means it sometimes, but he’s not shy about talking to his partner. What he thinks, what he wants, what he loves...  they all come out eventually, in a trickle or a flood. Stan’s feelings only grow stronger when they’re spoken out loud. He’s not a big fan of vulnerability, even alone with the person he loves, but sometimes he says something without a single ounce of sarcasm  ---  confessions of love and admiration so blunt, so devastatingly sincere, that there’s no doubt he means it.

Adrian Caparzo: Physical affection. With big body comes big responsibility, and Caparzo’s happy to rise to the task. It helps that he grew up in a big, loud family, where the go-to means of affection was smacking and tackling each other. Physical affection is the best way he knows how to show affection. Yes, he’s a hugger. Yes, he sometimes lifts people up. (Yes, he’s lifted Mellish a few times, but it was an accident, and Mellish doesn’t like to bring it up.)  Honestly, he can be a little careless with it, too free with physical contact at times...  but nothing makes him feel more reassured than having another body near him, available to hug or seek comfort from if needed.

Irwin Wade: Quality time. Wade doesn’t demand much in a relationship, but he also doesn’t impose. He’s got a naturally mellow presence   ---  “calming”, some people have said, and he’s not sure how he feels about that  ---  but while he wouldn’t mind being caught up in the bustle of a louder partner, he’s just as happy spending a night in. Just enjoying time with them, relishing the quiet moments when both of their guards are down and they’re at their most natural...  those moments are precious to him. He feels like he learns more about his partner then than any other time.

Daniel Jackson: Acts of service. Jackson doesn’t need lots of words to tell someone how he feels  ---  and frankly, if he can show it without words, he will. He was raised to believe a man’s words ain’t worth much if he can’t back them up with action, and that’s exactly what he does. Lord knows, Jackson would never tell someone he loves them if he couldn’t show it in twenty different ways. Doing things for them makes him feel useful, gives him a rush of pride whenever they smile at him; he might not be able to afford fancy gifts, but he can do chores to make their life a little easier, massage their sore muscles after a long day, cook breakfast and run errands when they need it. 

Richard Reiben: Words of affirmation. Local Man Does Not Know How To Shut The Hell Up. He’s really good at talking, even if he’s not saying anything at all  ---  it’s a talent. Expecting Rich to shut up is like expecting a frog to grow wings. When he feels something strongly, he’s learned to say it loudly. Full disclosure, he’s not the best with feelings, and being sentimental out loud makes him feel like an idiot, so no eloquent declarations of eternal love here...  but he’ll think of two dozen ways to say it in the meantime, like “those pants are working wonders on you” or “your presentation’s gonna be better than all the rest of ‘em”, or “no one does that better than you”. His partner doesn’t have to dig too deep for hidden meanings to realize he’s actually saying “I love you”.

Timothy Upham: Giving gifts. Don’t get me wrong, he’s read love poetry in half a dozen languages, and even enjoyed some of it...  but ultimately, Tim is better at giving words, rather than saying them. He’s thoughtful, noticing what authors they like to read, what their favorite genres are, favorite topics of conversation... picking out books is like a game to him, and he’s got a talent for finding what other people will enjoy.  He likes to surprise his partner, presenting a fresh volume somewhat nervously, rambling about exactly why he picked it until they take mercy and interrupt him. Sometimes it’s fiction; sometimes, it’s learning hobbies; sometimes it’s little volumes of philosophy or poetry that remind him of his partner...  he’s even written his own poems, once or twice, though his face was so red when he gave it to them that they almost thought he needed medical attention.

James Ryan: Acts of service. He can be overeager at times, but gosh, does this boy mean well. It’s most important to James to show how much he cares for people; he loves spending time with them  (ideally showing them his hobbies or going on “adventures”, which might involve a spontaneous hike or going to a diner at 3am) but more than anything, he loves doing things for them. He’s eager to. Throw him a bone  ---  or a task to do  ---  and he’ll jump on them. It gives him a sense of purpose, and the earnest feeling that he’s giving back to his partner all the love they show him.

#spr #saving private ryan #the pacific #hbo war #headcanons

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for inessencedevided

This is a Modern with Magic AU, hope you like it @inessencedevided!

Read On AO3

*****

Hunting Partners

“Lan Wangji.”

It was approximately the twentieth time that class that Wei Wuxian had tried to get his attention and Wangji was ignoring him. He’d learned less than twenty minutes into the first class they had attended together that there was nothing Wuxian wanted from him other than to get someone to distract him from his studies. For some reason he’d made it his goal in life to try to get Wangji to join him in his antics from day one.

At first Wangji had hoped that his constant inattention and pranks meant he would flunk out of his classes quickly but it turned out that despite all of that he was always able to answer questions the professor put to him and passed all his tests. He was in the top five of the class at all times without doing any work and in a moment of weakness Wangji had wondered if he’d lose the top spot if Wuxian would bother to put some work in.

“Laaaaaaan Wangji.” It took a lot of effort to not just give in and look at him when he drawled out his name like that. Wangji kept his face turned toward his notebook and continued to take notes. Others might use a laptop or a recorder but he took all of his notes in a series of notebooks that he could add notations, diagrams and sketches to as needed. Each notebook ended up marked with plastic tabs to help organize it for later study and lined up carefully on his shelf in the dorm room for future studying.

There was an irritated huff from Wangji’s other side from Jiang Wanyin. As irritating as Wuxian could be in his incessant need for attention most of the serious students could ignore him. Some of the other students were actually charmed by his ways and he never lacked for people flocking to him hoping he’d draw them into his social circle but for some reason it seemed to drive Jiang Cheng into a near rage to have to deal with him.

“Shut up, some of us are trying to actually listen to the lecture.” Wanyin’s tone was as hard and clipped as the expression on his face. He was the oldest son of another of the old magic clans but Wangji didn’t like him. His older brother XiChen told him that years ago the Jiang clan was more like the Lan clan but something had happened when their patriarch and matriarch had been killed. After that when he took over leadership of the clan Wanyin had cut off his long hair and they’d withdrawn from the other magic clans.

There wasn’t enough of the old blood left for a large population of magic users and those that used it had stopped joining the magic clans and banding together in the last few generations. Most of the old families were either gone or faded into the background and very few of them aside from the Lan Clan still wore their hair long and uncut to show they had magic.

As soon as he thought that Wangji’s eyes almost slid to look at Wuxian’s hair. He managed to keep his eyes on his writing but he was able to picture the long tail of hair that Wuxian usually kept in an artfully messy topknot or coiled into an absurd bun with his pen stuck through it to keep it from falling down. Once Wuxian had pulled the pen out of it to loan it to someone and the way it had tumbled down and kept catching the light as it brushed over the back of the chair out of the corner of his eye had made Wangji feel like something was stuck in his throat. His notes had made less sense than usual that class.

Since his name hadn’t been hissed in his direction after Wanyin chastised him Wangji thought he was going to be able to take notes without interruption for the rest of the class. There was homework to finish and something that was attacking people around the campus leaving them with pieces of their souls damaged or missing. Wangji wanted to finish making preparations for his hunt for the culprit tonight. He should have known better than to hope that Wuxian was done since as soon as he was distracted he started in again.

”Lan Zhan.” Wuxian’s voice was just a touch louder this time but that wasn’t what snared his attention and snapped his gaze to glare at Wuxian. He’d used his clan name, the name that only other magic families used and only if they were familiar or close with each other. No one else did that, it was so rude that Wangji felt his chest burning with anger.

Instead of looking abashed or worried for the glare he was getting Wuxian grinned and wrinkled his nose slightly like he was thoroughly delighted. Despite everything it was a very charming smile and realizing he was admiring the smile just made the anger in Wangji’s chest burn hotter and as soon as the chimes went off indicating class was finished he closed his notebook and scooped everything into his messenger back in a shockingly careless way so he could leave and get away from that infuriating Wuxian.

“Wangji!” Of course Wuxian apparently wasn’t going to let him make his escape with any kind of dignity. “Wangji wait!” There were some startled exclamations behind him as Wuxian must have been pushing his way through people to catch up to him. He just kept up his pace in the vain hope that Wuxian would get tired of chasing him and leave him alone. Any hope of being left alone was dashed when the other student appeared in front of him. He was slightly out of breath and half of his hair was starting to escape the knot he’d tied it in.

Since he wasn’t going to run Wuxian down Wangji stopped where he was without saying anything to see what he would say.

“I’m sorry!” This time he actually did manage to look contrite but then of course he immediately ruined it. “But I couldn’t get your attention. I finally got you to look at me didn’t I? So it was worth it...except now you’re walking off again!”

Wangji had turned to the right and started to walk off again since once again it didn’t seem like Wuxian wanted anything other than attention but he was pulled up short when the other student dodged in front of him again. “What do you want?”

“You’re Lan clan, you’re ‘Wherever the Chaos is?’ right?” There was still a smile on Wuxian’s face but it was no longer that boyish proud of himself grin. To Wangji it looked like the smile of someone who knew something they weren’t supposed to. “If you meet me back here at dusk I think I know where to find what’s attacking people.”

It wasn’t a secret what his clan’s motto was. The Lan clan was one of the last public magic clans because of their philosophy that they were there to help whoever needed their help wherever they might be. You couldn’t do that if you cut your hair and blended into the background like so many others had. What Wangji didn’t like was that he seemed so familiar with it and how Wangji would react to it. He glanced at that hair falling out of the knot, tried not to notice how tendrils of it stuck to Wuxian’t damp neck, but there was no other real signs if he was from a magic bloodline or clan.

“Please.” Wuxian put a hand on his arm but immediately pulled it back when Wangji’s frown deepened. “No one else is going to listen to me. I mean I could go ask Wanyin to trust me but…”

If this was real it had to be acted on no matter who the source was. Maybe later after the hunt he could call XiChen and see if he knew anything about Wuxian and why he seemed to know things about the magic clans and families. Needing to make a quick decision Wangji glanced at his watch. “Two hours. Here.”

He was rewarded with another of those bright grins from Wuxian but Wangji turned his back on it and left to go prepare to hunt.

Just because they controlled magic it didn’t mean that they were invincible and going unprepared into a situation could be suicide. Wangji made sure as soon as he returned to his room to eat and drink to keep his physical energy up. Magic was both spiritual and physical, you couldn’t neglect either side and be effective. After he ate he gathered what he thought he would need for supplies then lit some incense to breathe in while he meditated to calm his emotions and make sure his spiritual energy was flowing freely.

Even with his preparations he was still back to where he said he would meet Wuxian at least ten minutes early. To his surprise the man was already there sitting on a tall retaining wall while waiting for him. This was a much more serious front than the student Wangji was familiar with. The student breezed through the door to drop into his seat just as the chimes finished ringing.

“Early as usual.” Wuxian shook a set of keys at him with a smile. He’d changed from his usual t-shirt with long sleeves he had cut holes in to hook his thumbs through into a plain black t-shirt with what looked like ribbons wrapped around his hands and wrists. It looked like he was getting ready to box someone and had put on hand wraps. “Let’s take a drive.”

Wangji nodded once and followed Wuxian after he hopped off of the wall and led the way to the parking lot for the East side dorms. They were the nicer rooms that were all singles and were for upperclassmen. He frowned slightly with a glance back at Wuxian. He was sure that his classmate was in the same year he was. How did he end up in one of these rooms? Of course it would make sense if he wasn’t but was just stealing parking over where he shouldn’t. That seemed like something he would do.

Wuxian made the alarm chirp as he unlocked the car from several rows back and gestured to Wangji to follow him. Neither of them said anything until they’d pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road.

“I wouldn’t have driven but we have to go up the other side of the hills and I didn’t want to wear us out with a hike.” Wuxian turned the car onto the little side road that wound up the smaller hills that surrounded their college in a half circle. The school was at one time several miles outside of the town but over the years since it was built civilization had grown out to reach them so that within walking distance there was no shortage of junk food, coffee shops and movie theaters. But on the side where the hills started it was too difficult to build, the soil was prone to mudslides and the grass fires in the hills along with the lack of a view kept people from building there.

Once the hills blocked off the view of the school it was suddenly much darker. Once there wasn’t anything to see outside the windows Wangji turned his attention to the car and realized it was much cleaner than he’d expected. Wuxian was someone who wrote on scraps of paper as he had ideas and shoved it all into a backpack with his books on top of it. Once he’d seen the pile of crushed paper lining his backpack and cringed internally at the mess.

“Your car is…” Wangji cut himself off before he could finish the thought. It was rude. “Nice.”

Wuxian took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot him an amused look and laughed. “I’ll tell Wanyin you said so. It’s his car. I might not have been able to ask him to help on a hunt but he’s contributed anyway.”

“You stole his car?” Wangji was horrified. He not only was going on a hunt he wasn’t sure was real but now he was an accessory to auto theft.

“Borrowed. He’ll get it back.”

He was starting to get the suspicion this might not be the first time he’d stolen a car. “He could have you arrested even so.”

Wuxian didn’t take his eyes off the road when he smiled this time and the laughter was sharper. It didn’t seem right when the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Jiang Cheng might hate me but he’s never had the guts to go that far. He’ll be pissed off and I’ll get even more of a cold shoulder than usual but I doubt he’ll stoop to having me arrested.”

“That is his clan name.” It felt almost like he was in the car with an entirely different person than he knew in class. Wangji wasn’t sure if he liked that feeling or not. The Wuxian from class was an annoying attention seeker who didn’t have a serious thought in his attractive head. This Wuxian...well he didn’t know what to expect from him.

This time the smile reached his eyes again. “That it is, Lan Zhan. Don’t worry I’ve known Wanyin a long time. It will be fine.”

After that they turned onto a dirt road that was more of a suggestion of a road than anything else and he was concentrating too much on not being bounced around the interior of the car as they went over ruts and rocks before they came to a halt under a scrubby live oak tree that had split a boulder with its roots in a determined effort to keep hold in the unstable red dirt.

“Come on.” Wuxian didn’t wait for him, he just reached back to grab his bag out of the backseat and left the car. Unlike the ratty backpack he used for class this one was a thick leather cross shoulder bag with various protective charms stamped into the thick leather. Once it was settled he started up the trail that went up the hill past the tree.

Wangji grabbed his own bag of supplies and hurried to follow. The moon had made its appearance over the top of the hills so there was some light to see their way. The hill was steep but it wasn’t that far until it plateaued and they were back on a mostly flat surface. Flat that was except for the remains of some buildings that were placed in a rough semicircle around a long dead fountain. The buildings had been made of brick and possibly adobe so they were slowly being etched away by the wind and it made the broken edges oddly smoothed off and clean. Because of that they were just hulking shadows that seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

“That’s it.” Wuxian had ignored the buildings and headed straight for the broken fountain. There was something even more off about it than the buildings but it took a minute for Wangji to place it. All the buildings and even the outside of the basin of the fountain were covered with debris and plants. There was grass sprouting through cracks and even a tree sprouting up through one of the buildings but the figure in the fountain was clean.

The figure was a woman. She was kneeling with her head bowed on a pedestal beneath a cracked and broken bowl that was obviously supposed to let the water flow around her like a gentle rain back when the fountain had been whole and functioning.

Wangji moved closer, keeping a careful eye on the statue but other than the oddity of being clean and in one piece couldn’t decide what exactly he was looking at.

“Be ready.” Wuxian held up a hand and Wangji could feel a small spark of magic before he saw the tiny ball of light dancing on the man’s fingers. With a flick of his fingers the energy was sent to hit the statue and its head snapped up with an angry hiss.

“A soul eater.” With a quick flex of magic Wangji manifested his sword. It appeared in a bright flash of blue light drawing the soul eater’s attention to him with another hiss. They were creatures that attacked in the night and took a piece of soul causing lingering sickness and sometimes death but they usually hid in the form of an animal. He’d never heard of one shifting into something like an inanimate statue!

The soul eater leapt from the fountain straight at him and Wangji met the attack with a blow from his sword. Made of his magic it was still solid and physical until he dismissed it or he ran out of energy to hold its form. Unlike other soul eaters he’d fought this one not only looked like a statue it had skin like the stone it was mimicking so he was knocked back with a grunt.

Before the soul eater could attack again he saw a flash from the side and a magical rune drawn in dull red light hit it in the head. When the soul eater snarled and turned to look at its second attacker Wangji saw Wuxian drawing another rune with his finger and flicking it out to smash into the soul eater again.

As soon as it was distracted Wangji channeled more magic into his sword and hit it from his side. This time the stone skin cracked under the blow and several chunks of rock skittered across the floor. They took turns drawing the things attention and attacking while its focus was split. Wangji found it was easy to trust that Wuxian would be there to draw attention and that somehow working with him was an easy rhythm to fall into.

There were cracks over most of the soul eater’s body and one of its arms had been smashed off of its shoulder when the soul eater in a move of desperation to take one of its attackers down with it ignored Wuxian and swung an arm at Wangji as he lowered his guard.

“Lan Zhan look out!” Wangji heard the warning and tried to raise his sword to deflect the blow but he was off balance and he knew it. The remaining arm swung down to crush through his defense but although the blow hit hard enough to make his hands numb it didn’t hit nearly as hard as he expected. Wangji lifted his head to look and saw Wuxian with his arm wraps off and a circle of glowing runes around his wrists with the light spinning into a bright rope that had caught the statue’s arm and was holding it back. Even as he was trying to process what he was seeing the statue flung out its arm and cracked the rope like a whip throwing Wuxian into one of the nearby buildings with a yelp.

But that was all the opening he needed. Shoving every bit of magic he could into his sword he swung straight into the mid section of the soul eater. The magic was released as he hit and the statue exploded into hundreds of pieces. Ignoring the rubble all over the ground he dismissed the sword and ran to check on Wuxian.

“Ow. Did we get it?” The man was trying to pick himself up off the ground. There was blood sheeted down one side of his face from a cut and he was holding his ribs with a grimace but other than that he seemed in one piece.

“It’s dead.” Wangji didn’t know whether to help the other man off the ground or not but he eventually held out a hand after Wuxian’s foot slipped on some of the soul eater gravel and he almost ended up on his face. Once he had him up Wangji didn’t let go, he pulled Wuxian’s arm closer to look at the charms tattooed in a ring around his wrist. They were all fairly common, protection, focus, amplifying, but none of the clans would put charms permanently on their skin. You put charms on spell papers, or inanimate objects. Tattoos could attract attention you didn’t want and he ended up looking at Wuxian with a mix of worry and consternation, what on earth was he doing that he needed to do something like this?

Wuxian gently pried his fingers off his arm and pulled more wraps out of his pocket so he could start winding them around his hands and arms to hide the charms again. “It’s all right Lan Zhan. Don’t worry about them. Come on let’s limp back to the car and go home.” He had another of those nose wrinkling grins which looked absolutely ghastly with the blood down one side of his face and neck.

“I am not limping.” Wangji didn’t argue with leaving but he insisted on leading the way since Wuxian was injured. He would have insisted on driving as well but he’d always told XiChen he didn’t need to drive anywhere so he’d never learned. Obviously, that wasn’t the best decision if he was going to go on hunts that involved travel and injured companions.

“Where was your sword?” If he was one of the magic families then he should be able to manifest a sword. They were all taught the technique and even the uninitiated manifested some sort of weapon when they started to tap into their powers.

Wei Wuxian just shrugged with one shoulder, his amused smile still on his face alongside a slight grimace of pain. “I didn’t feel like using it. It’s no big deal Lan Zhan. Npt every situation calls for it.”

The trip down the hill took longer than he expected. Wuxian’s ribs were bad enough he wondered if they were broken and Wangji ended up putting a shoulder under the man’s arm and helping him over the last rough patch back to the car. On the drive out every rut and rock they bounced over took more color out of Wuxian’s face until Wangji was worried he was going to pass out.

“How did you figure out the statue?” He was hoping to distract Wuxian from the pain but all he earned was a grumpy look.

“Now you want to talk? Not now Lan Zhan. I’ll tell you all about my brilliant research skills after I have had something for the pain and half a pint of vodka.” And that was the last he got out of Wuxian aside from some swearing when he hit a particularly bad rut or when they hit the speed bumps in the parking lot.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Wanyin was standing outside the parking lot waiting for them when they got back. To be honest there were too many other things on his mind to remember that they’d stolen a car for this hunt so he was caught off guard. Wuxian groaned and let his head thump on the steering wheel when he saw him and Wangji got out of the car, slung the other man’s bag over his shoulder with his own then opened the door and insisted on helping Wuxian out of the car. The last thing he wanted to see was him taking a header in the parking lot after all of this and maybe Wanyin would think twice about attacking him in Wangji was in the way.

“You stole my car.” Wanyin’s arms were crossed and his jaw was clenched.

“Borrowed.” Wuxian had let Wangji give him a hand out and put his arm over his shoulder to support him again. He used his free hand to toss the keys to Wanyin.

“Stole.” Wanyin glared at Wangji. “What now you’re on his side and helping him? This isn’t your business. You don’t want to be involved with him.”

Wuxian straightened like he was going to let go of Wangji but every time Wanyin said something Wangji could feel his fingers twitch and tighten on his shoulder like the words were hitting him physically. There hadn’t been even a hint of fear from Wuxian at the soul eater or his injured trip home but there was something like fear in him at Wanyin. No, fear at what Wanyin might say.

Wangji stepped out from under Wuxian’s arm to stand in front of him and face down Wanyin. “We’re leaving.” Let him try to stop them.

After a look of shock crossed his face Wanyin scowled again. "You are interfering, Lan clan. This is none of your business. Wei Wuxian uses dangerous methods, he casts demonic spells and endangers everyone around him." Jiang Cheng was so angry he was spitting out every word like he couldn't get them out fast enough. There was more there than just the obvious Lan Zhan was sure. He had been there when Wei Wuxian was using charms and his tricks and although they were unorthodox they weren’t demonic.

It meant he didn’t budge from in front of Wuxian even though the man had caught hold of his shirt and was trying to move him. “We’re leaving.” And ignoring Wanyin he turned to go a different direction, grabbed Wuxian’s arm to sling it over his shoulders again to support him and started walking. He had no idea where the man’s room was but he was going anywhere but here. There were several strangled noises of anger from behind them but Wanyin didn’t follow.

"I should be used to him and his outbursts, I hear them often enough after all." Wuxian's tone was light as he made a show of not minding the encounter but when Wangji looked at him his eyes were dark and serious above his mocking smile.

“Why?” Wangji was curious what possible reason Wanyin could have for his animosity towards Wuxian. Other than the fact that Wuxian seemed to feel like it was his right to take the man’s car whenever he felt like it. He was walking slowly so they didn’t jar Wuxian’s ribs and with a lack of any other destination in mind he was steering them toward his room. At least there he could wash the blood off Wuxian’s face and make sure it wasn’t anything to be worried about.

Wuxian sighed at the question. "He was my clan brother but as you may have noticed I am not welcome there anymore....what?" Wangji had stopped walking in surprise.

“Clan brothers...you are Wei Ying.” The pieces of information clicked into place. The Jiang clan had a younger member that had been disowned. Wangji didn’t know the reason, he hadn’t been old enough to be involved in any councils called about it but still there had been whispered words about it and warnings to the younger clan members to behave and not be like Wei Ying or you would be clanless. The one time he’d asked XiChen about it all he would say was the stories about Wei Ying were exaggerated.

“Yes, Lan Zhan, I am Wei Ying but you can probably guess why I don’t go by my old clan name here.” Wuxian chuckled as Wangji got them moving again. “And I am very proud of you, you didn’t even spit or make the sign against the evil eye after you said my name. Maybe you do like me after all. Or not, what a glare you have Lan Zhan.”

Wangji walked them up to the door to his room and carefully slipped out from under Wuxian’s arm so he could unlock and open the door. Once it was open he moved to help Wuxian again but he’d already walked into the room before he could. “So neat, this has to be your room Lan Zhan.”

Wangji was tempted to roll his eyes but he just hung the two bags he was carrying by the door and went to run a cloth in the small sink. His room was supposed to have two people in it but the person assigned to room with him had found another place and left within the first month of school so there was more room to move around in than in most of the dorms.

Once he had the cloth soaked and wrung out Wangji walked over to take Wuxian’s chin in his hand to start wiping the blood off his face. There was only a brief attempt to escape being cleaned up before Wuxian relaxed and let Wangji do whatever he wanted to his face. There was enough blood on his face that Wangji had to rinse the cloth out twice before Wuxian started to look less like was wearing half a mask of dark red.

At first when he was concentrating he didn’t notice but slowly the way Wuxian was watching his face became hard to ignore. Wuxian leaned into the wet cloth as he ran it over his face and there was something haunted but hopeful to his expression.

“Lan Zhan.” Wangji kept lightly wiping the last of the blood off of Wuxian’s face but he let his attention go to Wuxian instead of what he was doing.

“Mn.”

“Does this mean we can go hunting together again?”

Wangji let the cloth drop but he didn’t let go of Wuxian’s face with his other hand. It was possible that this would be trouble. There were obviously a lot of clan politics behind Wuxian being disowned but he had fought with the man at his back and aside from XiChen he had never trusted someone as quickly to cover his back without question. Once when he was questioning how you could tell right from wrong XiChen had told him there was no black and white, you sometimes had to judge for yourself the measure of a person and to trust his instincts. You had to do what you thought was right even if it didn’t follow a rule or custom.

Wangji smiled slightly and nodded once. “Yes. We will hunt together.”

The smile he was rewarded with for his answer could not be described as anything other than dazzling.

#inessencedevided #wangxiansolstice20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

[dredreadsdrawing]

Oc-tober Day 7: Fear

Hoohoo i suck at shading :'0 The second pic was the firdt concept art I drew of these gals. Then came the pencil sketches and lastly the one on top.

I've already got a Quickie summary of this story in my writing blog explaining who these characters are and what's going on, link HERE. So for this piece, I'll write the scene I drew lol. In it, only Kylee and the Wrath kid are left, but before they get a showdown, God gives them one last mercy. A night without worries. Anything they want, they will grant. Btw, I have decided on official names for these gals. Kylee the fangirl and Paloma the patient ghost.

~~~~

This was it.

Tomorrow, everything was bound to come to an end.

It felt unreal to Kylee. How far she's come, her numerous near death experiences, how nice their room was. God really knew how to treat em when they weren't being careless.

Still, God's assurance of a last peaceful night was a load off their shoulders. A blessing, you might even say.

Chevre left the scene immediately, deciding to spend their last day as a ghost doing their own kooky things. They felt robbed for not dying sooner to do it.

That left Kylee and Paloma, the original duo, to spend the night alone. Just like the good ol days.

They tried the hot tub, snacked on expensive sweets, watched Kylee's favorite episodes of her favorite shows, and had a great time.

Just like normal girls their age would spend a sleepover.

When it got super late, the magic of the tranquility was wearing off. Reality settled back in. Tomorrow was the end. No more fighting, no more floating. The ghosts would be reborn and someone new would be God.

A child. Both contestants left were underage.

And they had to fight eachother to the death. Kylee and Paloma agreed that if she won, she would pick older candidates next time. No kid should go through what she's gone.

Circling back to the competition, they talked about their opponent and his many helpers. They'd seen how ruthless he was. Opportunistic and never one to hesitate. He was a tough rival for sure.

Kylee got quiet for a bit, and Paloma squeezed her shoulder.

"Come on, cookie. Let's sleep early."

They snuggled onto the bed. Two had been accommodated for them, but they were used to sleeping in the same one. It was their piece of comfort.

After settling down, Kylee worded her next question carefully. She had already asked it before, when she first saw Paloma as a ghost, but it didn't hurt to have the answer retold.

What was it like to die?

Paloma stiffened. Her eyes softened. Her voice cracked a bitter smile.

"It hurts. Especially when you start struggling back. But once it's done, all you get is wave after wave of relief. Like when you ace a test you didn't study for." She laughed. It ended breathily.

Kylee didn't like her expression. She had seen it come up a lot in the past few days. And she knew exactly what it meant. She brought Paloma closer and held her face. Looking into her eyes, she asked as quietly as she could.

"... have you regretted it?"

Paloma shivered. Her eyes burst. She whimpered, and Kylee immediately brought her to her chest, letting her cry. Not a single tear stained her shirt.

"I was... So sure I did the right thing..."

"You did..."

Kylee remembered those first days. How surprisingly proud she seemed to have taken her own life. To be done with life and humanity. But as time wore on, her sentiments changed.

"I couldn't help it... I wondered... What would have happened if..."

She paused as sge choked on her words. Kylee gave her a pat. "It's ok..."

"No, it's not!" Paloma got up, her face a darker shade. "We could have been a team. We could have stuck together for as long as we could. Or- I could have been in your shoes right now. I could have been the one that made it to the end. Instead of putting all this pressure.... For you to do the right things."

Paloma was calming down, she rubbed her eyes. Kylee helped brush a tear from her cheek.

"I'm sorry I died so fast."

The words stung. Kylee wasn't taking this.

"Don't say that! If one of us is the bad one... It's... Me."

Kylee rubbed her arm. Paloma shook her head. "Not this again, Kylee-"

"I was a jerk. I admit it. I knew what was going on with you but I never stepped in. Really, Palo," Kylee started hyperventilating. Paloma rushed to embrace her. Their roles had effectively switched.

"If I had reached out to you sooner... If I was more involved... Someone better..." Kylee took Paloma's hand. Together, they squeezed them.

"If I was someone like you..."

"Stop it..."

So many what ifs lingered in their minds. So many paths they could have taken. Together.

But here they were, stuck. One as a ghost and the other possibly becoming a deity. About to fight for the right to be.

"Atleast... I got to show you my favorite stores. .." Paloma laughed at the memory of Kylee dragging her around unwillingly.

"We didn't even buy anything. You just had us people watch the entire day."

"But you had a good time anyways, didn't you?" The smiles are back. Paloma tilts her head and rests it on Kylee's shoulder.

"I did..."

While her death was premature, she had to count the small blessing that was her ability to stick to Kylee as a ghost. She got to see more than the bubble she knew. She got to make friends. And...

Kylee couldn't help the kiss she gave Paloma's forehead. Paloma's face burst and she laughed.

She got to feel so loved.

"Okay, Ms. God, settle back down. Tomorrow is... A big day."

Kylee snickered as she laid back down, Paloma following. After another small silence, Kylee's big mouth continued asking.

"If I win... What kind of life do you want?"

They hadn't touched the topic of Paloma's reincarnation.

The reality of her living without Kylee was too much.

Still, now that it was a serious possibility... This was a talk they needed to have. Paloma moved away a bit.

"Well, you're so creative Kylee, I'm sure you'll give me the best life..."

"But... I want to know what YOU want!"

Paloma was stunned for a bit, touched. Kylee really cared for her opinion. The selfish onlooker she first met was long gone.

"I'm being honest..." Paloma looked away. "I want whatever you give me. I trust you."

Kylee's stomach sank. She felt the weight of the world on her shoulders, now more than ever.

Paloma looked back at Kylee's serious expression, and she laughed some more. This was too serious for their last night together. "Stop worrying about it, cookie." She laid back down ans snuggled to her side. "Worry about surviving tomorrow. Only you can guarantee me that happy ending."

Kylee's gut sank further. It was the truth, but the pressure was on. She watched Paloma close her eyes and over time, drift away, her sleep as sound as when she was alive.

But Kylee couldn't follow, couldn't even stand to blink. Her anxiety was at an all time high. She had to win. She had to make it up to Paloma. She would be a good god, and rule like her girlfriend would.

Kylee's eyes watered again, mourning prematurely the departure to come. She looked to the ceiling. She would make Paloma happy. She knew her favorite foods, her favorite books, her favorite everything. She would give her the world on a platter, make her have the most fulfilling life. From wealth, to friends, to health and romance. Romance.

Yes.

Kylee was a multishipper. Kylee knew people could mesh well with more than one person. She could find Paloma another lover, a better one!

She would be fine.

Her stomach's knots stayed in place, no matter how long she repeated that phrase.

Yeah, Paloma would be fine.

But Kylee wouldn't.

Kylee had gotten what she wanted.

She would be alone now. Free from societal conventions. Free to do what she wanted. Free to people watch, free to bend wills, free to mess around and turn her ideas into reality.

She will find her own happiness. Somehow. The sentiment felt hollow in her chest.

Panic set in again.

What was she doing? What had she done?

She turned and looked at Paloma's face once more.

If she didn't win... There would be no more world. No more Kylee. No more Paloma.

These were her only options. Stay alone forever, or lose everything.

For the first time since the start of the game, she felt afraid of the outcome.

#traditional art #October #Oc tober #Oc-tober #Ocs #Kylee #Paloma #God is a fangirl #Digital art #oc tober day 7 #My art #Lesbians #Ace #Asexual #Kylee is ace lol i have decided #Paloma is too #Ace queens #Cries #Original writing

[amandaoftherosemire]

Bulletproof -- Part Four

Fandom: Marvel/College AU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader, Platonic!Steve Rogers x Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Author: @amandaoftherosemire​

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4,189

Format: Series (Complete)

Warnings: Language, angst, embarrassment, non-sexual nudity.

Summary: You and Steve gossip about Thor and Bucky while you sit for him. You and Bucky have a conversation.

A/N: I’m having an absolute blast writing this one. I just hope people have as much fun reading it as I do writing it.

Moodboard and beta’d by: @hellzzzbelle You’re seriously the best ever, peach!

Part Three here

Part Four

A couple weeks later you sat nude but for the sheet wrapped around your legs in Steve's studio. Steve planned to turn your covered legs into a mermaid tail in the painting he had planned. You had made excellent progress on the first pose, though it had taken longer than either of you would have liked. You hadn't been able to pose for him more than a few hours a week due to both your own course load and your unwillingness to risk Bucky finding out. There were only three times a week that you and Steve were both free and Bucky was guaranteed to be out of the apartment for a set amount of time because he had a class on quantum mechanics he never skipped. That limited your options.

You were completely comfortable, but it had taken every session over most of those weeks to get to that point. Each time you had a period of discomfort and silence, but with each session that awkward feeling eased. By today, that embarrassment had thankfully dissipated almost immediately. If Steve had ever looked at you with anything resembling lust, you'd have bailed in a heartbeat. Steve, however, only touched you to adjust your pose and, once both of you got over the initial discomfort, his expression never wavered from an almost impersonal focus. To your relief, you had learned the first day that he appreciated you on a purely aesthetic level. His love for you was as chaste as yours for him.

He had plans for four works and had started with sketches for the one that was the closest to clothed as you would get in order to give you time to adjust. As soon as you were comfortable, however, he had wanted to start on the mermaid pose he had seen in his head the day you offered to help. You couldn’t wait to see yourself with a shiny green tail. Propped up on one arm, your legs drawn into a curve next to you, you leaned forward as though you were trailing your fingers in an ocean below.

"So Gamora turns around, takes one look at Peter grinning like an idiot at the bartender and chucks all three darts directly at his back." You and Steve had agreed it was better that you talk. Not only did it make you feel better about having your tits out in your best friend's apartment, it also caused you to unconsciously slip into poses and attitudes that Steve often preferred to the poses with which he started.

"Not only does she bullseye the zero on his jersey, she threw them hard enough to puncture the skin deep enough that they stayed in. He spins around to see who threw them and she stares him down, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and then turns on her heel and stalks the fuck out. My girl doesn’t take anybody’s shit." You sighed appreciatively and glanced up through your lashes at Steve, careful not to lift your head entirely. "I really admire that."

Steve was snickering as he tried to keep his pencil steady on the page. "How am I supposed to get this sketch done if you keep telling me stories like that?" he asked. When you lifted an amused brow but stayed silent, he rolled his eyes and prompted, "What did Peter do?"

Lowering your eyes, you focused on holding the pose correctly while you answered. "Took off after her, darts still sticking out of his back. He may be a moron, but he really is crazy about her. I don't know if he's ready for her, though. He still needs seasoning."

Steve looked over your form. "Can you drop your left shoulder just a hair?" When you complied, he nodded and looked back to his sketch. "How about you?" he asked. "You gonna make an honest man out of Odinson?"

"Nope!" You couldn't help but be amused at the question. You knew it bothered Steve that you had a fuck-buddy relationship with Thor. It wasn't that he had a moral problem with it. Rather, he thought you used casual relationships to avoid anything more serious. You couldn't tell him you went into every damn one hoping to fall in love. Maybe if you could, you'd finally get over Bucky. You were certain even a new heartbreak would feel like a step in the right direction.

Unfortunately, it hadn't happened yet. You refused to get into anything more serious, especially when you knew that someone like Thor deserved the pieces of yourself that you’d given to Bucky. In recent weeks you’d discovered you were nowhere near getting those pieces back. At least you’d started moving in a friendlier direction with Bucky. You weren’t avoiding him, and when you saw him you weren’t low-key ignoring him anymore. He hadn’t taken the hint, so you’d decided to turn it up a bit.

"Why not?" Steve decided to try to pin you down. He wasn't an idiot. He'd figured out more than you gave him credit for.

You shrugged, trying to appear casual, and ruined the line of your shoulders. "He’s fun but he’s not the keeping kind. Not for me."

"Lift your left shoulder and tilt your head a little to the right, okay? Does he know that?"

"Of course." You scowled. You were a little offended that Steve might think you'd be so careless with someone’s feelings. "What’s going on, Steve?"

Steve kept his head down and his eyes on the image that was coming to life under his hand. He couldn't quite get the expression on your face right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt like with the right angle, he could find the missing piece. "That’s a good question," he answered absently. "He and Bucky nearly got into a fistfight at the gym this morning and I could have sworn I heard your name. I thought maybe things had gotten more serious between you."

Your thoughts turned inward, and Steve’s pencil began moving more quickly. He flipped the page, desperate to capture your expression before it changed. Thoughtful, but with a touch of sadness, you looked as though you were examining the scars from an old wound.

As a matter of fact, you were. Bucky confronting Thor over you was exactly something he would have done back in high school. He had always warned the guys that asked you out to treat you right or deal with him. He’d acted the big brother even as his eyes raked you with a banked heat that thrilled as much because of its restraint as its fire.

You let everyone who knew the story believe that you had turned away from Bucky because of Gina, but the truth was more complicated. You’d walked away from years of friendship because he’d betrayed you far more deeply. When you woke in the hospital expecting his face to be the first thing you saw, and he was nowhere to be found, some little piece of you had withered away.

When he had been in the accident that took his arm, you’d refused to leave him. His mother had lied and told the ICU staff that you were his sister, so you’d be allowed to see him. You and Steve had been there every step, helping him adjust, keeping his spirits up. You had been sure that he would do the same for you.

Yet, when you woke from your mistake with several bottles of Jameson, the first face you saw was Steve’s, of course. Natasha had finally found Bucky, however, in Gina’s bed. Thoroughly drunk, he’d left his phone at the party. You knew it wasn’t fair to blame him for not knowing you needed him, but when Steve had asked if you wanted to see him, you had said no.

Bucky then did the unthinkable and listened. He hadn’t barged into your hospital room to see that you were okay for himself. He hadn’t done anything that you expected. Fair or not, you couldn’t help but feel that he’d proven that whatever he felt for you was neither very deep nor meaningful. You had closed yourself away. If you had been wrong about Bucky, who could you ever be sure of?

“It couldn’t have been anything about me,” you said softly, and the sadness that colored your tone had Steve’s eyes snapping up. Your pose was perfect, and Steve moved quickly to capture it. Furiously, he drew as fast as he could. One day, when this had passed, and you were happier than you could believe possible he’d show all these sketches to you. He wanted to be able to show you how far you’d come. You’d already come so far. Thoughtfully, you went on, “I haven’t even seen Thor for a couple of weeks.”

Desperate to move away from anything that made you so sad, Steve gently reassured you. “I must have heard wrong.” He done no such thing. Bucky had said your name several times as he got in Thor’s face.

You almost rolled your eyes. You couldn’t believe Steve would try to pull this shit with you. He was obviously lying. Which meant that Bucky was starting fights about you. Your heart picked up a little and you cursed yourself. “Is it just me, or has Bucky been acting weird lately?”

“It’s not just you.” Steve paused, concerned that he might hurt you, but he was worried about Bucky and needed to talk to someone. He knew you cared, no matter how hard you tried not to. “Honestly, I’m worried but I can’t get him to talk about whatever is bothering him.”

“Huh.” You knew it was a bad idea, knew you were only opening yourself up to more pain, but where you loved you couldn’t stop yourself. Even had you not loved Bucky for himself, you would have cared about him because of your love for Steve. You’d risk anything if Steve needed it. “You want me to try? Maybe he’ll talk to me since I’m not so close.”

Steve scowled. “I’m not going to trade one friend’s well-being for another’s.”

“It’s not quite that dramatic, Steve.” He lifted his gaze to yours with a dubious look on his face. The corner of your mouth stretched into a wry half-smile. “But I can understand why you might feel like it is.”

“I wish you’d stop beating yourself up over that.” Steve dropped his eyes back to his drawing. “You think I don’t know that you’re sitting naked in my studio because you think you owe me something?”

“I got to forget most of that night,” you said softly, your voice throbbing with remorse. “You didn’t.”

Steve didn’t look up, but his voice got stern and you couldn’t help but smile. “I got to save one of my best friends. You lost one of yours. If he’d just been a boyfriend, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But he was supposed to be your friend first.”

“It’s not all his fault. We were all reeling from losing your mom.”

Suddenly Steve’s eyes were on yours and it felt like he was staring into your soul. “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t lie, not to Steve, not now. Somehow, in these moments in his studio, just the two of you, with your body and soul bared, you had to be honest not only with him but with yourself. “Sometimes I feel like I always will be.” You were looking at Steve, but you weren’t seeing Steve. In your mind true blue eyes with a touch of soft green were replaced by stormy-gray-and-blue as changeable as the weather, a prime example of the beauty to be found in the mercurial. “Why do you keep making me talk about it lately?”

Steve released you from that soul-searing gaze and turned back to the sketch. He knew when he was done, if only he could capture the look of longing and love that had crossed your face, it could be his best work. “Because you need to. Maybe if you talk about it, you can get past it. Maybe you’ll finally let yourself have something more serious than a booty call.”

With a sigh, you moved back into the pose while you playfully smiled. “I wish I could have fallen for you, Stevie.”

He snorted. “Right back at you, beautiful.”

“You remember when we tried to make out? It felt so…” You trailed off, not sure how exactly to explain what had happened the night a little over a year ago that Steve had kissed you. You had not pulled away, but you hadn’t been able to respond, either. Steve was objectively dreamy. You loved him madly.

And kissing him left you cold. Go figure.

“The word you’re looking for is incestuous.” Steve was blushing again.

A shudder ran over your skin. “Please don’t say that word while I’m naked.”

“Please don’t talk about us making out when you’re naked.”

You couldn’t hold the pose any longer. Laying down, you laughed until you cried.

As comfortable as you were in your own home, you were still chuckling to yourself as you poured a cup of coffee in Steve’s kitchen. It was true you still hadn’t forgiven Bucky, but it wasn’t because he'd had sex with someone else. That was Bucky. He couldn't help being a slut any more than he could help being tall, broad, and entirely too pretty. The man simply loved women.

Not in an indiscriminate way, but an entirely unpredictable one. He didn't seem to have a type. There had been multiple times that you'd expected him to move on one woman, only to see him turn to her friend. You couldn't find a pattern, as though he had some criteria that you just weren't capable of seeing.

You'd long ago come to terms with that, when you'd dealt with what had led you to drink entirely too much, too quickly. After walking in on Bucky and Gina, you’d ended up in a drinking game with some douche, whom you'd kneed in the balls when he got too pushy and took off before he could get his hands on you again. He'd probably have followed you all the way home if he hadn't been overtaken by Steve, running past him to get to you once he'd heard you'd left the party at a run.

If Steve hadn't gotten there when he did, you probably wouldn't have survived. All because you had gotten your heart broken and made stupid decisions when drinking. You knew you were lucky. Your mistake hadn't been fatal. You'd picked yourself up and come to terms with the fact that Bucky would never have treated you that way if he had been adult enough to love you the right way. That didn't mean he didn't love you, just not in the way you needed. And it was okay to need something more.

But maybe you could find a way to have your cake and eat it, too. Hopefully, without too much damage to your heart in the meantime.

Bucky let himself into his apartment with a sigh of defeat, feeling like he'd been beaten with sticks. He’d barely made it through his first class of the day. There was no way he could make it through the rest.

Every time he'd run into you over the past three weeks, he couldn't help but imagine what his life would be like without you in it. For years you’d been remote no matter how close he’d ever come, but at least he could see you, hear you, knew you were safe and so the world could continue to spin.

He was barely sleeping, running over the conversation he'd overheard and trying to imagine what it might mean. How did you almost die? And why had no one told him? Why had Steve prevented him from laying eyes on you for weeks after? How was he ever going to find out?

Somehow, it had been even worse than he’d been anticipating since the night he’d eavesdropped. He didn’t know how or why, but every time he’d run into you for the past couple weeks, you’d been so much warmer toward him than you’d been in years. It felt like you had died, two years ago, and only once he knew how much worse it could have been was he allowed to see more than just your ghost.

When he walked into his kitchen to find you in a long silk robe, humming softly as you doctored a cup of coffee, it was like his inability to stop thinking about you had conjured you. He stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded and heartbroken. If it had been only fantasy, as he had dreamed a thousand times, he would have walked up behind you to slide his arms around your waist and bury his face in the side of your neck. Unsure, he murmured your name questioningly.

At his voice, you jumped. He wasn't supposed to be back for another hour. "Holy fuck!" you shouted and hissed as hot coffee slopped over the rim and onto your hand as you whirled around. Laughing a little breathlessly, "You scared the shit out of me!" You grew concerned when you saw the absolute misery on his face. You instinctually moved forward to soothe, following your heart no matter how dangerous.

"What are you doing here? And…” he asked, utterly puzzled by your appearance and gesturing toward your attire as he trailed off.

"In my robe?" No matter how your feelings may have changed in the past couple weeks, you still really didn't want to get into it, so you used an excuse that was frequently true, though in the past you'd always dressed first. "I came over to steal some of your coffee and stayed to chat with Steve for a few. Don’t you have class right now?"

Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly. He couldn't explain why exactly he didn't believe you, but he knew your face better than he knew his own and he'd always known when you were up to something. "Yeah," he answered, wishing he could call you on it, but aware the two of you no longer had that rapport, "but I’m not feeling very good."

You walked forward, setting your coffee on the table. At this point, you weren't thinking of anything but alleviating the sadness in Bucky's eyes. "Are you doing okay, sweetie?" You reached up to rest the inside of your wrist to Bucky's forehead, then your palm against his cheek. Looking into his eyes, you said sternly, the way you would when he was feeling sorry for himself. "You haven’t seemed yourself lately."

Bucky had to take a moment before he could speak. Not entirely certain anymore that this wasn't a dream, he let himself bask in the long-lost sight of warm and caring eyes. Clearing his throat, he answered gruffly, "Don’t worry about me, babygirl." He flashed you the smile he reserved for only you, but he was still heartbroken enough that it didn't reach his eyes. "You know me, I don’t let anything get to me."

You hoped he hadn't heard your breath catch in your throat when he called you 'babygirl'. He hadn't used any endearment for you in years, let alone that one and it nearly cleaved you in two. When he followed it up with the smile you knew was also yours and yours alone, you remembered why you always felt like you were special to Bucky. It was because you were.

You began to think that whatever the reason may have been, he had had a reason for letting you down. There had to be more to the story, because he genuinely cared about you. And you could see that he needed you right now, regardless of what he said. "Sure," you retorted with a dubious look and twist of amused doubt to your lips. "Well, if you change your mind and want to talk about it, I’m right next door."

Bucky simply gaped at you. "Really?"

"Yeah," you replied, mock seriously, "I live there." His eyes dipped, and he looked so sad and lost, unwilling to believe lest he be disappointed, your heart took pity on him. Your face softened, and you cupped his face tenderly in your hands as you ducked to catch his eye. "Silly boy," you said softly, your voice rich with warmth and affection. "Don’t you know? You’ll always be my Bucky-bug."

At the pet name, Bucky responded as he had always done. He sneered in mock disgust, but he couldn't hide his pleasure in the sly and mischievous grin that had spread across your face when you said it. "Ugh! Do you have to call me that?"

"Yes!"

"Fine, fine," he muttered rolling his eyes, before dropping his voice to a sexy, teasing tone, "just keep it between us, sugar."

You laughed and drilled your finger into his belly, aiming for the spot you knew was his weakness. "Oh, don’t you dare." You'd once been weak to Bucky flirting with you, but you'd since built up an immunity. You smirked as you grabbed your coffee and walked out with a sassy twitch of your hips. You turned at the door and shot Bucky the playfully seductive look you reserved only for him over your shoulder. "Like that's still gonna work."

After a brief conversation with Steve where the man blushed and evaded, leaving him with even more questions about your presence in the apartment that morning, Bucky prowled through the place. It was like you'd left your scent on the air and he couldn't stop himself from sniffing after you. His heart was lighter even as it trembled. You'd looked at him like you'd been happy to see him, like the last few years had never happened and he had his best girl back. Even as it made him feel better than he had in weeks, the question of why you had been here haunted him.

Had Steve finally made his move? Had he finally told you of the crush he'd confessed to Bucky back in high school? Had the two of you finally made all the pain he'd gone through worth it? Why else would you be wearing a robe with what looked like nothing beneath it in the kitchen of their apartment when you thought Bucky would be gone for hours?

He'd thought he'd be content when you were where you belonged, but instead he couldn't hardly stand it. He had thought that if he'd ruined his chance to make you happy, at least Steve could do what he failed at. He'd thought that knowing you were happy would ease his loss. Now that the day may have come, he realized he'd been wrong; nothing could ease this.

However, he loved you enough to let you go if it was what you wanted, what you needed, even if it was torture. If you wanted and needed him as only your friend, and as the friend of your lover, then that's what he'd be to you, no matter how much it hurt.

As he paced past the doorway to Steve's studio on his way back to his own bedroom, Bucky saw a sketchbook wedged in the door on the floor where it had fallen. As he leaned down to pick it up, he realized the sketch on the page in front of him was of you. Unable to help himself, he paged through the book to find every image was of you.

First came images of you stepping down with a proud and disdainful look on your face, gauzy fabric bunched in your fists and swirling around your thighs. Bucky could easily see the shape of your body under the gossamer material. You were even more lovely than he’d imagined. After that came the images of different poses and parts of you, a trim ankle and foot, followed by a bare shoulder or the nape of your neck.

Next came the images of you sitting with your legs curled to your side. His eyes traced over the curve of a perfect breast, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip, before coming to rest on your look of quiet thought. He didn't know how Steve could have sat drawing this when Bucky wouldn't have been able to resist comforting you; he would have had to try to lift the clouds from your eyes and your heart.

When he turned to last sketch, he knew he had to let you go. Your face, the one he knew and loved more than any other, stared out of the page into him. He hadn’t known the name of the emotion that lived in those eyes the last time he’d seen it aimed at him. Now, however, it was crystal clear for all it was captured in graphite. Only that desperate love and longing wasn’t for him. When this had been drawn, you’d been looking at Steve.

Part Five here

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AU Tuesday - “Stuck With You” Part 11 (The End)

(A few weeks late with this, but here’s the very last chapter of the Soulmate AU! For AU Tuesday I’ve been writing a multi-part story about all five of my main characters using the prompt: “A [platonic] soulmate AU where you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you for the first time and it turns to millions of colors once they do.” The events are all [or mostly] canon to the series; the only real change are the soul-marks. These can really be read in any order because each part pretty much stands on its own. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10)

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The door burst open and slammed against the wall with enough force to rock the wagon. Adair’s heart and hand jumped, causing his pencil to leave a dark line across his sketchbook. He erased and erased, but the deep gouge remained on the paper after the graphite had gone. If only the correction paint he’d tried to make had worked the way he’d wanted it to! Instead of returning a page or canvas to new, it only turned them invisible, which was even worse than permanent indentations on the page. At least he could draw over a line. He still had no idea where the invisible sketchbook had ended up.

It turned out that the line didn’t matter anyway. Blythe had crossed the room to give Sol a talking down- or possibly a talking up since Sol towered over everyone except his brother- for being reckless about opening the door. Adair sighed and closed his book. Blythe had been the perfect stationary model while she was inventorying seeds, but going into tirade-mode meant she wouldn't return to this until she cooled down. If past experiences were anything to go by, he had about twenty minutes before he'd be able to sketch her again.

Unless he could speed things up by taking away the source of her annoyance? He waved at Sol to get his attention, then winked to tell him that he had a plan. It was hit or miss if Sol would catch on to what a wink meant, but it was worth a try. “Hey, Blade? Sol's just excited because he found my paint. Let him go this time, okay?”

This was a stab in the dark, or at least a stab in a mildly dimmed room. Adair's yellow paint had gone missing from his bag this morning and he was pretty sure it was because his best friend had borrowed it. If any warm color went missing, it was usually in one of Sol's pockets. Sol always intended to return things, so Adair could never be too upset about this. Unfortunately Sol's intentions only lasted a few minutes before he forgot about them.

“I do? Oh! I do have it!” Sol poked through a dozen pockets of his vest before he found the jar and held it up triumphantly. “See, it's just like Addy said. I'm giving him back his paint. Just here for that. Yep, just returning my buddy's paint. That's definitely why I'm here. Giving him back his paint.”

Adair covered his eyes with his hand. At least Sol understood the winking thing now, but his acting really needed work. Etri laughed softly from his spot on the floor next to Adair and leaned over to whisper, “Subtlety will be forever lost on Solei. Watch.”

Blythe muttered an unamused grumble and began checking the wall for damage while Sol stepped past her and headed towards where Etri and Adair sat. Etri nodded once at Adair, then waved his arm in a wide gesture as he said to Sol, “Make the house for yourself.”

A big, toothy grin meant Sol misunderstood his brother’s scrambled idiom. “You want me to build a house? You’ve never let me build a house before! I can do that! I just need some nails and my favorite hammer and some wood and a couple of grapefruits and oh, some paint! Addy, do you have more-”

To Adair's relief over the state of his diminishing paint collection, Blythe closed the door and stopped Sol mid-sentence by talking over him. “I think Etch is inviting you to make yourself at home.”

“Oh! Okay, sure!” Sol missed the sarcasm in her voice just as he’d missed it in Etri’s and he hoisted himself into Dray’s loft bed. There he flopped onto his back with a comfortable sigh.

Now that Sol was safely in a spot that couldn't possibly make any more distracting noises, Adair opened his sketchbook. With Blythe pacing the wagon and muttering to herself, he would just have to switch to drawing Etri. A tornado could touch down next to the wagon and Etri still wouldn't put that book down. If there was one thing Etri was good at, it was being stationary. And if Adair managed to finish this sketch, then Etri would become stationary stationary.

Adair had barely touched the pencil to the paper when Blythe came over and nudged him with her knee, somehow managing to block all of the light coming through the window behind her at the same time his pencil scratched another errant mark. “Do you hear that?”

Adair tucked the pencil behind his ear and gave up for the second time. He should have Sol make him a little ball of light to hover over his head like Sol always had bobbing in the air while he worked on his inventions. Then it wouldn’t matter where Blythe stood or how close he was to the window. He didn't want to ask Sol about the sketchbook line problem, though, because Sol would likely try building a box around him to keep people out. Granted that would solve the problem, but not in the way anyone wanted, which was how most of Sol's ideas played out, now that he thought about it. “Hear what?”

“The hissing, yes?” Etri asked without looking up from his book. From the way he squinted, he could probably use the extra light, too. All the more reason not to put Adair inside a box.

Adair had assumed someone was making tea. Focusing on the sound, though, it wasn’t the familiar kettle and no one had been near the stove.

Blythe walked back and forth across the room as she tried to pinpoint the sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right. “Sol, you didn’t bring a snake in here, did you?”

“No, that is not… I know that sound.” Etri dropped the book into Adair’s lap and jumped to his feet.

The act of being careless about a book worried Adair more than Blythe's pacing. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a snake and he couldn't have been right about the tornado. He wasn’t prone to premonitions. Truth be told, he wasn’t very good at postmonitions either because he never seemed to notice things until long after everyone else did.

Etri took a few steps forward and raised his arms as if grabbing something from the air. “It is-”

A thunderous boom shook the wagon and a storm of feathers and Sol filled the air. While the feathers drifted down like lightly falling snow, Sol went soaring from the bunk and landed heavily with an “oof” on Adair’s makeshift bed.

Blythe knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

Sol’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but Adair was pretty sure he said, “Note to self: build Addy a futon because that coulda been a bouncier landing.”

Adair wasn’t sure what a futon was, but the last thing he and his fear of heights wanted was something bouncy for a bed. Knowing Sol he’d get overly enthusiastic about it and make it half-trampoline. Adair shuddered at the thought. He’d stick with his mattress on the floor, thank you.

Sol pushed himself up only to be gently pushed back down so Blythe could check him over. “That was fun! Can I do that again? Please please please, Blade?”

“No way. What is it with people setting bedding on fire around here?”

Sol made a face as she helped him sit up. His clothes were a little singed and his goggles sat askew on his forehead, but this wasn't anything out of the ordinary. “I didn’t do that. I mean, I guess I did do that because I was up there, but I didn’t do that do that. I’m pretty sure my bed’s never thrown me out before. Is Dray’s haunted?”

Blythe ignored that question and glanced over at Adair. He held his hands up, pencil in one hand and Etri’s book in the other. “I was sitting right here and you know I don't go up there.”

Etri caught their attention with a slight clearing of his throat and nodded towards the doorway. “No, this was the disaster of someone else.”

Dray shot a glare in his direction and came inside to put one of their red sequined prop bags in the cabinet under what was once their bed. “Technically it wasn’t on fire this time.”

Blythe snorted an unbelieving laugh. “Of course it wasn’t on fire. You completely blew it up!”

“I did no such thing. Heat-boy over there shouldn’t have been in my bed.” Dray tossed their hair over their shoulder and picked up the book that had fallen out of the bed along with Sol. Miraculously it was still in one piece. Adair was more confused as to why Sol was in one piece, though. Was the man made of rubber?

“What kind of idiot keeps explosives in their mattress?” Blythe harangue Dray as she followed them to the door. “If Etch hadn’t been here to stop it, that would have taken out the wall and burned the place down.”

Dray made an ambiguous “hmph” sound and walked out. Blythe slammed the door behind them, exactly the thing she had told Sol a thousand times not to do, and threw her back against it. “I have the most moronic sibling on the planet.”

Dray’s explosive tendencies aside, there was something here that no one else seemed concerned about. Fire couldn't hurt Sol, but still... “Isn’t anyone worried that Sol could of been hurt?”

“Like he doesn’t regularly blow things up himself. He’s fine.” When Sol stood up, Blythe turned her head to the side. “His clothes, not so much. Anyone got a spare pair of pants for him?”

Sol turned in a circle to try to see his own behind. “I thought it felt drafty. Hey, I think I invented new pants! Perfect for warm weather because they’ve got built-in veneration!”

Blythe tied Adair’s blanket around Sol’s waist with an expert knot. This was far from the first time one of them had to throw together makeshift legwear for him. “Ventilation, sweetie. And I don’t think those pants would fly.”

It came as a pleasant surprise when Etri sat close to Adair and wrapped his arm around his waist. Etri had become far more physically affectionate ever since they'd both learned that they had each other's soul-marks and Adair didn't think he'd ever get tired of this.

Too busy reveling in this closeness, Adair missed the perfect opening Blythe had left. Etri beat him to the punch. “I believe the pants flew well on him a moment ago.”

Blythe groaned. “You’ve been around Addy too long. You’re picking up his case of chronic puns.”

Two things Adair loved above all else-- excepting food-- were making jokes and snuggling, so it was with extreme reluctance that he set his sketchbook and Etri’s book aside and stood up. The hurt expression on Etri's face made Adair reach down and run his fingers through his friend's hair. “I’ll be right back. I want to talk to Dray for a sec.”

Etri squeezed his hand for a long moment before letting go of it with a nod. To be honest, Adair wasn't sure how much longer “friend” would be the relevant term for Etri, but that wasn't the friend he was worried about right now.

Blythe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before he could reach the door. He wasn't a hundred percent sure her touches were platonic, either, but she was harder to read with this than Etri. Adair fully expected her to ask why he wanted to talk to Dray and was gearing up to defend his plan when she said in a low voice, “Tell Dray I’m sorry. I know they’ve learned better than to set fires indoors and this was an accident. It’s just… one of us could have been hurt, you know? Even if Sol's immune, the rest of us aren't.”

Except they were. As a healer Blythe's body healed any injury almost immediately. Fire and heat couldn't hurt Etri any more than it could Sol and he was half intangible half the time anyway. Adair was the only one in the wagon at the time who could have been seriously hurt.

She was worried about him. Adair hugged her tightly to show her that he understood. Blythe wasn't the type to talk about mushy feelings, but when she gave him a quick hug back, he knew he'd guessed right. “It's okay. I'll tell Dray.”

He found Dray sitting on the little porch of the wagon with their legs tucked up under their skirt, ignoring Adair's cat as she batted at their long hair. Their book was opened but equally ignored as it dangled loosely from their hands. They didn’t look up when Adair closed the door and walked the few steps over. “Can I sit with you?”

Dray only shrugged. Adair took this to mean okay, and as he tried to get comfortable on the cold floor, Dray shifted around so that they were facing him. Their makeup was smudged under their right eye and Adair wanted to wipe this away for them. He knew how much Dray hating looking less than perfect and how meticulous they were about their clothes and makeup. Dray was iffy about touch, though, and Adair still hadn't worked up the courage to come close enough to do this. Dray was so skittish sometimes and the last thing Adair wanted to do was scare them off.

The stare was unnerving and too piercing, and Adair got the feeling that Dray had learned this from Blythe years ago, unless it was the other way around. After a long moment where Adair had started to fidget, Dray finally said something. “Well?”

Adair blinked. He’d expected a snide comment as Dray's first words to him after the feather explosion and then Blythe's explosion. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to complain at me, too? That’s what Blythe sent you out here for, isn’t it?”

Adair glanced at the door. He didn’t think anyone could hear a conversation through it, so Dray must not have heard her. On the positive side, that meant no one inside could hear what was said out here, which would probably make Dray feel more comfortable. “No. I just wanted to talk to you. Blade did tell me to tell you that she’s sorry for yelling. She was just afraid you could of hurt one of us.”

Dray clutched at their chest and let out a gasp. “Blythe? Apologize for something? Did I stumble into a parallel world and wasn’t aware?”

“No, same world. Unless parallel-Sol also has that habit of losing his pants all the time.”

“I would imagine a Sol in any reality would find excuses not to wear them.” Dray picked at their nails before adding, “Look, I’m sorry about the fireworks. That was a stupid place to store them even if Sol wasn’t going to steal my bed.”

“I was thinking about getting a lock for one of the cabinets to keep it Sol-and-cat-free. You could put things like fireworks in there if you want. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you, though.”

Dray raised an eyebrow and tilted their head to the side. When the cat grabbed at their hair again, Dray scooped her up and dropped her into Adair's lap. She wanted no part of this, probably because Adair had no fun things to pounce on, and sauntered away. “Really. Then what was the reason? You four don’t usually make a habit out of casual chats with me.”

That was exactly the thing Adair wanted to talk about and the reason he'd followed Dray out. After some mental waffling about how best to bring this up, he decided to get right to the point. “You’re not going to leave us, right? It’s just… sometimes when you walk out the door it’s like you’re going to keep walking. I don’t want you to leave.”

Dray’s eyebrow shot so high that Adair thought the gold piercing might get stuck in their hair. They opened their mouth to say something, only to immediately close it again. Finally in a small voice they asked, “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve got soul-marks to the others, but even without that I don’t want you to go. I like having you with us.”

Dray was staring at their nails again. Adair had no idea how they managed to keep them so polished and sharp when they were constantly dancing with performance props. That staff alone would have broken Adair’s finger in under five minutes, let alone a nail. Without looking up, Dray said, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

Adair nodded his head towards the door. “I bet if you asked any of them, they’d agree.”

Dray snorted a laugh that was so very much like Blythe's. If ever Adair had doubted how much time the two of them had spent together, this was the proof.

“I mean it! Blade cares about you a lot even if she’s not really all that good at showing affection. Sol looks at you like you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen and he keeps asking us if we think you’ll let him share an act with you. Etch… okay, he acts like he doesn’t like you, but I’ve seen the way his mouth quirks into a smile when you’re bickering and he thinks you’re not looking. Darned if I know why, but he likes arguing with you.”

Dray’s own lips twitched at that comment. “And you?”

“Well, I definitely don’t want to argue with you or anyone else.”

Dray rolled their eyes. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Adair grinned and draped his arm across Dray’s shoulders in a sort of small hug. This was the best way he could think of for answering that question and, considering the direction of the conversation, he hoped Dray wouldn't mind.

Dray went stiff for a second or two, then rested their head under Adair’s chin. Their body began to shake and Adair feared Dray was crying-- was the hug really that bad?-- until he realized they were chuckling. This was almost as unnerving because laughing wasn't something Dray did any more often than crying. “And to think that I was jealous of you.”

Adair gaped. What reason would anyone ever have to be jealous of a disaster like him? The only reason he’d ended up here with these carnies was because he’d been too dumb to keep his art from being stolen from under his nose. “What? Me? Why?”

Dray pulled away but wrapped their hand around Adair’s forearm. “Because you’ve known those dorky twins only as long as I have and Blythe much less, yet they all treat you like you’re one of them. I assumed since you were already in with them, that I couldn’t be, so there was no point in trying.”

Now Adair was even more confused. Dray's words didn't match the fact that they were still gently touching his arm. Was Dray upset at him or not?

Dray continued to talk, either not noticing that Adair had no idea what was going on or choosing to ignore that fact. “I wanted to pretend these didn’t matter, that I could go somewhere else. I left once and thought that I could do so again.”

Adair just stared. Somehow his plan to cheer Dray up had turned into … whatever this confession was. And he thought talking to Sol was baffling. “You can’t?”

Dray's hand dropped into Adair's and they used this to turn his arm over. “No. The five of us are all a part of this now. Don’t you see?”

A shifting rainbow covered Adair’s forearm where just minutes ago there had been a long black smudge: crimson flowed into brilliant yellow into forest green into chartreuse into deep indigo and back into crimson.  

Adair looked up into Dray’s face, always wreathed by painted red whirls that matched their red lipstick and coat. He did see it now. The yellow was for Sol and his love of light and gold glitter, and his tendency to use up all of Adair's warm color paints. Green for Blythe and her beloved garden that overflowed the wagon and grew on the patio at Adair’s back even in winter. Blue was his own favorite, the color of the sky on a bright summer day and the color that made his heart happy. Indigo, the color of Etri's celestial tattoos and as dark as the ink and the night sky that he loved so much.

This was why his soul-marks were so unlike any he’d seen before meeting his friends. This was why the five of them all had their marks turn into perfect rainbows. The five of them were each other’s soulmates and that was why it felt so right to have them all here with him.

He and Dray were the last piece. Adair squeezed Dray’s hand and a sense of warm belonging filled his heart when Dray squeezed it back. “So you’re not going to leave us?”

Dray scrunched up their nose and stuck out their tongue, making Adair wonder if it meant Dray felt like they belonged, too. Acting silly had to mean that Dray felt comfortable, right? “Of course not. You asked for it and you’re stuck with me now, just like you’re stuck with Blythe’s constant nagging and Sol’s constant lack of clothes and Etri’s constant brooding.”

Adair wouldn't have it any other way. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell Sol that. He’ll think he has to glue us all together.”

————————–

(I’m kind of sad that this story is over because it’s been such a big project for three months. I’m still not sure how a soulmate AU turned into a main project, but it was fun! I think I learned a lot by writing and sharing a chapter each week [err... minus this delayed update] without really outlining in advance, and it was a blast writing from POVs that I don’t use very often. I’m looking forward to working on new short stories now, though! Hopefully ones that are actually short since this one clocked in at 22k words total lol. I’ve already started one about Blythe and Dray and I’ll continue to share stories about these characters fairly regularly, probably once or twice a month. A big thanks to everyone who stuck by me for this all-too-long “Stuck With You” AU journey! <3

Tagging my short story people, although since tags aren’t working I’m probably going to reblog this a few times. I’m proud of finishing something that ended up so many chapters, so I’m hoping people see this. :)  As always, if you want to be taken off the list of people I tag when I share stories, let me know. If you want to be added to the list, also let me know. And please definitely do tag me when you share stories and excerpts and things, too! @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @firewritten @joshuaorrizonte @writtenhastily @writerlydays @ava-burton-writing @josephmxa @megan-cutler @dragonscanbeplantstoo @alittle-writer @perringwrites @an-author-in-progress @aceduchessdragoness @madmooninc @thatwriternamedvolk @elliot-orion @wchwriter @lady-redshield-writes @shadow-maker @zachdoesawriting @blogherosix @reeseweston @bluemartlet @pen-for-sword @writer-on-time @ravenpuffwriter @forlornraven @siarven @ghostsmooches @worldbuildingwren @toboldlywrite @homesteadhorner @loopyhoopydrabbles @emptymanuscript @dreameronthewind )

#writing #writeblr #soulmate au #au tuesday #au story #short story #unexpected inspiration series #stuck with you story #UI POV: Adair #It's so strange to be done this story after working on it for so long!

[bellatrixobsessed1]

I’ll Meet You At The Bottom (Part 3)

I am still bitter to say that my favorite joke didn’t come back to me. For that I’m actually pretty disappointed in this chapter, the first version that my computer ate was so much better. :/ I hope it’s still enjoyable for you guys anyways.

Sokka hadn’t seen her at the window since that night but the image of her was imprinted in his mind. Even so he crafted a quick sketch just to make sure that the image stayed vivid. His brush work still wasn’t up to par but he had a newfound determination to make it so. Not exactly masterful with backgrounds yet, he simply spread a layer of black over most of the background, leaving only enough white to expose the border—which he decided would serve as the window frame. He filled that white space with gold paint. It looked decent enough, but such was easy to say when one was only working with two colors and a simple pattern. Even so, something seemed missing, lackluster. He decided to add a little texture, hoping that it would add a little something. At the same time, he feared that it would be hard to add the second layer of paint if he did.  With a brief moment of reluctance to precede, he began dabbing a cloth at the canvas. Every good artist would have to take a risk at some point, he figured that he might as well start early.

It would take an hour, at least, to dry. Sokka set the brush down and starched his arms. He was thankful for how well just that portion of the painting had taken his mind off of things. If he would have known, he may have taken to painting portraits earlier on.

 “How’s your painting coming along?” Katara asked, she squinted at the gold framed black square. “What are you painting?”

 The innocent inquiry took the man by surprise. “I…uhhh…” Sokka stammered. He hadn’t even thought to come up with a clever lie, but he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone know that he was painting Azula.  “It…it’s an abstract piece.”

 “You’re pretty flustered for just painting an ‘abstract piece’.” Toph put in.

 “W-well look at it.” Sokka motioned frantically to the painting, the color in his cheeks only spreading more. “Does it even seem abstract? It’s stupid just like every other thing I’ve tried to paint.” He hadn’t quite meant to beat himself up like that, but it was much better than coming out with the truth.

 “It’s not that bad.” Aang shrugged. “You just started it after all.”

 Katara nodded, “It’ll probably look great after you add some more color and splotches and… artsy stuff.”

 “Yeah. Artsy stuff.” Sokka agreed, instantly flooded with relief.  

 “I think you should add different shades.” Zuko suggested as he crossed the grass. “Maybe add some greys or something.”

 Sokka rubbed the back of his head, “thanks for the suggestion but it might be a bit too late for that.” Truth be told he wasn’t sure if he was correct; the paint might still be wet enough for him to do so, but one artistic leap of fate was enough for one day.  He looked back at his canvas, he was itching to fill it.  Right then it was as empty as the real window frame.

 .oOo.

 Azula looked at the powder sitting atop her dresser. She’d seen Chan use it before, he said it was a real trip and was kind enough to slip her some. She told herself that she had only accepted it to feel the kick of adrenaline, knowing just how much trouble it could bring if she got busted. And when that didn’t work she convinced herself that she had accepted the mystery substance to prove to herself that she wouldn’t actually inhale it. But as it sat undisturbed it became increasingly difficult to resist. She did go through the trouble of sneaking out of her room and into the palace dinner party to retrieve it, after all. Not to mention she was already hooked, what was one more thing?

 She had her fingers around the pouch containing it when there came a knock on the door. She hissed a quick, “fuck” and tossed it under the dresser. She made a point of loudly approaching the door, in hopes that the person on the other side would decide not to barge right in. She had her hand on the knob, poised to twist it, but decided against doing so. “Leave me.” She demanded, entirely uninterested in uncovering the identity of her visitor.

 “Would you like me to leave your food at the door?”

 Her lip curled back, the last thing she needed was for one of her servants to nose around and out her, “of course I would!” She spat. “Have I ever invited you in before?”

 She heard the rustle of cloth and then a stiff and uncertain, “well…no.”

 “Well then...” She rolled her eyes.

 Azula could picture the man bowing. She heard a soft clatter and waited for the footfalls to grow distant before poking her head out and fetching a plate of dumplings that she wasn’t actually hungry for. She ate one or two regardless and went straight back to her initial conundrum. She felt under the dresser for the pouch, by the time it was in her hand, her fingers were tainted with dust.

 She stared at it for some more time, admitting that she didn’t know how much she could inhale at one time without hurting herself. She looked at her arms and remembered that she didn’t care. With a final burst of hesitation, she opened the pouch—thanking and cursing Chan all in the same sniff.

 .oOo.

 Sokka carefully swept a finger over the bottom right of his painting. Upon inspection, his finger had come up clean. It hadn’t taken as much time as he thought for the painting to dry. He was both nervous and thrilled to continue. He took a seat, deciding that it would do him well to actually plan his next line of attack he could just do everything in one more layer or he could have third. He rubbed his chin, staring at the canvas as if it would tell him what it wanted him to do.

 Picking up his brush, he had at last made his decision. He created a blend of color white and brown—more heavy on the brown. He stuck his lip out, that mixture wasn’t right. It was much too dark, he was painting Azula, not Katara. His second attempt was just as unfulfilling, this time it was to loaded with white. He was about to mix a third when he recalled the look of the princess while she stood at the window in broad daylight. No, he realized, he had created a quite accurate blend. It would have been too light a year or so back, but as things were, he had it just right. He put his brush to the canvas, hoping that his hand could recreate the image that clung so heavily in his mind.

 Minutes bled into hours and he scarcely noticed the rumble of his stomach nor the call of his bladder. It wasn’t until Katara offered him a moon peach that he finally turned form his work. “That’s not bad at all.” She noted as she tossed the fruit at him. “You choose a very light tone for the skin. I would suggest adding some color.”

 It took a degree of willpower to bite his tongue and not inform her that he was going for accuracy. He truly wanted to, but Sokka had no desire to answer the questions that would follow. So instead he replied, “I don’t want to waste all of my brown paint.”

 Katara laughed. “I’m sure Zuko would be willing to buy you some more.”

 “You’re probably right.” He agreed, “though I’m sort of hoping to be done with this layer tonight.”

 “You can’t rush art, Sokka.” Aang gave his input.

 “Hey, you guys want to see my painting?” Toph asked. “I call it, The Orange Hand. I made it with my own hand.”

 Sokka almost didn’t’ want to tell her. But he did, “Toph, that hand is pink.”

 “Oh.” Toph muttered. “I knew that.”

 “I’m sure.” Sokka agreed sarcastically. He turned back to his own artwork. He supposed he could add a bit more brown in some places. It would give it a more life like quality. “Say Katara, from that window,” he took special care to point to the window next to Azula’s, “how do you think the light would fall on her face?”

 “It depends on the time of day.” Katara replied.

 “How about during sundown.” Sokka replied.

 Katara moved closer to the painting. “Now don’t get mad if this is off, because I’m really just guessing.” She mumbled as she indicated to the places where she though he could add a little bit of darkness. “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t you say that this was an abstract painting?”

 Sokka was thankful for his turned back, he was flustered all over again. “I changed my mind. I couldn’t come up with anything good. Anyone can splatter paint on a canvas and call it art, you know?” Inwardly he scolded himself for being so careless, he was never good at secret keeping.

 “Who are you painting?” Katara asked the question he dreaded.

 “No one really, I mean I haven’t decided yet.” He hoped that he wasn’t stammering again. “I might try to make up my own character.”

“You should give her a cool tattoo! Like Sparky Boom Man’s!”

 “Thanks for the suggestion, Toph. But I don’t think I’ve had enough practice for painting tattoos like that.” For a good while his friends watched him paint, it only made him a little squeamish. By the time they retreated back into the palace, he put his brush down and looked at what he had done so far.

It was awkward at first to only have a naked figure on the canvas, knowing exactly who it would morph into. But until it dried enough for him to add a layer of clothing, it would remain that way.

 .oOo.

 “Hey! Boy, where are you going?” Came a sharp demand.

 Azula looked around but the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere and it wouldn’t stop echoing. She shrugged and continued her stroll. The hallways were buzzing with energy, that tossed flashes of blue and purple that ping-ponged from one end to the next. She could feel the energy vibrating her to her very core. She was reaching out to catch one of those energy orbs when a hand fell roughly on her shoulder.

 “Are you listening to me, boy. We have a palace to guard.”

 She turned to stare at the man grasping her shoulder. She might have come to deduce that it was Xanu, the head of the royal guard, had his face not distorted before her eyes. At first it was quite comical—he had the face of the avatar’s bison—and then it shifted into something more disturbing. For a moment his skin seemed to be sagging right off, and then he had his real face.  

 “You may be one of our new recruits, but there will still be punishment for slacking…”

 The man very clearly had her pegged for someone else. Before that moment, she had snuck into her father’s old bedroom and borrowed one of his suits of armor. Or at least that’s what she though she’d done, as it were, she had actually acquired herself one of the guard uniforms. Of course, with the powder well and snorted, it didn’t take much to convince her that she was going to get fired for messing around on the job.

 “I’m not slacking.”

Xanu pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered to himself. “I told them not to hire these boys. Half of em ain’t even hit puberty yet. How am I supposed to make sure they’re all on track?”

 Azula elaborated. “I’m very job at my good, actually. I’m exploring because I have to make sure the palace knows me inside and out in case I need to evacuate without being saw.”

 Xanu blinked. “Are you alright, boy?”

 It also didn’t take any effort for him to have her convinced that the powder had transformed her into a pre-pubescent boy. Azula brought a hand to her breasts, unable to actually feel them beneath the armor she decided that she must not have any. It wasn’t until he grabbed her wrist that the panic set in, she didn’t want to talk to other people. She had to get back to her room before someone found out that she had put the powder to use.

 The misfortunate head of guards wasn’t expecting to have a swift blow delivered to his privets, so when she delivered it he put up no fight. Seeing him crumple to the ground instilled a new fear in Azula. If she was a man now she would have to take extra care not to let that happen to her.  Unfortunately for the princess, the energy orbs now seemed completely hellbent on giving her a dose of karma.  She leapt up and down to doge the balls of light, occasionally having to fling herself up close and personal with the wall. Xanu watched the display with morbid fascination, deciding once and for all that he wouldn’t allow any boy or girl under fifteen join the palace guard.

 The hall seemed much narrower to Azula who was creeping along it. She found tears in the walls where none used to be. From those crevices dripped a steady flow of glitter and mud, if she didn’t hurry she would find herself drowning within it. Her stomach churned, she had to find her way back to her room but all of the doors looked the same a perfect mirror of the one next to it. The image of each door seemed to reflect endlessly down a hallway that didn’t cease. She found herself dizzy, the hall now tilting at some odd, disorienting angle. She stumbled, as the carpet seemed to roll like waves beneath her. On all fours, she hustled to the first of the doors and pushed it open. It wasn’t her room, but it was a room, one that didn’t see many guests. So she would wait it out there. Alone in a dark room where the orbs of energy elongated into shadowy fingers that poked and prodded at her. Alone in the dark where a dozen voices seemed to holler incoherently at her.

 She bunched herself up in the corner furthest from the door and clasped her hands over her ears. It was too loud, everything was too loud. But at least these voices didn’t scream her shames. In fact, they seemed to drown out the ones that did. Even so, the sheer volume had her letting herself flop to the floor on her side. The world continued to swirl and blur until she couldn’t make anything out. The colors were all wrong there was purple where there was supposed to be red and gold where there was supposed to be blue. She could see the shape of a hand rising between her ribs and on that hand was the shape of another smaller one. They threatened to burst out and split her skin. And when she looked at her arm she could have sworn that her own hand was gone. The furniture in the room swelled, seeming much larger than it ought to have been. The entirety of the room spun faster. She wanted it to stop. Oh, Agni, she needed it to end.

Not for the first time, Azula found herself isolated and horrified.

Just what had she put herself through this time?

Just what would she continue to put herself though?

#Sokkla #Azula #Sokka #Katara #Aang #Toph #Zuko #Avatar #Fanfiction

[wholesomefandomstuff]

mAY I SUGGEST A HIGHSCHOOL AU WHERE ARIN IS DRAWING DAN AND DAN NOTICES THAT ARIN'S SNEAKING GLANCES ANDDDD

FRIK OKAY I LIKE THIS?? I’m doin it

Heads up: I’m really tired and careless at the moment (I’m really sorry that I took a while Anon please forgive me.) So I’ll be tagging this the correct tags later… Like tomorrow. And I’ll delete this whole bit of me talking stupidness.

It was making Dan very uncomfortable. Those sneaky glances that he was given. And then the guy would start doodling on his paper again, as if whatever, he doesn’t care if he’s made eye contact a couple times.

Stop it. Stop it. Dan couldn’t stop thinking those two words over and over again. Who does this guy think he is? Why is he staring at him? Is his hair overlapping or something? Is his face red? Who does this guy think he is?!

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just trying to look out the window. Convenient, though. How he just happened to be looking out the window that was across the room, and also directly next to Dan.

Stop it Dan, you’re being an idiot.

Oh look, he did it again.

He wasn’t really mad at this guy. But he was driving him insane. Every time they make eye contact, it’s like the guy just shrugs it off and goes back to drawing. Only to give him another stare again.

He wasn’t looking at his face anymore, he was looking at his hair. And this time, he was given more glances there than at his face.

And then it dawned on him. He realized he wasn’t just a weirdo who kept giving him looks.

He was drawing him.

___

Dan. Daniel. Leigh Daniel. Daniel Avidan. He was going to be his best piece yet. The hair especially was going to be hard. Shading the stubble would be easier if the light wasn’t directly on him though, that damn window.

The way he sat his head in his hand and stared off into space made Arin fall for him. He was the perfect figure in the best pose.

Arin barely heard the bell ring when class was over. While he was subconsciously putting his sketch pad away in his bag, his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he could get this piece for a grade in his art class. If he could, he’d definitely get an A.

A hand practically slapped the corner of his desk. Arin looked up and saw a very familiar face. “What’s up with you, man?” Dan asked. “You kept staring at me the entire time.”

Arin knows Dan, but Dan doesn’t know him. Who does, though? He’s usually too quiet to be noticed, with his face hidden behind a sketchbook.

“D- oh, I’m sorry. I was just… Trying to look out the window. I never meant-”

“You have a window one desk in front of you, why look out the one directly next to me? Besides, we made eye contact like seven times. There’s no going back.”

Begrudgingly, and almost shaking from anxiety, Arin took out his notebook and flipped to the page that Dan was centered in, his head in his hand, and he stared out the window, just like from before. The only difference was, half of his hair hadn’t been drawn yet.

Arin sighed and gave Dan the portrait. “I didn’t have anything better to do, and you were just there, so.. you know…” Arin trailed off. What else was there to say? It was the truth.

“Nothing else other than pay attention to the teacher.” Dan added, his eyes staying on the page.

Okay, so it was mostly the truth. But you get it, right?

“I’m sorry if I made you feel weird. I thought if I didn’t make a reaction out of making eye contact, then you wouldn’t either, and you wouldn’t care. And if you’re not okay with me drawing you, you can have it if you-”

“I love it. You’re really talented. You even got my hair right. Well.. the hair that’s on the page, anyways.”

Arin looked up to his eyes again and saw that they were bright again. He had once dreamed of making him smile like this, but he never thought he’d have the courage to talk to him.

And he was right, so it’s a good thing Dan talked to him first.

“Um… Walk with me?”

Dan gave the sketchbook back to him, still smiling shyly and brightly. He held out his other hand as he said this.

“I’d… I’d like that.”

#highschool au #egobang #anonymous #ask #fluff #my writing #fic

[builder051]

Hildur and Pierce part 1 (OC fic)

I’m working on a couple more installments to fully introduce these guys.  Their character descriptions are a few posts back (with PICTURES!)

This is not emeto, but it’s totally set up to feel like it is.  More about anxiety.

Hildur leans on the soap-streaked basin and sighs at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  A stall bangs open behind her, and footsteps echo against the tiled floor and walls.  Another sink in the long bank flips on, and Hildur hopes the person using it is too engrossed in their own thoughts to give her a look.

Her lips are white, tinged almost ice blue.  Her skin is the color of milk.  As she watches, Hildur’s hair, curling limply around her shoulders, shifts from tow-headed blonde to pure snow.  It’s mortifying, and it ratchets up the throb between her light teal eyes and the tremor in her pale hands.  Calm down, she berates herself.

Why did she think she could handle this?  The commute to the university is hard enough, almost an hour on the hot, slow, exhaust-spewing bus.  Then there’s the class she chose.  Over a thousand dollars out of pocket to enroll in one semester of advanced painting where she can relax, have fun, and broaden her portfolio to strengthen her resume.  Or not.  Hildur hasn’t approached any of the goals in the first three of the sixteen scheduled classes.  And now she’s in the bathroom, not participating in the fourth.

It’s not getting any better the longer she stands there.  She needs to get out of the uncomfortably humid toilet, off campus, and get home where she can safely vanish.  The problem, though, is that all her stuff, her coat, her messenger bag, her paints, her barely-started still life, is still in the classroom.  And Hildur’s not sure she can make it down the hall without something horrible happening.

She has to, though, because she can’t keep doing this.  The heavy bathroom door creaks open, and someone clanks into a stall.  Hildur can’t still be here when that person finishes up.  It’s weird. Invites questions, like are you ok?  To which she’d love to answer why would I tell you?

Hildur takes two deep, measured breaths.  Her heartrate slows by a couple of BPM, and her lips look closer to white than blue.  She crosses her arms over her chest and squeezes her own shoulders, and a glint of pale straw gold infuses her hair.  She looks marginally human.  She can do this.  She can hold herself here for a few minutes.  She has to be strong enough for that.

Hildur wraps both sides of her open-front sweater across her chest and tucks her fingers into her armpits as she steps down the hall to the classroom.  She lets her hair curtain over her eyes as she manages the door, holding the polished handle until it closes so it doesn’t slam.  There are probably a few students staring, but Hildur doesn’t look.  She trusts that her coloring is close to what it was when she left.  No one should have reason to suspect anything’s up, except that maybe she’s sick.

Hildur’s easel and basic sketch of a painting are near the back of the room.  She immediately descends on her station and starts putting everything within reach into her crumpled canvas messenger bag.  It doesn’t matter if brushes aren’t clean, they can be dumped into a Ziploc bag and worked on later.  Hildur pauses to screw the cap on a tube of ocher yellow, her fingertips trembling and shifting white to ivory in the same rhythm.

“Hildur?”  The skinny grey-haired, soft-spoken instructor, Peabody, is standing on the other side of the rickety station.

“I have to go,” Hildur whispers, not meeting the teacher’s eyes. She imagines they’re concerned behind his dark-rimmed glasses.

“Is everything ok?”  Not the exact phrasing, but there’s that question again.

“Hm.”  The cap of the paint won’t line up with the threading.

“You’re not feeling well,” Peabody quietly asserts.  It’s a reasonable assumption.  She’s really not, and considering the way she bolted out of class…  Why wouldn’t he think that?

Hildur stays quiet.  The instructor’s hands are coming toward her, pulling the ocher yellow from her lax, sweaty grip and screwing the cap on.  Light moves around Hildur’s eyes as her lashes flash through transparent to non-existent and finally back to neon blonde.  Her breath hitches.

“Think you’re ok to get home?”  Peabody hands her the closed tube of paint.

Hildur nods, still looking down.  She dumps the ocher yellow into her bag along with the scarlet and cerulean and bag of soiled brushes.

“You can come in and work during any of my other painting classes.”

It can’t have been more than half a minute, but the conversation’s already gone on too long. Hildur picks up her bag, and she can see through her fingernails.  The flesh beneath is the cloudy, not-quite opaque color of saltwater.  She takes a deep breath.  Swallows the impending rush of tears.

“Have a good night.  Feel better,” Peabody says.  Hildur’s already out the door.

By the time she reaches the bus stop, she realizes she left her coat back in the classroom.  It’s nearing frigid outside, but the hood on her sweater will have to do.  There’s no way she’ll turn back, especially now that she’s let loose enough to almost relax and ride out the panic attack. Hildur sits on the bench alone, looking down and watching the ends of her hair shift white-blonde to white to silver to gone to white to platinum.

Breathe.

You’re fine.

Stop worrying.

See, you’re fine.

When the bus huffs up to the sidewalk, Hildur tucks her hair into her hood and readies her public transit card.  She mounts the vibrating steps and becomes acutely aware of someone sprinting up to the vehicle behind her.  The soft gust of cold air and hitchy breathing makes Hildur bristle.  The red of the plastic card in her hand is shining through her skin.

“Come on, you’re letting the heat out,” the bus driver complains.

Hildur rushes the last two steps and jams her transit pass into the fare machine at the driver’s shoulder.  The touch-screen flashes for her to confirm she wants to use one of her pre-paid student fares.

Don’t think about it.

The machine doesn’t register when Hildur’s finger presses against the flashing yes.  It’s not surprising, but annoying.  And it unleashes the ridiculously unhelpful, inevitable stream of oh shit, come on, come on…

Deep breath.  Swipe hand over opposite elbow. Adjust hood.  Deep breath.  Try again.  Hildur presses the touch screen again.  It still doesn’t take.  She rests her finger over the designated area while she exhales, willing shell pink into her fingernail.  Hildur closes her eyes.  The machine finally beeps, and she removes her card and hurries to an empty seat as a clammy sweat of relief breaks out over her brow.

She sits nearer to the window and leaves her bag half in her lap and half in the aisle seat.  The maneuver is meant to look careless, but it’s a deliberate move to keep the second seat empty at all costs.  Hildur’s not a fan of close contact.  Especially today.

As soon as the bus pulls away from the curb, she turns her head into the window, her forehead lightly resting on the glass though her thin bangs.  Hildur feels both safe and exposed simultaneously.  She’s covered herself as well as she can and hidden her face.  Most people will be preoccupied with their commutes or books or mobile phones and not watching her.  Except for the people who take advantage of public discomfort and watch how others behave in such tight confines.  And then probably write books about them.

It’s over 10 stops to Hildur’s apartment.  She reminds herself again that she has time.  She’s fine. Breathe.  Calm down.  There’s almost time to take a nap.

And that’s what she pretends she’s doing, cuddled into the window, her breath fogging on the glass.  A muted stream of poppy hip-hop music floats back from the front of the bus, sounding pepped up and seasonally inappropriate.  Flo Rida or Pitbull, probably.  Something distinctly coastal.  A loose piece of Hildur’s hair starts to take on a sunkissed glow.

Then, all of the sudden, out of nowhere, Hildur’s phone starts ringing, and it’s loud.  It’s a generic iPhone ringtone, but she knows it’s hers.  Her bag is vibrating.  Panic leaches into every cell of Hildur’s body.  It’s embarrassing to have the whole bus’s attention centered on her, and it’s not like she can reach into her messenger bag and answer the thing.  Hildur can tell without moving her head that she’s gone.  She can’t see her nose or her eyelashes, and her face-framing curls are hidden from view.  As surreptitiously as possible, she gathers the cuffs of her sweater over her hands so the ends of the sleeves don’t appear empty.  And all the while, the phone keeps ringing.

It’s torture.  Hildur can’t stop seeing it from everyone else’s point of view.  From their perspective, she was sleeping.  But then she was moving, shifting into the window to hide her invisible face and hands as soon as the phone rang.  Most people dig out their phones and reject calls when they don’t want to talk.  They must think her a jerk.  Or maybe an idiot.  There’s probably, oh, twenty minutes or so left in the ride home.  Hildur puts on the mental countdown clock and wills herself into existence again.

She tries to remember the words to the only Flo Rida song she knows.

Blow my whistle baby, whistle baby, something something something?

You just put your lips together and you come real close.

Something whistle baby…

Here we go?

Then some kind of whistling sound that doesn’t actually sound like a person whistling.  Maybe an instrument, like a flute.  Or an electronic representation of one?  Or maybe someone playing the flute, then the track electronically edited to remove breaths.  Like a photograph retouched to get rid of a blemish or a stray hair.

Hildur doesn’t like the idea of editing.  Maybe that’s why she’s an artist and not something else like a writer.  If the spot of mold on a piece of fruit or a birthmark on a person’s face isn’t warranted for the canvas, she can just delete it before she even starts.  Fill in that spot with a different color or texture that’s more aesthetically pleasing, and then show the subjects the best versions of themselves in the finished product.  Assuming the subjects are not pieces of fruit.

But then, even better, is the method of just accepting things as they are.  Giving in to the fact that there’s no autotune in drawing, no erasers when it comes to watercolor.  Hildur and every artist she knows still struggles with it, but who doesn’t dream of handing the portrait subject an image, complete with every bad thing, every wrinkle and mole, and still show the subject the best of themselves?  Hildur tries, every time.  She just has trouble getting around the fact that if she did the same and painted the worst of herself, she’d have literally nothing to show.

She entwines her sweater-mitted hands in her lap and minutely shifts the fabric so she can see if she’s starting to materialize again.  It’s a huge relief that she is, though the back of Hildur’s hands are the color of tissue paper with a beach-glass map of networking veins.  Her hair starts to come back into her peripheral vision, light as the fur on an arctic fox.  From an outsider’s perspective, she probably looks like an ancient dying vampire.

Not her best look for sure, but at least Hildur has a body as she stands up and trembles down the aisle when the bus shudders to a stop at the top of her block.  Her hood’s still up, and enough people have entered and exited the vehicle since she got on that few of them are likely to discern a change in her complexion.  The thought gives her the most miniscule glimmer of confidence, which turns back to anxiety as she wishes her hair would hold off flooding with tow-headed blondness until she gets off the damn bus.

From the corner it’s a two minute walk to her apartment.  Once through the front door, Hildur dumps her bag, kicks off her shoes, and heads straight to the bedroom.  She collapses face first into her pillows, relishing the fact that she lives alone and hating herself for everything that’s happened.  She lets tears fall for a while and knows she’s flickering through shades of pale, but she’s soothed that no one will see.  Which ensures she stays fully visible.

A couple of hours pass before Hildur’s cried herself a new kind of headache.  She stumbles drunkenly away from her bed and out into living room.  She has soiled paintbrushes in her bag, and they’ll be ruined if she leaves them much longer.  Sandy blonde hair falls in front of her face as she rummages for the Ziploc.  Hildur paws past sketchpads and paint tubes before she locates the brushes at the bottom of the canvas messenger bag, along with the other small, heavy objects like her wallet and phone.

She hasn’t so much as glanced at her phone since it rang on the bus earlier.  She unlocks it and sets the voicemail to play, then tucks the device between her ear and shoulder as she takes the brushes into the bathroom and opens the cabinet to retrieve her cleaning supplies.

“Hi, Hildur, this is Pierce.  Pierce Peabody, your painting instructor.  I, um.  I got your number from your student contact info.  I hope this isn’t weird.  But, um.  Anyway.  You, um, left your coat in class today, and I just wanted to let you know I have it, so you can get it next class.  Or at a makeup class, if you want to come make up what you missed.  And uh.  I hope you’re ok.  You, um, looked like you really didn’t feel good.  And, um, I know you live pretty far from campus, so I hope you made it home ok.  If you need anything, like, I don’t know, saltines or something.  Or I could bring your coat.  If you need it.  Ok.  I’m sorry, this is, just.  Um.  I hope you feel better.  You can call me.  If you want.  Ok.  Um.  Ok bye.”

It’s completely unexpected.  She doesn’t know what to make of it.  Her heart is throbbing in her chest, and the next breath is shallower than the last.  Hildur’s got about 10 years on the average college student, but Peabody’s still got to have at least 10 more on her.  What’s he doing?

Hildur catches her own eye in the mirror as she arranges her brushes on a towel.  She’s surprised she has a visible reflection at all, let alone one that’s still holding on to color.  She’s paled, but her hair has faded to a flaxen glow and there’s a trace of warmth in her porcelain skin.

How odd that certain things add to and take away anxiety in the human body.  Even in a body as extraordinary as hers.

#Hildur and Pierce #oc fic #ocs #sickfic #original fiction #original characters #my writing #anxiety #emeto #emetophilia

[flawed-menagerie]

A TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF VOLODYMYR ALBESCU

AS DESCRIBED IN HIS JOURNALS

YOUNG LIFE

Volodymyr was the fifth son of seven children in the Albescu family and the last to be born. His family were lesser noblemen in charge of a small piece of land in Thedrell. He was a bright lad who picked up quickly on his studies but always seemed to ask his elders too many questions and push his studies too far. When it was time to learn to check traps in the evening he would be off on the roof of the family home setting up a telescope for star gazing. When he was supposed to be eating dinner he would disappear off into the woods to sketch all of the grand and exciting creatures he encountered. He would make little notes next to the drawings as he learned more about what each doodad or fluff of feather was meant for it. As he got older the drawings and notes he took were getting more elaborate. It was still seen as innocent fun. He generally behaved as a fine young boy of noble breeding when he wasn’t off adventuring so his parents didn’t fuss much.  

A NEW DISCOVERY

AN UNSETTLING REALIZATION

It wasn’t until an intimate encounter with death that Volodymyr shifted to a new obsession. He had been having a picnic in the wood with his grandfather when the old elf suddenly stopped talking. His face turned an odd hue and he kept wheezing and struggling to breathe. He had never realized that elves could die. He sat there frozen like a statue unsure of how to react to the situation. It was strange. The man had been there one moment and then gone the next just like that. How terribly peculiar. The memory was terribly vivid and burned into his mind. This situation had also provided him with a new trinket. His grandfather, who had always been fond of the youngest boy had insisted that his family ring be given to little Volodya instead of one of the more deserving and elder brothers.  

AN IMPULSIVE EXPLORATION

Wanting to understand more about death, and on the other side of the coin what makes up someone’s essence in the first place the elf began to look for something that might be hidden underneath the surface. While on his adventures with his notebook in the woods he brought along a small blade and began to document the anatomy of any dead creatures he happened upon on in his hikes. But animals were animals, perhaps they were missing that thing that spark he had seen leave his grandfather. Unwilling to let a few rules and locked doors hold him back he began to frequent and explore nearby catacombs as well. He asked his parents for more research texts and old tomes that might have something he might have missed never giving a clear answer when asked. “What’s this all about?”

A NEW WORLD

MEETING DIMITRI

On one of his many trips to the catacombs he soon realized that he wasn’t alone. A sharp tinkling of a bell could be heard as he passed through the dark and into an area where a fresh body lay on a slab of stone. Each time it rang it felt like something deep within him was being tugged gently. Squinting in the dark he spied a Diminutive Fae like being who had his ear pressed against the lips of the dead elf inside. In one hand the stranger was clutching a glass bell that seemed to glimmer in the dark. This stranger gave a little start when it realized it wasn’t alone. He explained to the noble that he was a tender of spirits and a master of the undead arts. Intrigued and not at all bothered that he had been disrupted from his studies he begged the fairy to teach him about his abilities.  

A GROWING FRIENDSHIP

Dimitri agreed to teach the elf about his kind of magic. About its dangers and its rituals. One of Dimitri’s favorite things to say was that “If you have an unbreakable will nothing is impossible” The pair couldn’t be more different. Volodymyr was Serious, Analytical, and preferred to break things down into digestible chunks. Dimitri was a spiritualist, Excitable, and looked at everything at a larger picture. Despite their differences they learned to play to each other’s strengths, and spent much of their spare time together.

One thing that was off limits in the lessons was the bell. Volodymyr was told he would need to learn to summon his own bell to Practice Necromancy. Each bell was unique to a bearer’s own energy, to use someone else’s was dangerous. Despite this warning Volodymyr focused his energy on learning how to dispel that rendered the bell unusable if in the wrong hands. He focused a lot of his time away from Dimitri learning more Magic in general. As the years passed Dimitri and Volodymyr grew close. For Volodymyr Dimitri was like a brother, better than a brother, but the young fae bore a complicated but deep seeded love for the odd elf.  

THINGS FALL APART

A DIFFERENT SORT OF DISCOVERY

While off on one of his many journeys with Dimitri Volodymyr’s sister Sofia followed him to a cemetery and watched in horror as she watched her younger brother treat the dead with such ill respect, in her and much of society’s opinion. When word got back to Volodymyr’s mother she confronted the young man who was now 43 years old. They got into a horrible argument about morality and spirituality that eventually ended in news that he would be sent to live with distant relatives in Wepkiir so that he wouldn’t bring embarrassment upon the family name.  

A HORRIBLE MISTAKE

Desperate and angry about the news Volodymyr spent the last few days he had with Dimitri lethargic and irritable. He was never going to see his friend again and this was going to be the last chances he had to break the spell on their bell and give it a ring. He stole the bell when Dimitri wasn’t looking and dispelled its protective magic. He crept over to the cadaver they had been practicing on controlling earlier and gave the bell a single ring. His body felt a great tug, but the ear pressed against the cold lips heard a single word that was completely muffled by the roar of Dimitri’s voice when he had realized what he had done. He scolded him for being so careless and that he had made the rule about the bell for his safety. Angry as well and ready to snap he squeezed the bell between his fingers and cursed at the fairy. Telling him that he was overprotective and being stupid. That he probably liked the bell more than himself. That he hated him. Furious he smashed the bell against the stone with the protective spell still inert. The last words that passed between his lips while he was still alive were I hate you, unless of course you counted the scream that ripped from his lungs as hundreds of diamond like shards of glass tinkled about him like rain. With Each hit ripped at his very being pulling his life essence from his body and ripping it to pieces.  

THINGS GET PUT TOGETHER

LOSING DIMITRI

In a panic Dimitris mustered the energy to summon a new bell for himself. He rang it frantically trying to pull his friend back to his body before it was too late. But it was too late, the pieces of Volodymyr were too fragmented to stay put for long. He kept slipping through his fingers like sand. Holding his friend’s hand in his own he felt the gem of a familiar old ring in his palm. It gave him a foolish idea. He couldn’t think of anything that he wanted more than to fix this right now even if it meant he wouldn’t exist anymore. He would be more than willing to die for his friend but this would be something more. He pulled the retreating soul shards closer to himself and let out a soft sigh. He rended his own life into something that could only be described as a glue to hold those errant pieces together and bind them both into Volodymyr’s old family ring. This object would serve as a phylactery holding them together in this world until the day came where it should be destroyed. In a way they made a new being completely that night. The new Volodymyr had aspects of Dimitri’s personality and knowledge in him, as well as the problems and strengths that came along with being undead.

NOT QUITE THE SAME MAN

The ritual that had brought back his mind and his spirit did not do the same for his body. Broken and clearly a mess he allowed his parents to send him away to the frigid city. There he was able to preserve himself temporarily until he could work out the proper alchemical and magical means to maintain his mortal body. Despite his best efforts decades of minuscule rot is starting to take hold of his softer tissues. He does his best to preserve himself but he doubts he can keep it up indefinitely.  Once he knew how to take care of his body without the cold he began to travel the world and study new places. All the while he is constantly studying new necromantic and medical techniques This is one of the only things he can do that reminds him of happier times back when he was really himself and he had a best friend at his side instead of within his very soul.

#original character #character study #lich #necromancer #alchemist