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lestrangerthings · 1 year

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About ~ Pinterest ~ Spotify ~ Wanted Plots

Readmore for length since whoops have the app info while I'm at it. Only content warning going toward referencing wanting to kill Rabastan in the writing sample.

In summary:

Likely one of the smartest people in the room and well aware of it. Polite enough to refrain from being cocky unless an opportunity to show off and embellish the fact with sarcasm arises.

Best described as an observer and a charmer. Rodolphus has a way of words that is pleasant but packed with a punch. Able to seem calm, collected, and understanding but prone to using words as a weapon and way of getting more information out of people than they thought they were giving away.

Work oriented to the point of burying himself in it and seldom resurfacing. Pulling him away from it had better not turn into a waste of his time or it’s all whoever he is with will hear about.

Hasn’t sworn off relationships but has yet to find someone that can match him. Old fashioned in the sense of wanting an equal partnership between him and whoever he ends up courting. Feels relationships need to be built up on trust and values emotional connection before allowing things to take a physical/romantic/sexual turn.

Family is a weakness; with his being aware of this and still not overly happy about Rabastan having managed to make him prove he'll do just about anything for him.

Rodolphus took in a stray cat. And by taking in, it was more of a case of a window getting left ajar and coming home to the creature chilling on his armchair like it had been living there its whole life.

Primarily sticks to suits and isn't prone to dramatically updating his wardrobe. I will happily accept someone's character trying to convince him to broaden his color choices from black, navy blue, and dark green.

His hair is shoulder-length and well cared for. No idea why I’m going nah give me all the muses that can pull off ponytails but he’ll likely be the one that has me going “that’s why his hair is so big - it’s full of secrets” 😅

Ooof, very excited to explore his eventually aligning with the dark side, but the muse isn't overly in a rush for that.

Birthday:

September 2, 1951. Rodolphus is a Virgo that is very in tune with his need to remain organized and take a practical approach to life. He has a strong need to stick to familial obligations and expectations, taking the responsibilities of being the firstborn son seriously. He takes a methodical approach to everything and is prone to overthinking, often leaving him quiet and carefully analyzing every interaction. He takes pride in appearing cool and collected, using sweet looks and words to get an idea of other peoples’ inner workings.

Wand:

10 inches, black walnut wood, dragon heartstring core. Rodolphus needs a new wand, having learned the hard way that black walnut is a powerful and fickle wood. Two decades of working brilliantly were shattered by his decision to throw Silas’ case to support his brother instead. His inability to be honest with Andromeda and several others about losing the case has caused the wand’s performance to decline.

Rodolphus’ insight and being overly self-aware made the pair a notable team, with the wand proving to be a reliable partner. There was little thought of the wand’s allegiance ever slipping since he had two decades of partnership with it under his belt and was using the approach of playing to win at his job. Switching it out for something better tempered is unthinkable since it would draw too much attention. He isn’t certain how well-known the wood’s fickleness toward self-deception is and is positive it isn’t worth the risk of those close to him noticing the sudden change in wands if inevitably given a different wood type. It’s only been inconveniencing him recently, so why bother switching if things haven’t approached risking a catastrophe?

Amortentia:

The very idea of being around amortentia is laughable for Rodolphus since he has little time to focus on something as ridiculous as love. He’s been work-oriented since landing his position at the Ministry, and his parents aren’t in a rush to marry him off, so relationships haven’t been something on his mind.

If he were to get near it, the scents of old books, candle wax, and something involving Andromeda would likely come about. Rather unfortunate luck of believing it’s too late to bring those feelings up to Andromeda, though, since he’s too far gone into covering for Rabastan to even think about making a move while keeping secrets from her. It wouldn’t be worth the fallout.

Boggart:

Rodolphus’ boggart isn’t anything overly dramatic. Two things come to mind, with the protectiveness over Rabastan making it worth noting there’s likely a fear of properly losing his brother as the first. Rab in a casket or being handed a life sentence in Azkaban seems reasonable enough to be one of his biggest fears. Rodolphus wouldn’t have gone through the hoops of deliberately blowing a case if he didn’t care deeply for his younger sibling.

The other is simply recognizing that he’s likely had his life planned out since he was old enough to think about it. With the decidedly neutral stance that was encouraged by his father, it had me questioning if getting bullied into taking the dark mark before he was ready for it would be part of his fears. He’s a logical thinker, and I imagine he isn’t a fan of not feeling in control of his own life. Rodolphus recognizes that deliberately losing the case was a smart move for Rabastan but isn’t certain it had his best interests at heart. Word spreads quickly, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into Rabastan, Bellatrix, or a combination of the two trying to rope him into further throwing cases for the sake of a cause he is still gaining information about. Or worse, believing the lapse in full judgment warrants his taking a stance with the death eaters and makes him weak-willed enough to join the ranks without a second thought. Thinking about all that leaves me acknowledging his boggart could be as simple as his reflection with the dark mark on his forearm, having given others a chance to be in control of him.

Patronus:

With an analytical mind and a persuasive way of speaking, it’s no surprise that Rodolphus’ patronus takes on the shape of a buzzard. He was rather thrown off at being able to cast a corporeal one during his school days since it was one of the spells his parents hadn’t exactly encouraged exploring upon realizing their heir was academically inclined. He would usually rely on memories of his family to cast it. The disconnect between wizard and wand has me assuming he cannot cast a patronus now. With enough insult to injury to acknowledge his happier memories of Rabastan are a bit tainted by his wand’s loyalty shifting.

Writing Sample:

“Accio ink,” Rodolphus sighed, not looking up from the case he was reading over. The request and flick of his wrist were accompanied by a clattering noise and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering from the opposite end of his flat. Ordinarily, he would have thought little of it since he had taken in a cat to have something else alive in the place. The evening proved different, though, since there was no denying that his wand had been proving to be temperamental at best recently. Nothing overly dramatic had happened yet, with the few incidents he could recall having been subtle enough for Rodolphus to begin having doubts while at work.

“For Salazar’s sake, I’ll get it myself,” The brunette muttered when the jar of ink failed to appear at his side. He added a glare at his wand before abandoning it on the armchair he had claimed, hoping to whatever higher being was listening that the cat had simply intercepted things. Luck wasn’t on his side since there were no pawprints scattered around the shattered glass and splattered ink on the marble floor.

An exasperated sigh escaped upon spotting the mess, and he snapped his fingers, not needing to breathe a word for the house elf to clean up the mess. He remained still and assessed the damage with a scowl. Things were getting worse, with more basic spells proving to work inconsistently. It was overly frustrating since it meant needing to deal with it or get a wand that would better align with himself. The feelings of guilt toward the shift hadn’t hit until realizing having acted in his brother’s best interests instead of winning what would have been a clear-cut case. Mixed feelings on the matter had to be enough to make the wand presume he was no longer worthy.

“I’m going to kill Rabastan if he doesn’t beat me to doing so himself,” Rodolphus muttered under his breath, then grabbed a new jar of ink, needing it to finish up the sentence he had left off on before being able to call it a night.

#(tag drop)#devil in disguise (closet)#three in the morning and i don’t think i’ll be sleeping (event)#i’m feeling so disgusted by the have its and have nots (musings)#tell me that i’m cutthroat (visage)#yeah i know this beat too well (records)#the past keeps haunting the future i imagine (threads)#save me from myself (about)#pointing fingers cause you’ll never take the blame like me (quote)#two sides of the same coin (rabastan)#we don’t have to dance (bellatrix)

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yarrowleef · 3 years

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will u still b posting a lot of warrior cat stuff tho ?

lmao i completely forgot to actually answer this ask from 2 weeks ago oops.

short answer, yes, but probably steadily not as much over time.

Longer answer, although I have honestly been considering moving away from warriors for a while, I want to emphasize i’m not talking about an immediate permanent change like “on this date I will never again mention the name of warriored cat in this household!!” I’m just talking in long term, I can’t foresee myself being so focused on warriors forever and if I manage to gather any kind of online audience, I don’t want that to be the only thing they expect. I’m sure i’ll still read a battle cat book now and again (or at least summaries) if only for curiosities sake, and make jokes about canon and w/e, but my patience with canon has been growing thinner by the year and my interest in the books is starting to feel like a weird addiction probably fueled by having a fandom to interact with that most books just don’t have. Warriors is like terrible potato chips for my brain, really addicting even though it hurts my mouth. I want to branch out into books I actually think are good, and the honest truth is that despite its occasionally good moments, overall i simply don’t think warrior cats is... good,, and I don't think it ever has been. Especially as someone who’s primary interest in fiction rests heavily on character writing, which is probably warriors weakest point. It’s comfortable nostalgia-fueled junk food, and I like junk food, but I can’t just keep eating potato chips forever especially when I already worry i’ve subconsciously absorbed bad habits from it.

Aside from posting the last chapters of my tallstar’s revenge rewrite on my other blog (sometime this week, god willing) I will say there is one rather big warriors OC-centric fic I have bouncing around in my head that I’d like to do a lot of big illustrations and writing for (maybe even make an audiobook narration for it to make it more accessible ‘cause it seems fun). I planned on making it my final “big” project dedicated to the Warrior Cats world. One last hoorah to get all the rest of my ideas out of my system, and then pivot to focusing more on original stuff. It’s a story that for several reasons can’t be converted into original fiction, so if I write it, it has to be like this. I’m going to be vague about it for now because I don’t want to repeat past mistakes of hyping it up for a long time before i’m 100% sure what the finished product will be, or if there will even be a finished product as my motivation is a fickle beast that can abandon me at a moments notice, and I don’t want to do what I did with my tallstar rewrite where i force myself to finish even when I get burned out (as glad as I am that i managed to finish such a big project, it was also really rough to write at times).

so, idk, we’ll just see how it goes. If I do write it, it will probably take a year or two if not more, since I envision it as 2-3 books (I haven't quite determined if i have enough plot for a trilogy, it could end up a duology). So it’s a ways off either way, but that would be my last phase of being super warrior cat focused, and after that project is completed, I don’t foresee myself making much notable content for the series, oc or otherwise (but...i’m not sure how much of a difference that makes, lets be real, I feel like I hardly “make content” anyway?? does the amount of canon fanart i’ve posted even break double digits? i can’t remember, it’s hard to recall wtf i’ve actually been doing here for the past 5+ years lol. Now that I think of it, I’m not actually sure what it is people follow me for. Is this place even distinguishable from every other war cat blog?? who knows, i’ve never seen myself as a reliable ~fandom content creator~ im truly just vibing)

Again, don’t expect any big immediate changes. These are just thoughts I have floating around my head. I’m not good at planning, right now all this means for all of you guys is I may also occasionally make posts about other animal stories and maybe oc animal art here and there amidst the cat posts, rather then keeping all that stuff on a separate blog.

#yarrow speaks #recent discussions about wc being problematic isnt THE reason I feel this way #but it was at least probably like a 'final straw'#in regards to all that i spent over 2 days combing through every blog and tweet thread i could find #and what i gleaned is obviously its complicated and different people have very different views on the matter #i have my own feelings after reading through it all but i dont rly feel the need to elaborate on it bc my opinion isnt important #i dont want to imply im being 'chased away' by 'guilt' or w/e bc i was already feeling this way #and i dont think running away from things with problematic elements is especially helpful anyway #it just yknow #certainly didnt help the disillusionment i already felt #wc criticism #wc negativity #long post

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twistedapple · 4 years

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Bianca Bosconero - Snow White stayed in the wild

Biographical Information

Gender: Female

Age: Rude.

Birthday: November 1st (Scorpio)

Height: 158cm

Eye colour: Golden

Hair colour: Black

Homeland: Valley of Thorns

Family: Neve Bosconero (twin sister), unnamed parents

Professional Information

Dorm: Pomefiore

School Year: Second

Class: 2A, Student no.5

Occupation: Student, Part-time worker (NRC’s library)

Club: Writing/School newspaper

Best Subject: History of Magic, Defensive Magic

Appearance

Petite but fit and light on her feet, Bianca moves gracefully and learned to look regal in most circumstances. If one were to solely judge by appearances, it’d be very obvious that she is in Pomefiore. Her natural beauty is amplified by the various contrasts between her snow white skin, hair dark as night, red lips and eyes like golden amber. Unsurprisingly, she learned to work around it all to enhance her features with the help of solid routines and a proper knowledge of makeup. As a personal rule, she favours styles that are simple and efficient, that create a line, a memorable silhouette. It is both reflected in a rather minimal makeup - smoked, deep brown and some eyeliner to intensify her cat eye look, some clever pin point correcting and a bit of red added to the lips - and her choice of outfits, especially in the way she wears her regular uniform.

Her school uniform underwent modifications, either subtles - such as the higher collar of her dress shirt and the sharper waist line of the Pomefiore purple vest - or straight up individualised, with a skirt tailored to emulate Edwardian walking skirts with a shorter, more modern length right below the knees, but the ever present pleats in the back to give her silhouette an iconic S-shape (also achieved with the use of boby shaping underwears). Opaque black stockings held by garters, as well as black high heels in a fine suede leather to maintain a visual continuity, complete the overall tailored look, elegantly mixing a rather masculine top with a more feminine bottom for a sharp look.

Her dorm uniform matches the standards, with long purple robes over a black adjusted outfit. However, she deemed the height of the boots over her ankle ill-fitting and managed to have them become thigh-high instead. There may or may not be regular bickerings about that.

Her PE uniform has a purple, long sleeved undershirt to protect as much skin as possible, as well as matching leggings under the school overall - which she wears with short sleeves and legs. With this outfit, she wears grey trainers with orange details and laces.

Her ears are pierced - she removes her earrings for PE class -, she has a beauty spot below the right eye and she uses a deep red nail polish on her carefully manicured nails - not too long, not too short, the ideal length for her slender hands without having her nails in the way on a daily basis. Her long hair is partially pulled up in a cleverly messy bun, with braids and golden ornaments to animate the updo. She keeps it in a simple braid for PE.

Personality

Bianca knows how to provide a good first impression and as such tends to be fairly laidback and willing to interact with her surroundings. Polite and pleasant, she enjoys having fun, be it with other people or at their expanses. This relaxed, go-with-the-flow type of behaviour makes it easy for her to fit with all sorts of people, and she’s probably that one person who’s more or less familiar with half the school, since she’s decent with people and excels at them.

Perceptive and adaptable, she keeps going back and forth between an active behaviour and a more observant position. Her habit regarding people watching means she pays a great deal of attention between what is said and what is shown. With a detail-oriented nature, she tends to pick up on subtle cues and signs that quietly provide her informations regarding the persons she interacts with - whether they like it or not. Paradoxally, it puts her in a situation where people may be tempted to question her logic and wonder if she’s dense or whimsically clever. It’s especially visible in her not-so-equal results as a student: she may be clueless while facing simple tasks, while pulling a full mark off on delicate exercises, because she possesses an out-fo-the-box line of thinking that isn’t always suited for the conformism required by a school. This is because being perceptive is fine, but being interested matters just as much for her. If she’s not interested and/or doesn’t get the logic behind what’s presented to her, failure is more likely to happen. As such, despite her adaptability, she can also demonstrate a fickle, stubborn nature that’s not the easiest to handle.

Independent and bold, she has a good head on her shoulders and is quick to take informed decisions. This behaviour is especially informed by certain events in her life, that forced her to grow up faster in order to move forward and deal with certains issues. As such, she’s a fast learner and demonstrate a level of wisdom and maturity that isn’t exactly common in a school full of teens. In consequence, her insight tends to be valued, especially since she tends to provide her opinion while considering as many angles to a problem and its solution as possible, thanks to her out-of-the-box type of thinking. She has the grace to provide her advices without giving a judgement - unless one abuses her patience and keep slamming a wall without considering her suggestions, in which case she’ll be prompt to tell that person what she personally thinks. This side of her personality has been feeding her Local Reliable Big Sister sort of reputation.

However, while people tend to come to her to talk about their problems - and she’s not going to spill anything out -, she remains very secretive as far as her own life is concerned. The smallest handful of people knows what’s going on privately, and half of that handful if the NRC staff because certain events recently affected her to the point she had to put her school life between parenthesis for a time before coming back. Despite her pleasant, if quite fickle, personality, she tends to bottle a lot of things up and isn’t a fan of nosy people. She’s quick to catch up of these people, and even quicker to tell them to mind their own business. As far as she is concerned, she picks who she’s going to confide to, and that choice will be carefully informed. Nobody decides for her, not anymore.

Magic

Her Unique Magic is called Forest Queen. It allows her various levels of summonings on a “territory” she can expend up to a certain degree to make the summons appear. She can declare herself the territory (which she usually does because it’s the most economic method magic-wise) or make it as large as a magift stadium (though she’d only do that as a last resort for now, as it’s really taxing). In this territory, she can bring forth up to seven dreadful beasts - each having its own characteristics and appearance. Some can hide and strike before retreating to the shadows, others can straight up be wild, brutal beasts out for a hunt. When fully expanded, her territory takes the appearance of a dense primal forest where one could easily feel lost.

She very rarely deploys her full strength because it’s dangerous for her and puts her at a very high risk of overblotting - however when it happens, don’t expect her to pull any punch. She will become as wild as her territory - revealing that side of herself she usually keeps in check to put people at ease.

Most of the time, she declares herself the territory and summons up to two beasts. Using the territory recently added new strange effects, as she improved her skills: it seems she’s become “closer” to her magic and gained a passive ghost-like presence, while the forest itself seems to act more and more like a locked space. It seems she still has some things to uncover in regard to Forest Queen.

Fun Facts

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous (initially left-handed)

Favorite Food: Apple and cinnamon tart

Least Favorite Food: Anything greasy or overly sweet

Bad With: Authoritarians, noisy places, mathematics

Hobby: TTRPG, reading, people watching

Talents: Writing, singing

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #OC #Bianca Bosconero #my girl hath arriveth ♥#feel free to interact!

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nitholites · 4 years

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Day 6- Flower Shop/ Tattoo Artist AU (really really late, ik, but I'm done editing it cuz it's driving me mad)

(in this one, I replaced Goro with a different detective, to remain nameless. They weren't Shido's kid, but was screwed by him so they took on Akechi's plan while Pancake Boi took a different route for revenge. After the end, though, he gave up on the plan when Shido went to jail)

The buzz of the tattoo machine filled the air, constant and usual. The inked art came to life against the woman's skin, careful designs and colors seamlessly filling the requested space. Handling the machine and making the art come to life was one Akira Kurusu, his curly black hair held back in a messy bun and his dark, loose tank top showing the tattoos he had along his upper body. His arms didn't have many- mostly on his inner forearm and simple designs, but with bold colors and shading. They were somewhat random and increasing in quality. On his back, however, the real art started.

Little could be seen of his back that day- just the back of his shoulders. But it was enough to give anyone the impression there had to be more. On his right shoulder, what looked like the top of a skeletal pirate sat, permanent grin cocky and easy as a pipe lay between his shoulders. On the left, a red panther tail curled towards the back of his neck, the head turned towards anyone behind him and ending at the edge of his back. The seemingly incomplete art made people wonder what was on his back.

His friends knew exactly what it looked like, seeing as they all pitched in.

The panther stood, flames dancing around it. The pirate had no ship, riding on lightning. Below and on top of the lightning was a white fox, dark and light blue accents coating it's fur as ice provided a step for it. Beneath the panther on the other side of the fox was a masked queen in grays with neon blue accents, holding a spiked staff towards the middle, dissapering behind the one in the middle and reappearing right before the fox. In the middle was a mostly black and gray humanoid, red gloves held up as though it were pulling one tighter as small, curved, red horns escaped beneath its mask and hair. Beneath it all was a vigilante wearing pink, a black cat curled around her shoulders and an intelligent gleam in it's blue eyes. To the left of the cat and vigilante was a dark book with lime accents, binary barely visible unless you got a good look at it. It lay on his left hip, pages appearing open only to the other figures above and around it.

He and Yusuke had spent about a week on the design, confirming it with their friends before each of them- minus Morgana- got a matching one either the same size or smaller and in various parts of their bodies.

On Akira's front, hidden beneath his shirt and on his right hip, lay the Phantom Thieves symbol, the iconic 'Take Your Heart' directly beneath it.

He couldn't steal hearts anymore, but he and his friends would always be the Phantom Thieves.

The bell above the door jingled, letting in the bustle of the underground mall for a moment. Akira didn't waste any time, hands steady with practice as he let his attention slightly fade. "Just a minute," he called over the rock/jazz music playing in the background. At that moment, Rivers in the Desert was playing.

In a moment, he turned the machine off, wrapping up what he needed to do to make sure the red heart with the name 'Saki' stayed permanent. He quickly recited care for the tattoo to the woman, who nodded and gave her full attention before standing and leaving. He walked her to the front, sliding behind the counter as the bell jingled when she left. He stood comfortably behind the counter, turning down the music. "Hi, welcome to Thieves of Arts, how can I help you," he recited, taking in shoulder-length brown hair and red eyes. He recognized the young man, of course. The person who worked the small flower shop across the street was nice enough from what the owner said. Hard-working and reliable, just like Akira had been when he worked there a couple years ago. Back then, he had four paying jobs- the Phantom Thieves couldn't pay for everything from Palaces, especially in the beginning- with one being in the same flower shop the man was working in. After everything with Mementos, life went on as normal- Akira went back to Shujin after a long talk with his parents, who agreed to give Sojiro full custody over him after a long debate, and spent his last year with his friends and working in Leblanc. After, he officially quit his part-time jobs and decided to do what he wanted- which was, surprisingly, open a tattoo shop. He used part of his- admittedly- large savings to get the place, pay the bills, and get the equipment, learning what he could from an old aquaintance before making his goal a reality. Before opening shop, he practiced quite a bit on himself and willing customers, glad his artistic childhood kicked in a bit to help him adapt faster.

He still helped out in Crossroads when Lala-chan needed and in the flower shop when the owner was sick or couldn't come in- in her words, he knew more about flowers than she did at that point.

But, surprisingly enough, this was the first time he talked with the other employee. "Actually, Hanasaki-san said you could help with the flower shop?"

Akira nodded, brow furrowing as he pulled out his phone, noting the missed texts from the kind lady herself. "Oh, yeah! Sorry, I put my ringer off when I'm working," he explained, quickly replying before sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Yeah, I'll help you. Just lemme close up real quick." He effortlessly slid through the parlor, quickly cleaning and putting away what he had to as the young man called after him.

"You don't have to! I'd hate to cause you trouble."

"It's nothing," he easily replied, fishing his keys from his pockets. "I owe Hanasaki a favor, anyway." He led the man out of the shop, quickly locking it behind them before following the man to the flower shop, taking note of the lists of requests lining the counter. "Right, I got the ones with meanings. Get the colors and size ones. Do you know what the flowers here mean?"

"For the most part," he said, glancing through the lists.

"Good. When you're done with the color and size, help out with the meanings you know, okay?" The man nodded and they got to work, silently working alongside each other.

A couple hours later, all of the arrangements were picked up and Akira was leaning back on the counter, letting his breath escape him. "Man, that was the fastest I've had to work since busy days in the beef bowl shop," he commented, running a hand through his hair. The man laughed slightly, equally as worn. "I never got your name, by the way." Surprise floated the man's face, but he responded.

"Sorry about that. I'm Goro Akechi."

"Akira Kurusu," he responded easily, giving the man a nod. "Aren't you that kid detective who retired last year?" Akechi nodded.

"I'm surprised anyone remembers. Public opinion is a fickle thing." Akira snorted, nodding.

"Ain't that the truth. So, why are you working in a flower shop, mister detective?" It had been years since Akira called anyone that, but he refused to let memories cloud the present again.

"I like the atmosphere here," Akechi responded with an obviously fake smile (obvious to Akira, who studied people like learning materials in his free time, anyway). "Hanasaki-san could use the help, anyway."

Akira hummed, but let the subject drop, allowing his mind to briefly wander. "You look tired," he observed. "I know a place with amazing coffee, if you want."

Akechi paused, gazing curiously at the younger man. "I'm often busy..."

"Then I can leave you the address," Akira easily responded, already pulling a pen and small notebook out from behind the counter by reaching over it. "It's not far, and has an atmosphere as great as the coffee. You may get a discount if you mention me." He scribbled an address he knew well on the paper, ripping it out and holding it to the ex-detective.

"Leblanc?"

"I hear it's French," Akira explained, shrugging. "Don't doubt the coffee curry combo till you've tried it, though," he warned, pushing off the desk. He glanced at the clock, noting the time before lifting the apron off of him, hanging it back where he got it. "I'm gonna go. Give it a chance when you've got the time, alright?"

With that, he swept out of the shop.

#persona 5 #akira kusuru #persona 5 akechi #goro akechi #akira x goro

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nozomijoestar · 4 years

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I kinda burned myself out with how hard I focused on these two months ago that it took this long to pick up again. I had an impulse to see them stargaze and then of course it turned into making myself cry ahaha

Once again they’re on the road because I couldn’t think of a better setting but that’s not important; its about the feelings

Trish inspected her nails with the eye of a professional. Night sky or no, nothing, nothing, interrupted her beauty checks. The moon had risen to its peak; the light confirmed her suspicion. She sighed. Her colored polish had degraded from smooth to a ragged patchwork. Oh well, there were worse things to worry about. She looked toward the road behind her. Empty. For some reason her stomach sank. All at once her body tensed to hold itself for danger that took its time. That was the worst kind. Your mind split from your control at the worry the enemy instilled on their own pace. They didn't need to always attack, wait long enough and she'd do it to herself. Trish swallowed hard and breathed out. The night insects kept singing. A few paces ahead Mista lost himself in stretches as he should; his insistence to 'Get off his ass a bit' had dragged them out to Nowheresville, population pending. Buccellati and the rest had gathered around their car. Abbaccio crouched studying Coco Jumbo; which meant poking and prodding and holding the turtle while its legs flailed. She sighed. At least this time she was outside the poor thing. Trish squinted at them through the darkness. Narancia was missing. Of course he was. If you stopped a road trip for so much as a yawn, he'd disappear no doubt slacking off till he wandered back. It was a rule; it was as natural as the wind. Trish wondered how the boy hadn't been born a cat. He had the fickleness down already; time to find him anyway. That was another of nature's laws. He got lost sure, but no matter how she grumbled there she went guiding him back. The grass reached her knees and clung like dozens of pushing hands. Not a tree stood for kilometers; at this distance the moon grew overwhelming. Narancia lay on the grass that'd molded around his body as if it were his bed. His head rested on his crossed arms; Trish would never understand how he did it. How could one person embody freedom? How did he do it when his heart roared in a storm he'd bound emotions to years ago? She should know by now unraveling all of him was no better than holding the breeze. Trish knew he heard her coming. It was the walk he liked to say. Easy as breathing her feet fell into a rich girl's stride. Confident, precise, expectant- Trish wished those were still things she knew instead of their shells. She took a deep breath. No time for that now. Narancia turned his head as she sat. The feel of his eyes made her heart pound for something not worrisome. God, he still didn't know whenever he did that. It was annoying at how easy, it was grounding in a world where up was down and down up. He had her smiling, smiling! And it felt liberating. "There's a bunch of 'em out tonight. You got a favorite?" She looked up and awe drowned the remainders of her gloom. Stars beyond counting dotted the sky; each speck burned to outdo the others. On a clear night they went on and on stretched beyond the horizon. Her eyes snapped to one set with ease. "Orion." "Huh?" "The constellation. Haven't you heard of it?" "Uh, well not really...wasn't around class long enough for that." His eyes flit anywhere but her face; his voice had trailed into something meek. Trish held back a 'Damnnit of course not.' to put her chin on her knees. You didn't ask stuff like that to people who never got past third grade. "Well it's ok Narancia, I'll just teach you a little. That alright?" He sat up to give her his full attention. A grin on his face told her everything was fine. God at this point Trish could do just about anything to him and he'd accommodate; follow and roll over like some dog for her. The realization of power made her queasy not for the first time. That was part of knowing him, being with him. At least for now. She smiled back. "Ok then go on and look at the sky. It always looks like a bunch of stuff smashed together at first. That's where the fun starts. The harder you look eventually you'll find what feels like it's going against the flow; like its part of something all its own." "Hmm...I guess. Geez people must have some killer eyes and nothin' to do all day- y'know, to do this right!" He added the last bit before her frown had settled. With an awkward laugh he mussed his hair. "Alright alright, so I look for the ones that stand out. That's easy. Aerosmith!-" "No Stands. By yourself sure but not with me ok?" "Huh? Why's that- oh..." Trish scooted closer to wrap her arms around his. She rested her head on his shoulder and grinned when he swallowed in awe. A blush colored his face. "Keep going." "Okay. So let's see uhh...there! That one is like a tiny sun. And there's smaller ones that look like they're followin' it an'...a triangle, I think." "That's Sirius, one half of the dog constellations. It's super bright I'm not surprised you found it first." Trish said with a chuckle. "Hey a minute ago I didn't know any of 'em. It ain't bad for a first try." "Liar I did mention Orion." "Oh yeah. Well s'not like I actually saw it. What makes you like that one? Is it cool?" She stared at him in way of open affection no words could capture. It was honesty; it was pure to at last be under a gaze that wouldn't vanish. He could hear her sure, but goddamn if his mind wasn't half lost in savoring what it felt to mean something. To be someone. He tucked a loose hair behind her ear; Trish kept right on though now she smiled again. "A lot of people like Orion since most think its in the shape of a hunter. Y'know, strong and reliable and protective. Things a lot of people want to be; at least to me anyway. I'm not all that different." She again gazed at the sky yet now in the moonlight her profile took on a serene determination. He knew then that he'd be one of the handful in a lifetime to see it. Narancia couldn't help his stillness; the urge that came from somewhere he didn't know to feel humbled. She continued as though she noticed nothing. There was passion in her voice no matter how casual her words. "When I find it at night or even in pictures, mom comes back. Just for a moment, just long enough for me to start crying. I see her in my head and I remember and it's like...like I'm watching my past while I hold my breath then- then it's gone before I can really understand it. The one thing to stay is feeling for a second as if none of this ever happened. As if I'm still back home and she's cooking before calling for me to help. It's...it's so safe." Tears had fallen as she uttered the final words; her tone drifted far, far away and he knew she'd stopped talking to him. Silently Narancia hugged her and welcomed his own, gentler cry. A minute passed where only the wind spoke as it brushed the grass. He could swear her heart raced and skirted danger. When he breathed deep however, it could've well been him. As with many things Trish took the lead and broke the quiet. "I wish I could be Orion. I wish my mom would give it a rest already." Her voice still hadn't recovered its confidence. She leaned into him in search of grasping it once more. "Trish...you are. That time on the plane to Sardegna, you were by yourself and you still got us outta there. I don't wanna think about getting thrown into that meat thing's mouth. A-and I don't have to thanks to you!" Their eyes met this time with an intensity neither could name. Trish shook her head while she rubbed his hand; the roughness that marked his body hadn't pierced who he really was, that kindness he breathed readier than air. Not for the gang alone did he slip into it. For them it was short sighs between the snarls when attitudes clashed. It was like he feared to release it always, to embrace it. But not for her, for her he never hesitated. That was the boy she loved most. He kept chatting and slurred his words as they fought to arrange themselves. She realized how much he noticed in ways she'd been too occupied to see. All the same she interrupted him with a finger on his lips. Trish brushed aside his bangs and spoke again of those things he alone had permission for. "Every time I think I'm getting closer to who I can be, I slide a few steps back. That's all." He wouldn't understand in a way he could yet articulate. She'd long come to accept that. The energy to his eyes took the place of fancy descriptions. He knew it too; it sat as the deepest pain beneath everything. People were participants on life's slippery slope until one day you died. She guessed, in the end, what mattered was which step you'd left on. Forward, or backward? Maybe her mother had stopped on backwards. Maybe she too would. Maybe instead as she studied his face and felt his life beside hers, maybe she wouldn't. And just maybe she could keep him from falling too. "Narancia, kiss me." He did softly and filled with unspoken things. In the now he was here and so was she. She was being silly; this moment was all that mattered. The echoes of shouting in the distance broke them apart. The calls of their names from the others pulled her back to reality. They were on a mission; their lives were fleeting and perishable. It churned her stomach and she reached to embrace Narancia one more time. He was warm despite the night chill. Her fingers dug into his hair as she whispered. "You're safe too." "I...same here Trish." He squeezed her afraid to let go but soon did so anyway. They helped each other stand and refused to let their hands separate. Together they ran towards their friends and answered their calls. They moved forward, ever forward.

#naratrish #jojo's bizarre adventure #my writing #narancia ghirga #trish una

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stormyweaver · 4 years

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Oh I'm so sorry!! I just reread your post and didn't realize you meant from that particular list!!! In that case maybe 💔 (Weak) + 💐 (Fit) ??? Maybe with some v bad allergies ???

Hi, hi! So, yeah, this took forever and wow, I’m honestly so sorry about that ;-; my muse is fickle as hell, and it’s like three am at the moment, which of course was when inspiration finally decided to strike. Go figure XD ANYWAY thank you so much for your ask, and hopefully you see this!! (Also just as a note for the drabble in particular, it’s from the show Living With Y/ourself which involves clones, so whenever there’s ‘N!Miles’ it basically refers to ‘New Mi/les’ or ‘Clone Mi/les’ because it’s easier for me to write okay? Okay~)

💔 (Weak) + 💐 (Fit)

Not again... Was all N!Miles could think as his expression once again went slack, shoulders shuddering as he huffed his way towards another fit of sneezes. He'd been going through the same motions of hitch, sneeze, sniffle and pause, then hitch over and over for the last hour. And it had taken him much longer than it rightfully should have to find the culprit of his misery, who was currently eyeing him through hooded lids as she sat curled up in the living room. He hadn't even intended to take the cat inside, only coming in from raking leaves as the clouds began their downpour. But she had been curled up beneath a bush outside, and looked so darned scared and... well, No Good Deed, yeah?

"hhHETSHh'uh! hh'HHESHh! h'EESHHh'huh! Ghh, this is impossible..." At least it should have been. He hadn't even given the possibility of allergies any thought, because wasn't the whole point of being a clone? To be completely similar to the person whose DNA you were created from - well, aside from being better at essentially everything, more physically, mentally and emotionally stable. Except he wasn't even ticking off those boxes, so how the hell could this process be touted as any kind of efficient or reliable? But all that aside, he was Miles clone, and Miles didn't have any allergies, especially not to... Wait, scratch that train of thought, he was going to-- "hHETSHh'huuh!" N!Miles bucked forward with another sudden sneeze, though this time he had enough decorum to dip into the crook of his elbow. A groan slipped out afterwards, fingers automatically pinching the bridge of his nose where a small ache had begun to settle. Which was pretty typical for sneezing about ten times in less than two minutes, he assumed. No matter how much his DNA could prove how human he was, there were still times where even acts like sneezing felt so foreign to him. Maybe it was because he'd been specifically designed to be somehow, oh, bigger than things like sneezing and allergies. He was supposed to be the better of the two Miles, which meant that stuff so miniscule shouldn't shake him as much as this currently was. Still, as he peered past his fingers at the tabby who was making herself at home on the living room floor, he couldn't help but sigh helplessly. He wasn't better by any margin - he was simply a copy of the original Miles, but, digging any deeper than that into the whole 'What is life?' aspect of his existence would have to wait for another time. Right now, he had to take one problem at a time. First and foremost: Where the hell was the Benadryl...? ---- After a bit of frantic searching through the bathroom cabinets, then with lower hopes scouring the kitchen drawers, he came to the unfortunate conclusion that they did not, in fact, have any antihistamines of any kind. And why would they need to? Nobody was supposed to be allergic to anything, not to the point where they would stock up on specific medication. N!Miles released a heavy sigh and brushed a knuckle underneath his nose which, upon a cringe-worthy glance in the hall mirror, had turned a similar pink to match his watering eyes. "Okay, this is fine. Right? Yeah, absolutely! Because... because it doesn't mean anything big. Everyone has allergies, right?" He glanced back towards the only other current occupant of the house, brow raised in expectation. Honestly, he shouldn't have been surprised when to find the cat grooming herself, otherwise uninterested in his outward musings. He began to roll his eyes, but instantly regretted the action as it somehow seemed to prompt a more desperate, involuntary fluttering of his lids. "hhH! Hehh!... Oh, God," A moan rose in his throat, bringing up a square of tissue he’d snatched from the toilet roll to scrub furiously beneath his quivering nose. Just as the thought of moving the cat somewhere else passed through his mind, a bolt of lightening struck outside, followed by a prompt yowl and the sound of quickly padding paws. By the time N!Miles had turned back to the living room, the cat was nowhere to be seen. Wonderful. "Where's my c-cell..." Sniffling pathetically, he began up the stairs. At the very least, he could ring Miles or Kate and ask them to pick up some kind of allergy meds on the way home from work.

#greywrites;#asks: answered #prompts: answered #//my nose got super itchy writing this too wth #Anonymous

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blondsblack · 4 years

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introspective on miss narcissa irma black .

birthday: born on the night of the 20th of may, morning of the 21st... narcissa lies on the border between taurus & gemini. a deeply devoted and dutiful daughter, narcissa is undoubtedly the most responsible and reliable of all her family. she represents stability as well as practicality when faced with the ever-heavy prospect of being her family’s ‘last hope’ and ‘saving grace’. she stands steadfast in her decision making and patient as ever as she awaits the payoff, or rather endgame, of all the years of hard work she’s put in to raising the black family up once again, from the tatters her dear sisters & cousin, sirius had left it in. beyond those taurus traits of her, lies the gemini... sociable, adaptable, quick-witted and charming. she’s disarming, captivating and two personalities in one. at the drop of the hat, you may well glimpse the narcissa spotted at grand parties, surrounded by glitz & glamour, talking up a storm with members of high society whilst on the other hand, the reality of it all will begin to set in - the weight of the world that lies on her slender shoulders. the responsibility passed onto her by her parents no less, tasked with restoring order... narcissa is thoughtful, earnest, restless even below the surface. so desperate is she for the ultimate seal of approval, the deepest of desires and to be content in it. truly content.

wand: since graduating from hogwarts, it’s not often that narcissa holds her wand in her hand anymore. champagne flutes, and expensive gifts given by ministry members and associates of the sacred twenty-eight, the so-called ‘wizarding elite’ perhaps but never her wand. it stays on her person, still as treasured as the first day she received it in ollivander’s, of course but she feels her spell-casting days are beyond her, or so her mother says. taking the dainty thing between her dexterous fingers, it’s just as ornate, and pretty as her life has become as of late. made of ebony wood with a core of unicorn hair, it stands at 10 and 1/4 inches (to fit her smaller stature) with supple flexibility. its decor, silver to compliment the sleek black of the wood with small, fine jewels dotted in a neat pattern around the handle where she comes to grip it.

amortentia: she’d quite like to think that when she holds the little, crystal vial to her nose, the scent will be of one, lucius malfoy. hoping perhaps, that a token of her devotion... and appreciation for him in such a way would serve in swaying her in his favour. she doubts however, that he’d be so fickle. not the lucius she knows anyway. to her disappointment, the blonde believes she can only just feel him creeping into the notorious love potion anyway... the most potent scent being her own. as it has been for many years now. notes of her perfume... fresh and vibrant orange, jasmine accompanied by rose. patchouli and vetiver further reflecting the floral nature of her signature scent. then comes accents of champagne, pink to be specific, tinged with a cloud of cigarette smoke and the distinct smell of packaged goods, new clothes and the like. all unwrapped before her, mirroring the morning of christmas day. the most recent change however, being the unmistakeable but glorious flowery scent of a hidden meadow she’d happened upon deep in the grounds of malfoy manor as a young girl. the potent woody smell reminding her of crisp, autumn mornings there, dew hanging from each singular petal - sparkling in the sun’s early rays.

boggart: brideswater manor is all that emerges when the youngest of the black sisters is confronted with a boggart. a familiar sight for narcissa, her home is stood in all its glory but closer inspection reveals that the hallowed halls are noticeably quiet, dark and derelict... the house sits entirely abandoned before her. the walls lay crumbling, in a state of complete and utter disrepair. her home... their home is a decaying ruin. It invokes the feelings of abandonment, loneliness and isolation that plague her every thought... surrounded as she is, or rather, once was. narcissa is somebody that feeds off of others, her childhood... chock-full of memories of the three sisters ruling the manor like queens and being treated as such by all that passed through there, she in particular doted on by her parents, waited on hand & foot whilst her present sees her surrounded by attendees at glamorous soirees, grand dinners hosted by the elite, she is as surrounded as ever and yet the very image of her home, their home left abandoned, as she might abandoned strikes fear into her heart.

patronus: although narcissa’s struggled in the past with conjuring a patronus... having failed on several occasions to stir up a memory deemed happy enough to cast it, she has glimpsed it once or twice. a brilliant swell of silvery light is followed by the formation of a snow leopard before her very eyes. as serene and elegant as she, the snow leopard represents a quiet kind of cunning within narcissa... the skill to blend in and an intrinsic ability to buckle down and survive even the harshest of environments. with their fur of large black rosettes on a sea of white-grey, the carnivorous, big cats are masters of camouflage. they blend in perfectly with their surroundings, their natural habitat - just as narcissa does when faced with the wizarding elite, and the rules and regulations of the high society she was born into and later returned to following her graduation from hogwarts. undoubtedly a formidable, little witch in her own right, having a larger, or rather, predatory patronus is a reflection on narcissa’s disposition as well. a suggestion that she is better matched with a bigger protector as she is less equipped to defend herself physically. as when you go to cast a patronus charm - that’s your sole intention... for it to defend you, a spirit guardian who will come for your defence. and narcissa can’t help but smirk at thought, as what better to defend you than a carnivorous, big cat such as the snow leopard?

mirror of erised: the reflection is as intriguing as it is haunting when narcissa approaches. for stood staring back at her with big, round eyes of grey, that shift unnaturally every so often to a blue-green, is a young boy. small in stature with bright blonde hair... a silver quality to it in fact. the youngest of the black sisters is taken aback for he is her very mirror image. not a detail had been missed. thoughts and theories as to who he is pass through her mind, forming gradually as the cogs begin to turn. a slight hitch in her throat as she moves to get closer to him. footsteps tender and gentle, as if trying as very best she could not to scare him away, despite him being no more than a reflection in a mirror. narcissa had always had a soft spot for children. but who’s child was he? rationale argued that perhaps he was her’s... her own, little boy, the heir she would provide to whomever she married. the silver hair suggests who that might be and the thought alone causes her heart to swell. upon further examination however, she can’t shake the feeling that the boy is her. no son of her own but instead the son her parents, or rather, her father had so dearly wished that she had been. the son who would make the noble house of black proud, the one child they could take pride in and how she longed for it to be her. how dearly she wanted that for herself and had been working for it just as long. he was a reflection of all that she wanted to be.

#◞ ❀ CHARACTER STUDY .#◞ ❀ HEADCANONS .

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mxxnblind · 4 years

Text

Drabble ;; Glover & Veleth

“How is it I always find you creeping about ?”

Acknowledgement comes in a sluggish shrug of the shoulders & little more. The approaching steps are familiar & ... Welcomed. Despite the smith’s uninspired greeting, “Never go for a walk, Captain ?” crude soot stains the Breton’s cheek, turning to face the Dunmer’s own ashen complexion -- there really was no getting rid of it. Particularly here, the eastern front of the Bulwark. Glover is leant against it at current ; arms crossed, shoulders heavily slouched, & one ankle hooked lazily over the other. He’d been there for some time, prior to the Captain’s sharp eye spotting him here, loitering the coastline, just out of typical view ; typical.

“Clearer skies today,” Glover muses absently, distant eyes parting to take in the horizon once more ; set on home. There is a grief unnamed in his tone, always was, a sense of longing & loss, so apart of him it may as well be the air he breathed -- calcifying lungs, “thought I’d take the moment to see it while I could,” never any knowing when the next storm would pick up, or how long it would last, “I’ve begun feeling guilty when I don’t, word from home has me on edge.”

Silence, spare frothing waves, surrounds them as Glover resumes his thoughtful quiet. Words tapering off on a light whisper. Half listening, half engrossed in the view, as the approaching steps ceased ; Veleth settles alongside him. Straight & at attention, as to be expected, chin held high. It comes as a surprise how his words are twisted in a gravely awkward note this afternoon, “Have you ever considered returning ... ?”

“Trying to get rid of me -- ?” Glover’s teasing quip is lighthearted, a means of dismissing formalities & other such awkwardness. He could feel the strain threading between them, the uncomfortable awareness of necessity in peaceful coexistence. Pride was an odd occurrence like that.

“I think every man can hope to die in their homeland, if they could help it ...” a testament shared, in place of differing moralities ; if courage & luck allowed he’d wish for nothing more, until then ... The Captain of the guard certainly filled Glover’s days with gratifying labor & busied hands, a blessing to the smith even as Raven Rock’s ails weighed heavy upon all.

“If you’re here about those gauntlets,” Glover clears his throat, “I’m afraid the resin hasn’t set right. It’ll be done, but I’m going to have to ask for an extension on those repairs.” Didn’t feel right supplying faulty equipment, even it it was quick coin, not with the way Veleth & his men ran themselves ragged in these dunes. He hadn’t the heart. Times had changed. The Breton found himself ... Comfortable here. Peace was lost to him & his nights restless with guilt, but there was a pleasure he’d never known. To rise with the sun & tend his forge. Fickle daily routines to fill his days ; reliable. The Redoran Guard had few reliable resources in the suffocating settlement. With hands as strong as his own, it felt more of a disservice to not lend them in aid however way he could.

“What did you get into to mar the bonemold like that anyway. Looked like you tripped at my forge. Been trying your hand at creeping around, Veleth ... ? Knock on the door next time, I’ll have some advice waiting for you.” his humor is dry but well intentioned, the slightest hints of distrust between them was always petty & lacked any true conviction -- cat & mouse. A fine enough of a game to play when there weren’t more trying matters at hand ---

Glover turns to share something more, some measly detail about bonemold, some sort of fun fact ; straightening his stance & unhooking his ankle, he is, instead, distracted by a disturbance -- sifting ash.

It takes a heartbeat to process the nightmarish vision procuring before him ( behind Veleth ! ). A heartbeat more for the unsettling dread to flood his veins. Without another wasted beat of his pounding heart, instinct takes over him. In a sharp movement all tact & sense of personal distance & duty is abandoned. Mercilessly, Glover snatches the front of the Captain’s cuirass. Calloused hand clawing into familiar bonemold, grip unrelenting as the mer is harshly dragged forward & against Glover’s own person.

There’s a distance to Glover’s eyes again ; an anxiety sparking in the embers, an apology, as the Breton plunges his dagger into the breast of something rather solid. Skewering it & with a grunt & a twist of the ebony blade, the solidity of the foe dissipates. Back ... Back into ash. An ash spawn.

Ripping the dagger away it’s now abundantly clear to both that he’d narrowly missed a mortal weakness in Veleth’s armor --- the lighter leather lining where arm & chest met. The blade grazing his inner arm & scratching the breastplate ; though successfully saving the mer from much more grievous woes. Glover swallows thickly, suddenly finding it very difficult to breath as the dagger now hangs limply, awkwardly, at his side. A shaken hand releases Veleth ; only to step back & realize the mer held a grip of Glover’s own front. Blinking down, Glover can understand why such grim apology fills the Dunmer’s own gaze.

A dagger of the Captain’s own. Poised at Glover’s side, hovering just over the smith’s ill-protected underbelly. Free of leathers & armoring, the blade nicks cotton & frays the crimson fabric. Veleth clears his own throat. Quickly glancing away, releasing Glover in a flourish & turning to assess the growing threat to Raven Rock. There is silence, in this shock. A silent truce. Silent respect. There was little more needing said as shouts filled the air & his men took their stand along the Bulwark. Pride welling as they faced the threat with little fear. Before he could rush to join them a final glance is spared to Glover.

With a flick of his wrist, Veleth now grasps his dagger by the blade, extending the handle to Glover with a beckoning nod. No time for stale banter & meek apologies. A shared understanding as Glover gratefully arms himself with the second dagger. “Let’s see to it that death doesn’t find you here, then, Glover.” Veleth muses, drawing his battleaxe, “Every man should have that honor. To return themselves to the land that birthed them. Now ready those blades ---”

#;;save #;;long post #;;drabble #Lost & Found ;; Glover Mallory #none of this makes sense & nobody asked for this -- but here we are #i'm going to impulse post this before i can impulse delete it #love y'all -- i'll actually do some drafts later ...

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scribemallow · 5 years

Text

kirburbia ch. 16 - still air

meta knight learns that dedede really cares. kirby becomes an artist.

read here on ao3, or find the full text below!

thank you!

Meta Knight doesn’t come home quick that day. Using the GPS Dedede insisted on hooking up to the car, he takes as many back roads and longer routes as he can. Not to get lost, but to clear his head, buzzing with warm and heady thought. Only a short while away from the house, finding his procrastination hasn’t solved anything yet, he pulls over at a gas station that borders a great yellow field, one that goes on for a great many miles. He parks away from the pumps, trying to avoid being noticed, and sits with the window cranked open. In the warm car, surrounded by the still air of the outside, Meta Knight closes his eyes and tries to think about something different. Not how Dedede and Kirby are doing- though he cares, he’s sure he needs to stop thinking about it in order to preserve his sanity.

He thinks about Popstar, and Dreamland. The home beyond human imagination. The ripe and pleasant woodland, remaining untouched, and the sky of a million stars above it. Aside from humans and their confusing ways, the light pollution at night is one of the biggest drawbacks of Earth for Meta Knight. He knows the stars are still there, but he longs for them in their absence. He looks over through the other window at two women filling their car- a quirky, ice-blue thing, older than most others. A blonde in a short pink dress and a reddish-brunette in an orange tennis outfit, stylish and sweet in the way humans like to be. If he was different from how he was- a state of being that Meta Knight had accepted long ago- he might say hello. Try to flirt. But Meta Knight thinks to himself,

I’m happy alone.

Who am I to interrupt their happiness?

The two women hop back in the car almost as quickly as they emerged. Through the window, Meta sees another woman in the car, her hair a longer and cooler blonde. Nearly white. To her side is a cat, which seems rather remarkable to Meta Knight. It’s a bright blonde, unlike any other cat he’s seen before. And he knows that cats are fickle beasts- they aren’t fond of moving vehicles. His eyelids nearly shut now, the smooth motion of the car pulling out of the station lulls Meta Knight. His back against the seat and eyes towards the endless fields, window open narrowly, a warm flush travels down Meta Knight’s spine as he falls into sleep.

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Where the hell is he?

It’s the question Dedede keeps asking himself as he paces around the house. Six-thirty PM and he hasn’t heard a word from Meta, who was supposed to be back four hours ago. No word on the phone, either text or call, just endless voicemail messages left. Some containing rude words Dedede became ashamed of saying after he left them. Even more containing tears, which he only quieted after Kirby- who had been quieted with a pack of crayons and a full punnet of tomatoes- tried to comfort Dedede. He wasn’t yet worried about the show of vulnerability around Meta Knight, despite how much Dedede cared about his appearance in front of others. He was worried about Meta Knight, more than anything. It felt hypocritical- Meta Knight was a good measure tougher than Dedede- but he knew that Meta Knight wasn’t a reliable driver.

Maybe his phone has just gone flat, and he’s lost.

Maybe he’s been helping at some sort of accident scene. That feels very knightly.

Just maybe, he’s picking Kirby up a surprise present that he forgot to get at the store.

Could he have misinterpreted my instructions? Is he trying to trap that cat out there on his own without me, and his phone is on silent to avoid alarming it?

Can he even count? Does he know what 2:30pm is?

Stuck in his thoughts, Dedede goes back to where Kirby is, absorbed in his crayons and his snacks, the TV buzzing in the background with some brightly-coloured children’s TV show about whatever the hell. Sitting down on a chair to watch, he pats Kirby’s head softly, waiting for his phone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing that alarms Meta Knight when he wakes up is the evening sun outside his window. Then that he’s in a car, then that he fell asleep in the first place. After that is the realization that the reason he’s woken up is because he heard his name- and yet there’s nobody around. Not until he blinks and tries to get everything into focus does he realize what he heard.

I left the radio on low while I was asleep, I think. But why would they say my name?

Beyond the crackle of the frequency, he can hear the voice with the heavy accent once more.

Now, we’ve received reports of a missing person just recently, believed to be possibly lost… Early 30s, male, warm-skinned and blue haired. Wearing a denim shirt and cargo shorts. Goes by the name of “Meta Knight”- I hope I’m pronouncing that right. Will be in a black…

His brain shorts out before he can even hear the car name.

I’ve fucked up now, haven’t I?

Scrabbling for his phone, previously secured in the little pop-out section of the car next to him, Meta Knight moves to dial Dedede immediately. He feels the guilt rise at the many missed calls and texts as he hits the number in his contacts (Dedede of course his only contact).

“Hey, Dedede!”

“Meta! There you are! What in the world is happenin’?”

“Uh… I took the long way around.”

“Cant’ve been that long!”

“…Then I pulled over at a station. And I fell asleep in the car.”

“Why in the world did you do that, huh?”

Meta Knight pinches the bridge of his nose. Usually he’d get mad if Dedede talked to him like that, but the twitch in his heart tells him that the fault falls squarely on him this time.

“I had a lot on my mind. I stopped to clear it, and I guess I fell asleep.”

“…Well, I’m glad you’re okay. But if you’re havin trouble, you can speak to me whenever you want, understand? Now pick up the pace home. Kirby misses you.”

“Did you really call the radio station for me?” There’s a sudden pause in the conversation.

“Yeah. I was worried about you, alright. Don’t get too cocky about it.”

“I won’t. And I’ll bring your car back in one piece.”

Maybe it’s counterintuitive to what he intended, but when Meta Knight hears Dedede say he was worried, a jolt of warmth shoots through his body. He smiles wide at the phone, himself and his affections safe behind the screen, and plugs his keys in to the vehicle. Ready to come home to the people who do miss him.

#meta knight #king dedede #metadede #kirby #kirburbia #fanfiction #nintendo

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felixgreys-blog · 6 years

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[ XAVIER DOLAN ] —— FELIX BOIVIN is a THIRTY year old ART CRITIC. They identify as a HOMOSEXUAL MALE and I’ve heard that they’re QUIXOTIC & WRY but can also be FLIGHTY & JUDGMENTAL. HE has been living in London for SIX MONTHS and has since been known as the THE ARTISAN.

𝕗𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕩 𝕓𝕠𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟

the son of a maître de chai and a fashion designer, the importance of hard work and being the best within one’s field was drilled into him from a young age. watching his parents throw themselves into their art, finding what they love and letting it consume them, was bittersweet for a boy just coming into his own.

and even worse, still, being shipped off to boarding school as soon as it became an option instilled the fact that family was for holidays and parents weekend only.

very quickly relationships became a fickle, temporary thing - something to do for something to do. burning through loves for as long as they could hold his attention, as soon as he felt eye wander he was quick to end things - it was always cleaner that way.

cue a hard cut to a whirlwind romance and its fiery end.

lesson learned: commitment do NOT interact

falling for art, its different forms, outlets, and infinite potential, felix finally found a love that could never bore him. with a critical eye and the subconscious need to be the best, everything he created and everything he learned about went through a filter of critique.

when you love something, to the point when its pursuit and its very creation becomes apart of you, the universe will do all that it can to make sure you thrive in that field.

so though his reason for breathing became creation and evolution, the critical eye that nags him to do better landed him a job he hadn’t even known existed.

writing a critique was foreign to him, at first. he journaled, certainly, in doodles and sketches and deliberate, bold strokes, but jotting down words for the consumption of others wasn’t his forte. instead, he let the constantly running internal monologue loose on paper. coming from the flowery french of his mother tongue, his critiques are known to be scathing but well formed and transitive in detail, as if bringing the reader along by the hand over every millimeter of the art.

practical, reliable, and trustworthy would all be apt words to describe felix in the work place. he’s never missed a deadline, no matter how last minute a piece has been sprung on him and despite the inappropriate number of undone buttons of his crisp, white shirt he remains work-oriented and efficient with his time.

in a more personal sense, felix is very prone to moodiness. he’s a hedonist at his core - wants what he wants when he wants it - but as he matures he’s faced with the unfortunate understanding of what is and isn’t practical. that piled on top of a competitive and tenacious nature can make him seem prickly or hard to read. he knows this about himself but takes... few steps to correct it because people will either take him as he is or they can go.

felix can always be found with pocket-sized sketchpad in his backpocket and a pen tucked behind his ear. his phone is perpetually on do not disturb and iced coffee runs in his veins. he prefers dark liquor, jazz music and dogs. regardless of this last fact, he has one cat named meowtimer.

a less good pinboard that is very repetitive.

#londonhq:intro #tl;dr - ART! *in the tone of holt saying boooone*

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atomicblasphemy · 3 years

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Today I learned a tough lesson on bird diplomacy: it doesn’t work.

Especially when it comes to this fucking asshole.

That’s a feathery demon called Sabiá do Campo. A formidable foe, I’m still debating if an honorable one, but still undeniably an asshole.

My story with this diṕshit starts a few weeks back. You see, in the home I’m at there’s this place, next to a cute little table I like to drink coffee at sometimes, where they put sugary water and some fruits so the cute wee birds come and enjoy. It really is nice, and I like to watch them while I’m having my caffeine fix. So, in terms of numbers the strongest ones should be the Cambucaia. These guys:

I don’t know if the pictures I’m posting make it clear enough, but there’s a bit of a problem there. The Cambucaia is tiny, the Sabiá is several times its size. This would lead to the Sabiá essentially driving the swaths of Cambucaias into starvation and I could not stand for such injustice. I should evenly distribute the means of papaya and banana acquisition among all sorts of cute birds, even the Sabiá.

Mind you, I chose not to be outright aggressive or anything even remotely like that. I just sat there not breaking eye contact to the point the Sabiá was to uncomfortable to let it’s guard down to eat, and when it would try to harass the Cambucaia I would just shift my position a wee bit and watch it fly away. You know, keeping all intervention to a bare minimum. I think at some point the Cambucaia actually got the hint that I took their side in the conflict and started scooting closer to me. It was nice.

Anyway, that was some weeks ago, and ever since I paid little heed to bird geopolitics. There were some few interactions here and there but I thought they were mostly positive and coming from a place of curiosity of the Sabiá about this weird featherless biped. They just would stand there, come a bit closer, and just keep on watching me. I thought they forgot our little spat weeks before.

Today I learned I was being woefully naive.

Birds hold grudges.

Especially those assholes.

So, I just brewed myself some coffee. I don’t like it too hot, so I like to leave it aside the mug to cool down a bit before I started drinking it. In the mean time I decide to go check on the vines just underneath the place where there’s normally fruit for the feathery dickheads. You know, just to make they grow more evenly so the whole ensemble looks prettier. So I did that, and when I stand up there the demon is, less than two feet away from me, just watching me. I’m no expert in bird body language so I believed it came from the place of curiosity I grew accustomed from the Sabiá. I wave at it and cheerfully say hi. It doesn’t reciprocate, that should have been my first hint.

There’s also this little stair way next to the feeding grounds, normally I like to sit down at it while drinking my coffee. Today however, I chose to drink standing up for a change, this meant I had a privileged view of the action that was taking place.

There was the one dickhead I just met, on the deck, still watching me. It speedily starts shortening the distance, sustaining eye contact. That was their general. It learned from our previous disagreement. But it was only when I saw the other two of their kind in the ground below also watching me that not even I could remain oblivious: they were surrounding me, this was hostile action towards yours truly.

I had to, on the fly (pun intended), decide on a few things: first, that my policy when it comes to bird vs featherless biped conflict would be to never strike first unless that’s a bird of prey that can actually kill me; second, the Cambucaia were nowhere to be seen so the Sabiá must have driven them away, peace was not an option; third, I wanted to finish my coffee and probably get a second one. All of these meant one thing and one thing only. I had to stand my ground as long as possible and see what the enemy would do next.

Now, a thing about me. I’m a jumpy person, I get startled easily especially when I have good reason to expect something to happen. There’s one very clear piece of bird body language: when they fly towards you fast, about half the distance, then retreats to perch back at their original position. That’s the bird equivalent to “fock off, m8″ in a cockney accent, of course. Should I stubbornly stand ground I was bound to drop the mug, not only would the thing shatter in the stair’s steps, but I would lose my coffee: I would fail my third objective. I needed to cut my loses, lest I suffer a humiliating defeat at the wings of the Sabiá gang. I retreat back inside.

While I’m there, coping with the loss on our first battle, I try to figure out what my next course of action should be. I can’t come up with anything reasonable, so I decide to have myself a cigarette, meaning I’d need to go downstairs. I’d have to cross the battlefield where I was defeated by that valiant yet dickish foe.

And there, on the same spot, unflinching was the general. I had no evidence that was the general. But I know that to be true, I knew it in my heart.

I light my cigarette, I look around. The general is alone. The general had been the one to start hostilities: this was between the two of us, the other two were just underlings. This was my chance to take the upper hand back, or at least make the fight take place in a level field once again.

I crouch down. The general looks at me curiously. I start walking, trying to make my best impression of a cat. The general realizes my intentions, it hides behind the vines, apprehension clear in it’s beady gaze.

I sprint, just a couple of steps. Just enough to pay the general in kind for the previous hostility. It flies away. We were even. I rejoice, the territory was now safe for the Cambucaia once more.

I keep on smoking my cigarette, tapping myself on the shoulder for defeating a creature with no concept of the written language, no opposable thumbs, and a fraction of my size. The preposterous nature of the conflict isn’t distant from my mind. I know my fight is a righteous one, my allies, the Cambucaia now could eat in piece. Yet it was not my intention to cut off the Sabiá from a steady and reliable source of nourishment.

No, I needed to make a grand gesture. Something that would make even them realize I have no intention of continuing hostilities, that should they allow the other birds a share of the bounty this could go back to being an idyllic and peaceful feeding ground for all feathery bastards.

I needed to give them a banana.

I go back inside, not the general nor its underlings anywhere on sight as I make the supply run. I pick a banana. I peel a banana. I place the banana in the sacrificial altar: a token, a symbol of my desire for the immediate cessation of all hostilities, of my humble honest wishes for peace between feathery dickheads and featherless bipeds. Soon enough I watch as the Sabiá are the first to acknowledge the banana.

There is doubt in my mind, however. As I placed the peace offering I could not see any Sabiá witnessing the act. Unacquainted with Sabiá cosmology as I am, I had no reason to believe they would connect the causal chain of events and understand properly my gesture. I needed to give them yet another banana and do so in a way that they would incontrovertibly know it came from me.

I do that, as they watch me wearily. I can’t blame them for being suspicious, it only makes them more valorous foes as far as I’m concerned. As soon as I take a couple steps back from the second banana offering, the scooch towards it, beaking on it voraciously.

Could it be a new friendship blossoming? Could my efforts for a diplomatic and peaceful resolution have succeeded? This easily?

But the Sabiá is a fickle creature. It, the general, - who else would be this callous, after all? - once again shortened the distance between us, between me and the banana as if it suspected I was about to steal it from them. It was its way of telling me to “fock off, m8″ once more. A clear insult seeing how it watched me doing the offering.

I could not stand for this unjustifiably insult. Because make no mistake, this was nothing short of an insult. “Oi! Fuck you, you literal leaking shitbag (yeah, don’t go thinking I didn’t see you shitting all over at least for times during our battles). Is this how you gonna act? I’m trying to be mature here, I really am. But I can’t have an adult armistice with you if you keep being this petty. Fuck you dude. Fucking asshole.” I cry, wounded both in my heart and in my pride.

And so, this is the current status quo in the front. I didn’t allow things to escalate any further today. As far as it’s my understanding we are still at war, if a cold one now. I shall remain defending the Cambucaia’s interests, the Sabiá in all likelihood will stubbornly insist in monopolizing the food sources.

Tumblr friends, if I die, you shall now know who is to blame: those villanous Sabiá. If I die, don’t mourn me. For I died a righteous death, I died fighting for the Cambucaiá’s right for bananas and sugary water. I can ask for nothing more.

Yet, know this too: I do not wish to go to war. I meaninglessness is an inherent part of war. And I do respect the Sabiá, they proven dignified, valorous, brave. All qualities I strive to embody as well, and hope to have done so in this ever so terrible juncture. But I’m at the beckon call of my allies, that is most crucial part of friendship. I will not cower. I will yell my “SLAYEEEER” war cry at the top of my lungs and jump into the trenches. Which sounds like a terrible idea given the airborne nature of the conflict.

I shall uphold my not striking first policy. But, as of now all I can say is this: onwards... to victory.

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herbalisia · 7 years

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The Fidelity of Flowers, pt. 2 - Julian/Fem!Apprentice

Admin Quill with an update! Here’s part 2 of my Floriography fic with Julian. Enjoy!

Themes: Fluff, mild spice on that

Rating: Teen, for our little masochist showing his colors

Words: 4,347

Chatter from the morning crowd rattled around him. This is where he felt safe, blending into a crowd, his senses filled by the bitter, smoky aroma of the coffee in his hand. He wished he could see it how he had seen it a couple days ago. With her on his arm, the streets seemed warmer, more inviting, and the colors drifting about from the street vendors’ wares—from fruit to textiles—seemed brighter. It was like she pulled an aura of life around with her, and he would do anything to stake his claim in that aura forever. But he didn’t deserve luxuries like that. He didn’t deserve to live in the light when he was nothing but dark.

The familiar pit in his stomach formed again, and he took a distracted sip of the pitch-dark liquid in his cup to soothe it. He could see her sleeping face again, her eyes still puffy from the tears that she had wasted on him. Everything in his being wanted to wake her and apologize that night. He wanted to tell her that he took it back. He wanted to hold her again, bathe in her soothing scent and run his fingers through her hair. He wanted just one more taste of her sweet lips, one more high from the sounds she breathed into his mouth. He wanted so much. But nothing good ever came from fickleness, even though he had practically perfected it into an art. He’d settled on brushing her flushed cheek with a gloved finger, unable to fully resist his desire to touch her, but he’d quickly escaped out the window when she made a deep sound in her throat at his touch. He didn’t want to wake her, or else he would surely injure her further. Instead, he settled for his original plan, the plan he had devised before he had been distracted with his concerns for her. Before he had used the key—against his word—to break in one last time to steal up the stairs and see her again. He placed the bouquet gently on the doorstep, concealed in the darkness of the night. He looked through them again, assuring that he had said all that he wanted with them. Was she even familiar with floriography? What if she didn’t know he’d left them? What if she didn’t understand his message? Surely Asra would recognize it, but would he be willing to help her decipher it, after what he’d done? He clawed at his chest, fist balling in the supple leather of his coat. If she didn’t understand his intentions with the flowers, it shouldn’t matter to him. If he did everything right, she wouldn’t see him again anyway. So why was he lingering in Vesuvia anyway?

He looked down into his mug, his rippling reflection frowning back at him. He knew why. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t care about the risks he faced by staying, for he was too caught up in his own heartbreak to truly plan travel to any other destination anyway. But he didn’t deserve to wallow, either. He’d done this to himself. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t fear the danger in a future with him. Even so, he left. He had no right to be upset.

With a heavy sigh, he downed the rest of the coffee and placed two coins on the counter as payment, shuffling back into the street. He had no destination in mind. He just knew that he couldn’t go anywhere near the side of town that held the little magic shop. So absorbed in his own depression, he didn’t hear the desperate rattles of the raven overhead. It took the bird swooping down and pulling on his auburn tresses in passing to feel the prickle of danger on his skin and hear the protests of the guards trying to push through the crowd. His mind went blank as his legs carried him swiftly down a back alley.

You damned fool. Walking down a busy street in broad daylight. What were you thinking? He mentally scolded himself as he ran, his heart hammering in his ears as he wound down the back streets. Shouts of the guards bounced off the narrow walls, tailing him despite being out of sight. He couldn’t stop now, but he had no idea where he was going. He looked around the walls of the alley, spotting nothing that would help him decipher his location. As long as he continued in the opposite direction of the guards, he should be fine. But he couldn’t run forever.

Poking his head out into the sunlit street for just a moment, he assessed his location. His legs operated on instinct when he got his bearings, carrying him to his only reliable hideaway. Launching himself through the open window, he hissed as he knocked a yellow bloom from the stalk of one of the plants there. Mazelinka could chide him later. He pressed himself under the windowsill, the cool earth of the wall seeping into his back as he panted for breath. He thought he didn’t care about risking himself. He thought he had just told himself that at the shop. Yet here he was, gasping desperately for air after running for his life. He couldn’t make up his mind. Fickleness was certainly his talent.

Once he’d caught his breath and was certain that the guards had lost track of him, he stood up and staggered into the room partitioned off by the curtain. He stripped off his coat, gloves, and boots, flopping onto the bed unceremoniously, only to reel and sit up when his face met with a cold, velvety bundle on the pillow of the bed, spluttering when he noticed a fallen petal on his tongue.

“What?” he grumbled, holding up the tiny excuse of a bouquet. Four stems were bound at the bottom with twine, with a gentle vine of blossoms coiled around them. Did Mazelinka get these?

Leaning against the wall, he rubbed the petals of the white rose in the center between his bare fingers. “I am worthy of you,” he mumbled under his breath, a spiteful laugh escaping him. He could’ve never included this one in his bouquet to the apprentice that had captured his heart. He wasn’t worthy of her. Not in the slightest. She deserved better. Eyebrows furrowed in curiosity, he hummed when he saw the pink tulip, paired nicely against the remaining pink blooms in the arrangement. “A declaration of love. Such a romantic gesture for someone courting a woman of Mazelinka’s age. Young at heart, perhaps?” he chortled, smelling the bouquet. He put his head down on the pillow and identified the other flowers absentmindedly. The vine around the four stems was pink convolvulus, symbolizing worth sustained by judicious and tender affection, one that he easily remembered. One of the stems separated into two heads exploding into what seemed like hundreds of petals, one tinted a darker pink than the other. A double aster. Whoever sent this shared the sentiments of whoever it was replying to. Did Mazelinka send flowers to an admirer? What a giddy little girly thing to do, he thought to himself with a snicker. He pulled his fingertip down the peachy-pink bundle of petals on the last stem, savoring the velvet feeling with a mock-incredulous gasp. “A buttercup! Is this person calling Mazelinka childish or themselves?” He smirked down at the bouquet, toying with the petals as he laughed.

“What!?”

A muffled voice came from the sleeping hole, silenced by the shut door. The bouquet tumbled from Julian’s hand as he sprang up from the bed, every muscle coiled tight like a cat ready to pounce.

“Mazelinka?” he asked after the voice, though he already knew the voice didn’t belong to the house owner. Picking up the knife that was usually concealed in his boot, he inched closer to the door. He held his position a safe distance from the door and froze, knife poised at the ready. “Huh, I must’ve been hearing things,” he grumbled at a deliberately louder volume than necessary to talk to himself. After a moment, he heard a sigh, like a held breath finally being released. Eyebrows furrowed, he closed the distance to the door in half a stride and yanked the door open, knife readied in his other hand and steely eye glinting with danger. Who he saw in the hole, however, made the knife fall with a clatter as he staggered backwards a step.

“Ranunculus. It was supposed to be a ranunculus. The book said it meant ‘I am dazzled by your charms,’” the apprentice deadpanned, sounding deflated. “It wasn’t a buttercup.”

“It is a buttercup. But buttercups are a kind of ranunculus flower,” Julian corrected, his face drained of all color. “Why…what…why are you here?” His voice sounded hurt. Scared. The apprentice opened her mouth, then closed it again, looking sheepish.

“I was looking for you. I knew if you were still in town, you would probably come to Mazelinka’s house to hide again, so I--”

“You broke in,” he filled in for her. She smirked, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth before her smile pulled it free.

“I learned from the best,” she hummed, glancing up at him and twirling a loose lock of hair around her finger. He swallowed hard past a lump that quickly formed in his throat. Gods, why did she have to look at him like that? Those eyes burned into him, setting fire to any resolve he might’ve possessed. He laughed and offered her a hand to get out of the hole. She took it, her grip strong, holding him like a lifeline. Like she was prepared for him to bolt at any time.

“But why are you here? As in, right now? You could’ve easily left the flowers behind. How long were you going to sit in the hole and wait for me? What if I never came?” he scolded her, gripping her shoulders. A flush of embarrassment rose to her face as she looked away, a small pout forming on her mouth. He looked down at it, tongue prodding the inside of his lips, threatening to escape and wet his own at the sight.

“Well, I just…I just got here. It took me longer than—Look, the book is short enough, but I need more than a couple of hours to memorize them. I needed to find what I wanted to say to you, but I didn’t have the time or the patience. Then I had to find the flowers. Plus, I didn’t want to try to find anything that I didn’t recognize. I’m sure the florists would know what I wanted when I asked, but some of them were so specific, and I didn’t want to say anything wrong—well, look how that turned out, ugh. I just wanted--” Julian’s lips crushed hers, a satisfied sigh escaping him. As she had been speaking, he had slowly moved his hands up her shoulders, her throat, and eventually rested on her cheeks. She let out a soft moan as he parted her lips with his tongue, her hands finding his shoulders for support. His name tumbled from her lips, tearing a groan from his mouth as he responded with hers. Her tongue stroked his as she sighed, making his skin hum with excited energy. He kissed back with as much ferocity as she offered, stabilizing her by her waist as her knees started to buckle. His lungs burned, but he didn't care. He had been dying to taste her sweetness again ever since the last kiss he had left on them at the docks. She wove her fingers into the short hairs at the back of his neck, tugging slightly to pull him away. He purred, leaning in with a peck and gentle tug at her bottom lip before he looked down at her with a smile. Once she caught her breath, she looked up to him, her eyes a swirl of frustration and desire. He wondered which one she would chase. He knew which one he hoped she’d chase.

The hand on his chest grew more insistent as it forced him backward, farther and farther until the backs of his knees hit the bed, buckling and planting him on the worn mattress.

“Those flowers were from you, then,” he muttered, arching a brow to tease her. He knew. He knew as soon as he’d found her. Of course her payback would be a favor of the same kind. She was resourceful and clever, after all, and he loved that.

“Yes,” she breathed, straddling his lap and weaving her fingers into his hair again. The intensity of her gaze made his ears burn. “I meant all of it, and more. For one thing, there wasn’t a flower that meant ‘I am very mad at you,’ or one that meant ‘how could you do this to me, you were everything I wanted.’”

There was the frustration, he noted. His pulse jumped at the ferocity with which she stared him down. “Well, you could’ve given me basil to tell me that you hate me. After all, it’s what I deserve,” he quipped with a self-deprecating laugh, but the laughter was cut short when she tugged his hair sharply, angling his head up towards the ceiling. The action made his breath hitch in his throat, but it quickly melted out of him in a small moan as she nibbled on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, biting and tugging. “I don’t hate you, and you certainly don’t deserve it. Weren’t you paying attention? I am worthy of you, and moreover, you are worthy of me,” she mumbled against his neck, reciting one of her flowers' meanings as she scraped her incisor down the spot she had already turned a purple-red, making him shiver beneath her. “I share all of the sentiments you had for me in your bouquet,” a sucking and biting kiss higher up, on the strap of muscle that connected to his collarbone, making him squirm and clench a fist in the sheets below him. “I am dazzled by your charms, and everything else that comes with it,” she pulled the tortured love bite until the skin broke, prodding the wound with the tip of her tongue. He whimpered, his back arching, pressing his body against hers before he could stop himself. He felt his blush spread from his ears, down his face and neck, settling at his chest. Everything felt hot. A soft kiss fell against his jawline, accenting the tenderness behind her next explanation. “I am willing to take all the time in the world to show you what you are worth, with all the affection I can offer.” He hummed in approval of both her words and ministrations, moving his head just enough to plant a kiss between her eyes. She snorted out a laugh, nails raking down his chest while she affectionately kissed the hollow at the curve of his lower jaw, beneath his ear. “And I love you. I do. I couldn’t hardly breathe or get out of bed when you left me. I was so scared that something would happen to you,” she admitted, allowing her position to hide her blushing face.

“I know what you mean, dear, but how can you say you love me? You—ah!—you don’t hardly…k-know me,” he defended feebly, faltering only for a moment when her tender kiss turned into another bite beneath his jaw. The answer did not satisfy her, he assumed. She insistently dug her nails into his chest again, latching onto the side of his neck with a full-on bite. He gasped and stuttered out a strangled groan, all of the stimulation becoming too much very quickly. He was now leaning fully on his elbows, the apprentice looming over him predatorily.

“Wasn’t it you that said you loved me first? The…althea frutex, was it?” Her voice was a growl against his skin. He anchored his hand in her hair.

“Mm, well, how can’t I be? You’re a bit of a whirlwind. I can’t help being swept away,” he hummed, eyes closed in pleasure. She separated herself from his throat, looking down at him. There was sadness in her eyes, he noted as he opened his own again. “…What is it?”

She smoothed his hair out of his face, searching for something in his gaze. “Why are you allowed to love me, but it’s out of the question for me to love you, Julian?” She settled her body on top of his, brows angled down in what looked like something between a pout and confusion. He exhaled slowly, angling his eye away from her scrutinizing gaze. Her warmth and her smell were intoxicating, and he didn’t realize that being apart for only a day would put him in such strong withdrawals. He tried his best to focus his thoughts, focus past her allure to give her an answer of some sort.

“W-well, that’s…it’s because—you see, I…” he stumbled and stammered, unable to think of a proper answer with the overload in his senses, his eyes watching the angry quirk of her lips. Her expression shifted to frustration, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly caught her words with a finger. “You don’t have a criminal record, my dear. Surely you’re a better person than me, even if I can’t remember committing my crime. I’m not all light and life and smiles like you. I’m not good.”

“I don’t care what you think you are. I can see what you are, and it doesn’t scare me away,” she mumbled. He laughed breathily, his arm resting around her shoulders to pull her closer.

“Frankly, that’s the most terrifying part in all of this.” His lips caught hers again, but this time she had anticipated him. Her hands pushed at the cloth on his shoulders, moving it down far enough for her to run her nails down his arms, making him shudder again and crush her against him. His hands gripped her hips, rubbing circles in the sharp bones as he met her desperate kisses with his own. He was absolutely addicted. How did she capture him so quickly? He couldn’t help the sound of satisfaction that escaped into her mouth with the thought, mixing with her own sighs and moans. He parted for just a moment to breathe, meeting her smoldering eyes again.

“I really tried, you know. I tried to protect you. You wandered into the lion’s den. Did you expect to leave in one piece?” he whispered against her lips. She smirked, kissing the end of his nose, trailing kisses over his cheek and onto his eyepatch. He held his breath as she moved across the protective scrap of leather. No one had ever done something so intimate with his injury. He was jarred from the spell she had placed on him when she leaned into the crook of his neck to purr in his ear.

“Maybe. Who knows? Perhaps the lion wishes to be tamed. Perhaps I wish to be the tamer,” she hummed, biting the top of his ear and prodding it with the tip of her tongue. A strangled sound he could hardly suppress rumbled from his chest.

“Oh gods, yes. The lion would thoroughly enjoy anything his lady tamer wished to attempt in that respect,” he pleaded. Her forehead pressed to his as she chuckled softly at his response. His slate grey eye searched hers for a reason why she pulled away.

“I’m glad I found you again,” she admitted, looking at him through her lashes, embarrassment flushing her features. Did she surprise herself with what she offered him? Was she surprised with his answer? He wished she would act on it, but it seemed like a promise to him. Or perhaps a threat. If he wanted her to make good on the offer, he’d have to stick around a little longer. He smiled and embraced her strongly around the shoulders, face nuzzling into her throat.

“I just hope you won’t regret it later, darling,” he sighed, “No matter how much I find your stubbornness endearing, I worry that this won’t end well.” He breathed her in, his arms crushing her even closer to his body. He wanted to savor this moment of peace. She reciprocated the embrace, her arms coiling around his neck.

Please, he thought to himself, please let us have more time for these moments.

They repositioned themselves so that Julian’s full body could fit on the bed. Still, the apprentice practically lay on top of him. She felt so small against his large, lanky body, and it only made his protective instincts flare brighter. He would be ruined if anything happened to her because of him. It was a cruel damned-if-he-did scenario. He wanted to be here, with her, basking in her light. But he also wanted her happiness and safety. Damn his selfishness. He looked at the ceiling, absentmindedly combing his fingers through her long locks as he thought. He deduced that he could lay there for days and have almost no regrets.

“Why are you so obsessed with flowers?” she eventually asked, her voice groggy. He breathed out a laugh and grinned.

“Well, doctors do a lot of reading, you know. A lot of plants have medicinal properties, so they’re a common topic of study. But one day, I stumbled across a book on floriography, and the concept of them taking on meaning, like a secret language, was intriguing to me.”

“Ah, so you’re a hopeless romantic somewhere in there,” she teased. He felt heat rise to his face in embarrassment.

“No, it was specifically research. Intrigue. Nothing I studied at length.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she chirped as she drew circles on his mostly exposed chest with her fingertip. “You didn’t have the book on you at the time of crafting my bouquet, yet everything seemed to match something you’d say. I assumed you were correct with it. Also, you knew what my flowers meant without any reference…and you knew about buttercups.”

He snorted, twirling a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I hardly see how knowing about buttercups makes me a floriography expert.” She shot him an unamused look, to which he shrugged, the smile never falling from his face. “I memorize things easily. It comes with the territory of being a doctor. Makes the job a lot simpler.” That answer seemed like enough, as the apprentice hummed out a clipped sound in reply.

“That’s a rather convincing story. You’ve got a pretty silver tongue, Doctor,” she mumbled, sounding more and more distant with every response. “Still think you’re a bit of a romantic at heart, though.”

He clenched his jaw, the embarrassed flush not fading.

“Pursuit of bodily pleasures is hardly romantic,” he defended dubiously. She turned her face to look at him, her eyes showing that she wasn’t taking the bait at all. He looked away, curling into himself a bit in mortification, which only made him squeeze her tighter. He nuzzled his nose into her hair, breathing his response as a whisper into her ear.

“Only for you, my dear, do I have a soft, romantic side.” He kissed her temple, a small grumbled “happy?” following after. She blushed, a smile creeping onto her lips as she nodded, nothing but pure love and adoration reflected in those eyes. He sucked in a breath sharply, sure that his entire face was pink by now. Her giggle only confirmed that hunch. He stole a quick kiss, unable to fight her irresistible pull on him. It wasn’t his fault she never played fair.

Soon, her breathing became deep and even, and he stole a glance down at her to confirm his suspicions. She had fallen asleep on his chest, the constant motion of his hand through her hair lulling her. He frowned at himself, unable to enjoy the sentiment through the crushing weight of guilt on his heart. Of course she would be tired. She’d wasted so much time in the past two days concocting a plan that wasn’t even guaranteed to work, fighting past her very palpable anxiety and concern for him. He didn’t deserve this happiness. She was so good, and he didn’t know why she had been drawn to him.

A creak of the door made Julian’s pulse race, a protective arm snaking around the sleeping apprentice’s waist while he watched the curtain carefully.

“Ilya, I know you’re in there. My flowers are a mess again,” Mazelinka’s voice came from the hearth. He opened his mouth to reply, but then looked down at the sleeping beauty on top of him, and closed his mouth again, clenching his jaw. “Ilya! Are you finally sleeping?” she grouched, pulling the curtain back and shooting a glare into the room. Julian gave her a sheepish look as she took in their somewhat compromising position. She then looked to the floor, where the bouquet had fallen. A knowing smile crept onto her lips.

“Clever girl,” she noted, to which Julian smiled, pulling his fingers gently through her hair. “Told you that you wouldn’t survive that long without her,” she teased as she let the curtain fall back into place. Julian once again opened his mouth to protest, a small blush painting his cheekbones, but once again he closed his mouth without a word.

“Believe in her, Ilya. She wouldn’t have sought you out if you meant nothing to her,” Mazelinka spoke like a softly scolding mother, the tap of a wooden spoon against an iron cauldron punctuating her statement.

“I know,” he whispered with a smile, letting his head fall back as his arms coiled loosely around her. Her warmth was a welcome sedative, and he couldn't help but fall into sleep as well. Just like their previous evening together, everything that she was would ward off the nightmares that plagued him, which was more than welcome.

#julian devorak #doctor jules #asra #the arcana #nadia #faust #language of flowers #ilya #mazelinka #female apprentice #female mc #the chariot book #my writing #admin quill #the countess #count lucio #dr. jules #rowdy raven rattles

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owlespresso · 6 years

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Infertile Ground | #2

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Also on ao3

Dedicated to @yaoi-jeezuz, who loves Sugawara. And @sapphyrelily, whose work inspired me to write this story.

It’s been two days since your first guest arrived. Over that period of time, you’ve decided that Sugawara Koushi is easy to get along with. Perhaps the council decided to start you off with their best-behaved child. You suppose it’s wrong of you to talk about him like he’s much younger than you are, because you really have no idea about his age range.

Appearances mean little. Even the oldest of gods can change their appearance at will. You have no idea how old Sugawara is, and somehow, that just makes you warier.

He wakes up before you do. On the first day, you insisted that he use the kitchen as though it’s his own. You expected him to make food only for himself, but today you woke up to two plates of scrambled eggs and bacon. After so many years of living alone, eating breakfast with someone else felt outlandish. Even during your childhood, you hardly ate breakfast with your family. Your father was always at work and… your mother was hardly ever around during your early years. Eating breakfast with Sugawara isn’t bad, though. He’s a good conversationalist and is patient with any verbal blunders you make.

He accepts your every mistake, to the point where it feels like he’s seeing through you. That unsettles you. Being unpredictable has always been a reliable defense mechanism. You don’t want to let the walls you’ve built around yourself crumble. You won’t let him make you feel.

Or maybe you’re just overthinking it.

On the third day, you get up at six-thirty AM and find him awake, again. How can someone stand waking up so damn early?

“Good morning,” He greets, smiling softly. You can see that he’s wearing one of your old aprons, the pink one with a cat face on it. It looks cute on him. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept fine, Sugawara-san. How about you?” He looks so utterly natural in your home, like he’s always been here. For someone who was so hesitant and cautious on his first day, he’s certainly adapted to his surroundings. He still treats you politely, kindly, but you can tell that he’s comfortable. “You should really wake me up before you make breakfast, Sugawara-san. I feel guilty leaving all of it to you.” You hate feeling useless. Merely sitting and looking pretty has never suited you. You’ve always felt the need to contribute, but you struggle with actually starting.

Brief flashes of inspiration aren’t enough to live a healthy, productive lifestyle. Discipline is what you truly need. Motivation is fickle and fleeting. You never know how long it’ll last.

“It’s really no trouble,” Sugawara assures, giving you a concerned glance, “It’s the least I can do. You’ve been a really great host,” He feels the need to repay you? For what? It wasn’t your idea to have him stay here. You didn’t extend the invitation. He had been thrust into your life with hardly any warning. If the council hadn’t of sent him, you never would have met. “Besides, you always look so happy when you eat my food~ It lets me know I’m doing something right.” How could he do something wrong? That’s the question you want to ask. He’s been the model guest, this entire time.

“You’ve been great,” You don’t hesitate to tell him, “I mean, really. I was worried that the council was gonna send someone horrible. I’ve dealt with some pretty spoiled demigods in my lifetime, but you’re definitely not one of them.”

“You really think they would do that?” Sugawara questions, bacon sizzling in the skillet. You watch him slide the freshly-cooked meal onto a porcelain plate, positioned neatly next to the stove. The skillet gives crackling noise when he sets it on one of the inactive burners. The stove shuts off with the flip of a switch, and he slides a plate of delicious, freshly-cooked food in front of you. It’s still kind of weird, to have someone take care of you, like this.

“I know they would,” You reply, your tone frozen over with bitterness. Fortunately, he seems to understand that your anger is not directed at him. “They can’t just leave me alone, y’know?” It feels weird to confide in someone you’ve only known for two days, but Ai isn’t here and none of your other familiars haven’t shown up. Besides, they already know your problems. You’d just be complaining to them for the thousandth time. “I was lucky enough to be born with some pretty neat powers, and they were lucky that I wanted to help. Never said I wanted to be a goddess.”

“I’m… sorry.” Sugawara begins as though he’s unsure of what to say, but there’s sympathy in his voice. You lift your hand up to wave dismissively.

“No, it’s fine. Not your fault. You probably weren’t even around, back then.” He probably wasn’t even asked to come here, either. They just sent him, forced him into it. “I shouldn’t be unloading my problems on you, anyways. You’ve been a great guest.” Why are you only talkative when you’re bitching about your problems? You really can’t answer that question.

Sugawara looks much different than he ever has, before. There’s a haunted expression on his face, like he’s just unearthed some horrible, forbidden secret. Did he… not know? Damn, the council was playing dirtier than you thought they would! Apart of you is almost amused at his aghast face, because you’ve been dealing with this problem for years, now. If you didn’t laugh at it, you would go insane.

“I’m kind of surprised that they didn’t tell you, but also not. I mean—I haven’t been there in about ten years. So a lot of the messengers and celestials probably don’t know who I am, or they just don’t mention me. It’s old news.” You inform him with a shrug, hoping to make light of the situation. “So, let’s talk about you, instead. Whose kid are you?”

“Ryūjin is my father. My mother is a tengu.” Interesting. You can see that he’s inherited next to nothing from the ocean deity. Or, he’s just hiding it. You’re just glad that the tension in the room has dissolved.

“I’m impressed,” You drawl, “Didn’t think anyone would ever be interested in that scaly old motherfucker.” Sugawara gapes at your audacious comment, and you almost regret making it. “Uh—”

“Don’t worry about it!” His face blooms in a wide smile, “He wasn’t a very… good father. But he was a god so no one ever really stood up against him. It’s kind of refreshing to hear someone not be afraid of him!” You raised your eyebrows at that information. Were all gods shitty parents?

“Sorry to hear that.” You rub the back of your head. It seems that you have more in common with your guest than expected. You watch Sugawara take small bites of his breakfast, taking time to run your gaze over his soft features. He has a gentle face, with rounded cheeks and eyes. His complexion is pale as porcelain, no blemishes visible. The mole underneath his left eye is kind of cute… That’s the second time you’ve called him cute this morning.

Frustration boils underneath your skin at how familiar and natural all of this feels. You’ve only known him for two days! Maybe a little more! You can’t already be attached to him! You can’t already care so much! This is why you hate interacting with new people! You get too easily attached. It only makes it easier for people to hurt you. You have all you need, here. You don’t need anyone besides your familiars (even though they all have lives of their own and only visit once in awhile). You don’t need to meet new people or experience new things.

“Are you alright?” Sugawara’s soft voice snaps you out of your daze. A soft, pink hue spreads across your cheeks once you realize you were still staring at him. You sheepishly turn your gaze away, nodding.

You don’t need to make new friends. You don’t need company.

But when you see Sugawara smile at you, you feel the walls you’ve painstakingly built begin to crumble.

---

It’s lonely, here. Sugawara doesn’t know how you can stand it. It’s always quiet. It’s always cloudy. Sure, there are plenty of electronics, books, and other items to amuse himself with. But there’s a distinct difference between human interaction and playing video games alone. His father had warned him that you were unpredictable, that you had been isolated for ten years. He had knocked on your front door without knowing what to expect. Upon first entering, it was obvious that you were rusty with social interaction. He could clearly see the nervousness on your face and in your body language.

He immediately understood why he was the first guest to arrive. The council was definitely aware of his maturity, of his gentility. He was intuitive and responsible, a natural caretaker. As soon as he walked in, he knew that getting you to open up to him would be a challenge. He couldn’t help but be interested in you—a long forgotten, wayward goddess. He had seen brief mentions of you in scriptures and records, but there were no pictures of you. Not even any drawings or paintings.

Your presence was smaller and calmer than he expected. Of course, you were nervous. But you weren’t as volatile as his father made you out to be. You began to warm up to him on the second day.

It was his third day, here. Eating breakfast with you had been a surprisingly enlightening experience. He finally learned why you isolated yourself, and why you abandoned your godly duties. He was pleased to see that you felt comfortable enough to joke with him (even though you tried to take it back). Rome wasn’t built in a day. But you were progressing fast!

Right after breakfast, news that the second guest would be arriving came.

“I can’t believe it! They’re coming in two hours, Sugawara-san! Those assholes need to give me more time to prepare.” You huffed, scrubbing down the counter. The grey-haired man watched you, both fascinated and worried.

“You know that you can use magic to clean that, right?” He inquired, tipping his head. He swallowed nervously when you whipped around to look at him, gaze sharp as a knife. “It’ll be fine, okay? I’m sure that the council won’t send anyone too rowdy.” He tried to soothe you, watching as your shoulders slumped. You turned to look at him, expression weary. You clutched the dish towel tightly in your hand.

“I’m gonna be counting on you, here,” You murmured, before cringing. “No, I shouldn’t be. You’re the guest. I’m the host—”

“If this were a normal situation, then that would be the case,” Sugawara gently corrected, plucking the abused towel from your hand. You let him, “This was all forced on you. So let me help, alright? That’s what friends are for~!” He pretended to be confident about calling you his “friend”. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure about your feelings towards him. He certainly hoped that you would call yourself his friend.

Fake it ‘till you make it, right?

“Yeah.” He almost didn’t hear your soft murmur. His heart skipped a beat, a pleasant warmth fluttering in his chest. He tossed the soggy towel into a nearby laundry bin (positioned near the back of the kitchen), and made sure to give you a wide smile when he turned around.

It’s much. It’s one word, a single admission. But it’s a step forward, and that’s all that matters.

#haikyuu!!#imagine haikyuu!!#sugawara koushi #sugawara #HQ!!#hq #fanfiction #haikyuu fanfiction

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samurailovewriter · 7 years

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Mitsuhide’s MBTI Analysis P2

In honor of the cat battle event made just for Mitsuhide, I’ve decided to do his next. Feel free to send in requests, though my response time heavily varies. Once again for the warnings: It is long! Strengths and weaknesses taken from 16personalities.

Strengths: Supportive, reliable and patient, imaginative and observant, enthusiastic, loyal and hardworking, good practical skills

Weaknesses: Humble and shy, take things too personally, repress their feelings, overload themselves, reluctant to change, too altruistic

Romancing an ISFJ Mitsuhide

Mitsuhide is about as traditional of an ISFJ as they will come (coincidentally enough, ISFJs known to be the most “traditional” of lovers as well). This is a double edged sword. For one, it means consistency and stability. ISFJs are all about the long-term relationships. Short-term is just NOT their thing (in fact, they quite despise it), and once they’ve set their mind on the relationship, they only see far into the future and nothing near. For the other, though, it means being with someone who’s very much against change, especially in regards to moral lines they draw for themselves. You lose the adaptability found in lords such as Hideyoshi and Saizo, but you gain the stability instead.

ISFJs are also VERY sensitive souls. They often take things way too personally and that constantly shows up in clashes between Nobunaga and Mitsuhide. As steadfast and loyal as Mitsuhide is, these two men have very different forms of communication. There was one ES where Nobunaga, in a fit of impatience, kicked Mitsuhide out of his room. How did Mitsuhide take it? Not that it was an overreaction, but rather that Nobunaga simply didn’t want his services anymore and literally left the castle (much to Nobunaga’s dismay and exasperation). He took that far more personally and more seriously than it should’ve been taken with someone as fickle and changing as Nobunaga is (who has quite the mouth as well).

This extends heavily into romantic relationships. People with Nobunaga or Ieyasu’s sense of humor will NEVER sit well with Mitsuhide or ISFJs as a whole, especially when it’s something as intimate as lovers. They will be careful, kind, and considerate to their counterparts, so ISFJs also expect that to be reciprocated just as much.

Along with the heightened sensitivities, ISFJs also have a huge tendency to overload themselves with EVERYTHING - family, politics, work, friends, etc. The list goes on. They might be introverts, but that doesn’t mean they’re not social. And when the work gets too high, their other weakness of repressing their feelings kick in as well along with the disadvantage of overanalyzing and overthinking every detail. It is a vicious cycle that the partner must be capable of seeing and breaking. MC was able to see it in that wedding ES, where I saw MANY girls on Tumblr quite upset about. Remember how he just abruptly called the wedding off, said that they shouldn’t talk and meet anymore, and just marched off? That’s a direct combination of his weaknesses piling on top of each other. Despite wavering at first, MC was able to stand her ground and break that cycle by pointing out to him how ridiculous he was being, and how over-the-line he has crossed in his morality of standing to his duties.

For the girls who crave the flexibility and unpredictability of other men, Mitsuhide is their worst nightmare. At the same time, girls who desire the stability and normality of a safe home, Mitsuhide is their haven. He is 200% loyal, steadfast, and will always be capable of keeping the home afloat. Whether through his jobs, his hardworking tendencies, or whether just through tender gestures, nothing matters more to ISFJs than “home” does, and they will literally protect it with everything in their lives. He will never be wishy washy, and he has very clean moral lines drawn. This man will never try to tempt to bend the lines between what’s right and wrong when it comes to his own actions because in his mind it is WRONG, and he will not step over it.

He’s also the quite handy man to keep around. For accounting purposes (trust me, your money will never run out). For house purposes (he’ll literally memorize the castle design). For housewarming purposes (tea master. He loves his tea and his ceremonies). At the end of the day, Mitsuhide is a warm and dedicated husband and wants nothing more than to take care of his lover and to make her as happy and comfortable as possible, even if it means him sacrificing something along the way.

Mitsuhide’s preferences: ISFJ

So surprise, surprise, Mitshide’s MC is probably the same as him and here’s why. Alone time is incredibly important to the MC, which makes her an I. Also, seeing how traditional Mitsuhide is, MC must be as well, which makes her a J (I also suspect P girls would get quite bored of him honestly...or use him for his skills XD). Finally, I think she’s an SF herself because she can be quite similar to Mitsuhide...which is also why she can catch on things quicker as well.

#samurai love ballad party #slbp #slbp mitsuhide #slbp mbti

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