#She's SO interesting I'm rotating her in my mind but I want to DRAG her to the fucking gallows circa pre-Hawke's rise to champiion!!!!!

[obessivedork]

TBH as a writer appreciating the set-up of a character I ADORE Vivienne but her lack of proper character arc & the inability to argue with her more is as infuriating as with most of your companions in DAI, if not more when you play a Mage because you CAN’T grab her by the shoulders and shake her and say Ma’am if you’d had worse luck and wound up literally anywhere other than the Circle you did wind up at you would be a fundamentally different person please for Maker’s sake admit out loud that you only like the Circles because you managed to etch yourself some limited social power out of the broken and corrupt system you might not otherwise have been able to get for yourself and therefore you have not suffered the true effects of it!!!!

#not to mention real world issues with her being one of the VERY FEW important POC but I'm too white to discuss that well #just want it mentioned that I am aware of that #She's SO interesting I'm rotating her in my mind but I want to DRAG her to the fucking gallows circa pre-Hawke's rise to champiion!!!!! #I want to drag her to Kinloch and have her look the innocent children the Templars wanted to murder in the EYES #and tell them they deserve this for the crime of being born #She is SUCH a product of Chantry fearmongering and brainwashing it's so fascinating!! #Also the fact that her little story revolves around her lover and only her lover? bite bite bite maim kill BAD WRITERS >:( #/SHE/ should've got the Tranquil plot line. The realization that those people are lobotomized for profit and no actual REAL reasons #This is CANNON the Tranquil exist to FUND the circle and also because the chantry would rather fearmonger than teach to control magic #Like I don't expect her to pull a complete 180 on the Chantry and Circles but for fucks sake give me A LITTLE GROWTH PLEASE #She's the same bad bitch (affectionate) that she was in the beginning at the end! Just a little more politically powerful! It's SO BORING! #IDK. She could've been the divine that bans the practice of tranquility or something. #But bioware want us to forget the tranquil because they make their mage vs templar '''grey''' OBJECTIVELY AND CLEARLY NOT GREY #anyways the way DAI /WASTES/ its most interesting character concepts makes me SO mad and she's the biggest example imo #She & Sera PISS ME OFF with their wasted potential #tagging for my blog's sorting system not here to be a dick #dai #dragon age

[starry-blue-echoes]

Thoughts on Jonathan and George's relationship:

Honestly, George always meant the best for Jonathan. Even when he was harsh he was trying to push Jonathan to be better as best he could, and he took a knife for Jonathan in the end- but still, it wasn't great for Jonathan.

But on the other hand, the dude was not equipped to handle this alone I think. With Mary's sudden and unexpected death, especially with my headcannon that the Joestar Family Neurodivergence came from her side, with the total lack of knowledge on that kind of thing in that era, he would have been hard-pressed to do better.

Then add in Dio, and hoo boy. He's not equipped to handle being a good parent with regards to Dio's trauma either, especially when he doesn't even know it exists, but he can't not take in Dio either, given the alternatives are Not Great and his own kind heart.

And Jonathan's feelings are... complicated. There's frustration at never quite seeming good enough, at the favoritism towards Dio, but also, he still loves George, still misses him after he dies. And for a long time, he probably internalizes a lot of it, thinking it was somehow him and not George.

It takes a long time for him to come to terms with the fact that even if George couldn't really have done much better, that doesn't affect the fact that Jonathan still deserved better. And I don't think he really internalizes that until he's raising George II and thinks about what George did with him from that perspective. (Though at the same time, he can see how, if he didn't have the knowledge he does about how his brain works differently from lived experience... he can see why George did what he did, even if it was dead wrong.)

Honestly I think the whole Jonaeriwagon trio might end up sort of reparenting themselves as they raise kids together- Jonathan realizing that he deserved better than what George did, even if George was doing as best he knew how, now Jonathan knows better, and can treat both his kid and his own inner child with that new knowledge and kindness. Speedwagon makes sure the kids have everything they want or need, spoiling them with gifts and love while also confronting how the scarcity he grew up under affected him, and starting to learn to treat himself now that he has the resources. And Erina, more headcannony, but empowering the kids to have more control and agency over their lives than she had, being dragged around continents with her dad, and that inner core of steel starting to become something she's more comfortable showing and working with as she teaches the kids to do the same.

I couldn't have worded it better myself and also I'm losing my mind (/pos) over these beautiful Jonaeriwagon headcanons because Y E S

the way I've always been thinking of George is sort of a "You Tried Your Best But It Was What You Thought Was Best." I don't doubt he loved Jonathan and Dio, but what he saw as helping them ultimately did cause a lot of harm

but also now I'm rotating so many soft things as they raise George II together-

Jonathan indulging George's interests, reading up on them so they have things to talk about, listening to him as much as he can to his son never feels unheard or shoved to the sidelines or like nobody believes him

Speedwagon always making sure George has what he needs but also teaching him how to value and safe guard what he has, giving him tips on the ins and outs of the seedier parts of the world in case he ever gets in a rough spot so he won't be caught off guard

Erina making sure it's absolutely clear that no matter what happens, no matter what embarassing or terrifying thing could be done to him, they will always love and respect him and that he could come to them for help, how he always can say no and fight back if he feels it's approprate

#they're in love your honor and we were absolutely ROBBED of Wholesome Jonaeriwagon Parents #(do I acknowledge jonathan's death was important to the narritive? yes. will that stop me from making aus? nope <3) #jjba #jojo’s bizarre adventure #phantom blood #jjba part 1 #jjba george #george joestar #jjba jonathan #jonathan joestar #jjba dio #dio brando #jjba speedwagon #robert e.o. speedwagon #jjba erina #erina pendleton #jjba george ii #george joestar ii #jonaeriwagon #jonathan x erina x speedwagon #sb answers #dragoninthelabratory #canon filing

[internetgremlin-writes]

Hello darling! Can I request prompt 16 with 41 and /or 94 please and Max Verstappen or Charles Leclerc? Thank you!

16 - "You fainted...straight into my arms. You know, if you want my attention you don't have to go to such extremes,"

41 - "You need some sleep,"

94 - "You need a place to stay for the night?"

the wheel has spoken and the wheel wants chuck lecluck.

i started my pre-rotation reading and im so scared please enjoy me panic writing to distract myself

You hadn't been feeling right all day, but this was Monaco, there was no way in hell you'd be missing even a second of the weekend. Not only that, but the tickets had cost you an absolute bomb.

Your brother worked in the paddock, but that had barely been an advantage. Okay, that was a lie, he'd managed to secure you and your best friend paddock passes and early access to tickets, but you were still in General Admission for the rest of the weekend. Not that you minded, you'd grown up in a household of F1 fans and it had always been your dream to see Monaco live, even if it wasn't on a private charter yacht.

So you were going to do Monaco, by hook or by crook. The grid walk had been okay, a slight unease settling over you but nothing too bad. There was a headache nagging at the back of your mind and you were a little too aware of your stomach but you put it down to the fact it was an incredibly loud place to be, and you and your friend wandering the grid alongside royals, celebrities and the drivers themselves was a lot to take in.

You were grateful you'd made your way back up to the stands where you had seats by the time it started to rain, and that your stand was covered. You'd used your brother's staff discount to buy a big Ferrari coat earlier and you were glad you did because when the rain really started, you could feel the temperature visibly drop.

The race was... interesting. After so many delays, and red flags they finally decided to cut it short and run on a timer instead of the full number of laps. To be honest, you were glad they did because you'd lost all feeling in your legs, the headache now felt like someone was dragging knives across your nerves and you most definitely had a stomach cramp. You took some painkillers with the fast emptying water bottle you'd brought and ignored the concerned look your best friend was giving you because you needed to go and see your brother.

You weren't sure if he was celebrating or miserable. He worked for Ferrari and whilst they'd got a podium out of Carlos Sainz, their pole position driver who was tipped for the win had slipped down to P4 in a strategy error. Your head felt like it was swimming when you stood up, and you had to stop three times on your walk to the paddock because you kept flushing between boiling hot and freezing cold, and your stomach was positively churning.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look pale," your friend pointed out when you stopped once more, your mouth watering signalling that you were dangerously close to being sick. You couldn't answer her straight away, instead focusing on steadying your breathing and taking several cautious sips of water.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you lied "Probably just one too many cocktails last night. I need to find Tom anyway," you set off walking ahead of her, but your slow pace meant she quickly caught up as the two of you virtually trudged into the paddock. Tom, your brother, was a difficult man to find. You lapped the paddock three times before you finally bumped into him talking quickly with two other men in red shirts.

"Hey squirt, was wondering when I'd see you," he wrapped an arm around you and squeezed playfully but it felt like your whole body lurched. You closed your eyes to steady yourself as you hitched a fake smile onto your face and he introduced you to some of his co-workers. Tom showed the pair of you around the paddock before you reached the centre of activity where most of the drivers were being interviewed.

"-So I'm sure I can introduce you to at least a few anyway. Maybe not Carlos today-" you weren't really listening because your ears were ringing and there was a sense of dread stealing over you as you realised that you really were about to throw up. Trying to push the feeling down once more you wiped the beads of sweat that were gathering on your brow away.

"Sounds great, do you mind if I go to hospitality first? I need a drink," Tom must have realised something was wrong because he handed you his pass to get into Ferrari's sector without argument, and told you he'd text you where he was when you were done. You nodded, now keeping your mouth tightly shut and headed away from them.

Your vision was swimming. Your legs weren't responding to you; it felt like you were trying to walk after playing one of those games where you were blindfolded and span around in multiple circles. You managed to locate the building, for once grateful that everything to do with Ferrari was bright red.

The floor lurched in front of you as you were trying to find your way to the catering zone and you stumbled. You suddenly felt like you were floating, a sense of bliss washing over you as the outside world started to shrink away. You knew what was coming next, but there was nothing you could do to stop it now.

"Hey- hey are you okay?" The voice was the last thing you registered before you blacked out.

When you came to you had no idea where you were. You felt like you were waking up from an impromptu nap, the same feeling of total confusion consuming you. Your mouth was dry and the heavy feeling of your body was a telltale sign that you'd fainted. This wasn't uncommon for you, so fortunately you knew how to handle yourself. You stayed still for a moment, slowly registering your body and how it was responding. You realised that you were laid in the recovery position, which meant you weren't alone.

"Are you awake?" Someone's hand was resting on your shoulder, so you groaned lightly in response because using words was a step too far. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position, the person immediately jumping to your aid and handing you a glass of water which you sipped. "Can I take you somewhere quieter?" you were still out of it so just nodded as your new carer very carefully picked you up into a standing position, slinging one arm around your shoulder and the other around your waist. You were conscious enough to move your feet, but you had no idea where you were going.

You were deposited gently onto a sofa, somewhere. You figured you hadn't left the Ferrari zone yet. It took a few more steadying breaths for your vision to completely clear and your brain to start registering anything properly. When you did you almost jumped back a little because a pair of bright blue eyes were blinking at you, alarmingly close to your face. They pulled back a little and your stomach dropped through the floor because attached to the prettiest green eyes you'd ever seen was a face you knew. Charles Leclerc, as in Ferrari driving race-winning Charles Leclerc was staring at you. His concerned look melted into a cheeky little grin.

"Talk about throwing yourself at me," he winked at you.

"What?" he was clearly trying not to look too pleased about the situation. You realised then you were in a small room, the sofa, a tiny wardrobe and what looked like a massage table were the only furniture present. He was crouched on the floor in front of you.

"You fainted," well, you'd guessed that much. "Straight into my arms. You know, if you want my attention you don't have to go to such extremes. I promise I'm a nice guy, I always stop for fans,"

No. No this couldn't be happening. You had not just embarrassed yourself like that in front of one of the biggest names in F1 this year. Especially not after the day he was having. You dropped your head into your hands because you couldn't bear to look at him and you could feel your face flushing as red as your stupid coat.

"God, I'm so sorry. My brother works here, I was just trying to get some water," he was quick to stop you.

"It's okay. I was hiding here too," you looked at him then, his whole body looked defeated and he was looking wistfully over your shoulder. You knew he was thinking about the podium he should have been on with his teammate.

"I'm sorry-"

"I don't wanna talk about it. Who is your brother?" He changed the topic quickly and you knew better than to push. As professional as they were, F1 drivers were sore losers.

"Er, Tom Y/L/N," Charles nodded.

"He is a good guy. I will text him," you couldn't quite believe Charles had your brother's number. He often didn't talk about work due to the high levels of secrecy around the cars, but he could have mentioned he was chummy with the stars themselves. Your own phone buzzed in your pocket a minute later.

Tommo: Know where you are. Glad you're safe. Will get you when I can.

BFF: OMG just saw the text. You bitch, I'm so jealous!

BFF: I'll keep Tom busy ;)

You decided it would be safest to put your phone away before your best friend sent something worse and Charles saw.

"I was going to go home. Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?" You thought the offer was sweet, but you couldn't waste any more of his time.

"Oh, no it's okay. We checked out this morning, I'm flying home tonight,"

"Good. I only have my bike," you couldn't help but giggle at that because only Ferrari's golden boy would turn up to a race on a bicycle. He laughed too, realising how stupid his offer was. "But you can't fly home tonight. You might be hurt. And you need to sleep,"

"Honestly I'm fine,"

"No, please, get another night at the hotel," your stomach twisted because your budget was completely stretched and there was no way you could afford another night and a second flight home.

"It's fully booked..."

"You need a place to stay for the night? My place is close,"

"No, you can't-"

Charles stopped you, his grabbing your hands and staring at you with an almost pleading look in his eyes.

"Please, I insist. I'll pay for your next flight,"

"You don't have to take responsibility for me," you argued, already embarrassed enough, but the way he was looking at you was quickly eroding your argument.

"It's not like that. I just wanna make sure you're okay. I have a spare room, you can watch a movie, if you like? I'm a bad chef but I'll buy takeout,"

The way he was looking at you was deadly. Like you were the only thing he wanted right then. What was the harm? Your brother clearly knew him, it wasn't like he was a complete stranger taking you home.

"Okay,"

#1.3k prompt night #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #formula one #F1

[stobinesque]

ohhhh this title piqued my interest: first light on the horizon (at the end of the world) <333

haha, this is my Rockie first date fic for the Summer Challenge! I also answered an ask about it here, but I've had Vickie rotating in my head all day so you get more words!

I'm not gonna reveal what Robin and Vickie do for their actual first date, but I did have a stroke of inspiration earlier that as either a friend outing or a second or third date I want Vickie to drag Robin on a thrifting trip, during which Vickie tries on a bunch of vintage sundresses and Robin loses her little gay mind about it. (Also Robin holds Vickie's purse, like a gentleman). Robin may or may not also end up trying on vintage (like '40s era, maybe?) menswear. Possibly I will give Robin an ascot? Or a pocket watch? Apparently I'm launching a dapper!Robin agenda for this fic. I decided this two minutes ago. [I'm not sure whether or not that scene will make it into this specific fic itself, but if not it will be written as part of an eventual sequel.]

Also, since Vickie is inevitably going to end up getting dragged into the Upside-Down-turned-Rightside-Up shenanigans I decided that means she needed a weapon and/or specialty. I like the idea that, like Jonathan, Vickie also learned how to hunt as a kid--but unlike Jonathan, she actually likes it. Which could have meant that I could make her a gun-wielder like Nancy (and don't get me wrong, she does know how to use one), but I have decided to be self-indulgent and make her a crossbow-wielding sharpshooter. She's also a proficient trapper. How much will this come up in the fic itself? No idea, but crossbow-wielding Vickie is real to me now and I figure she deserves to be shared with the world.

Also this ask inspired me to actually finish the Vickie playlist I started the other day (the goal of which is to establish a music vibe for her; it is not necessarily thematically coherent in any way), so behold! [also tagging @xenon-demon who sent the original first light ask :) ]

#read writes #tag game #rockie #robin buckley #vickie stranger things #music

[littleladymab]

FebruarOC - Uriah

Hey hi hello did you know i'm obsessed with this guy? As I said in SWBC, I can't stop spinning him around like a rotisserie chicken in my head. 

I created his counterpart Kaedmon a few months ago (and I'll talk about her at the end of the month as a bonus character) and came up with Uriah in January! He's only slightly less new than Quin and Horatio, but I named them all at the same time. 

For January in SWBC, we read Phasma. My thoughts on the book aside, the framing narrative was someone in the First Order apprehended a Resistance pilot and then fudged the paperwork or something I guess so that there was no record of her being arrested and held on the ship and dragged her away to question her about Phasma. I have so many questions, but the biggest one came down to: Why are you going to nickname your rival Resistance spy/pilot Starling and the all-red armored NOT Elrik Vonreg from SW Resistance First Order guy Cardinal and NOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT THAT? Honestly I got a lot more mad about that than I did anything else in the book, because everything else I just shrugged off but that was the biggest missed opportunity. Also his "I love the First Order and everything it stands for" to "what am I doing with my life (but I still love the first order)" took a grand total of like 48 hours TOPS and wasn't... good. It just wasn't well done. 

So I came away from that book CRAVING spy v spy content. And, well, my Jedi OC is also a Fulcrum agent, so like, it made sense, right, to then make an ISB agent to be against her? 

I settled on his ISB designation before I did a name and it was mostly as a joke that had made sense to me at the time?? But now he's ISB-789 and Kaedmon calls him "Hungry 8's" and when he goes "???" she says "you know, because seven ate nine?" and he asks "Not to encourage this but then shouldn't I be hungry 7's?" and she says "No :)"

He's 20 at the end of the clone wars, and a full agent of ISB by 25, so that makes him about 40 by the end of the galactic civil war. He's from a planet at the far end of the Outer Rim, close to Wild Space but still part of the imperial "jurisdiction" (I haven't settled on any currently existing planet or not), but because he's great with accents to help him blend in, he's able to immediately adapt the core world accent. (he's not that great with the languages tho) He has a younger sister who he helped put through a fancy school on Coruscant and she's a nature photographer; their parents still live back on their home planet, despite Uriah offering to help them live in the Empire. 

More recently for SWBC we read Battlefront II: Inferno Squad and that is truly what made me start rotating him around even faster in my brain -- they're not ISB, but they're working for ISB and they go undercover into a rebel op to try and destroy it and/or find a data leak and now THAT IS THE SPY SHIT I WANTED and so instead of creating a character out of frustration I just started spinning him at warp speeds to pick up any of the stray pieces of inspo floating around. But more to the point, it was a good exercise at listening to Imperial minds in a way that didn't make them see like big joke clowns like can happen. 

So it'll be fun to lean into that when writing for Uriah because you get to see him fully believing in what he's working for, as a field operative infiltrating smuggling rings and drug gangs etc to make the galaxy a better place in the early part of the Empire -- but then as it goes on longer and longer and he gets more involved (tangentially) with the rebellion through Kaedmon, and ISB/the empire being less and less interested in investigating corruption in certain aspects, that building disillusion with their place and so on. 

And not to "diversity win!" the empire, but he's a trans guy! He gave himself the gift of top surgery after being accepted into the Imperial Academy. 

In my thoughts about how they interact with canon, I did jot down that Uriah probably knows Kallus as they're about the same age and ISB agents -- though while Kallus went on to be as you see him in Rebels, Uriah does mostly undercover work. So when Kallus joins the Rebels, Kaedmon will get to know him... and when Uriah finds out that Kallus is also Fulcrum, he about loses his whole damn mind and probably pulls a muscle laughing so hard. 

I did write like 2200 words of an outline for him and Kaedmon, and I was fully going to sit down and write how the two of them met but my brain has been absent like all evening so I'll probably do a double big drabble for the two of them at the end of the month.

#star wars oc #februaroc #a lil miss original #lil miss writings #he's my new favorite little guy!!

[twotwinks]

Hinata and Yuta!!!

my babies......i have been thinking about them So Hard today........rotating them in my mind forever

Hinata

Sexuality headcanon: i mean. everyone is enstars is gay right sdfkjhsd. i don't think it's something he gives much thought to though he is far too busy overworking himself and then staying up too late playing video games (he's just like me fr.....wait does that mean i can make him aro too)

Gender headcanon: cis boy (man? he's still a Baby to me i simply cannot handle the thought of him being 18 and a third year oh my god i'm gonna explode) but he's down for a little genderfuckery when the opportunity presents itself. i feel like he'd put "cis, any pronouns" in his bio but also i don't want to give the people who love misgendering characters when talking about their canon versions any more ammunition

A ship I have with said character: i will be honest, none! i just haven't seen much chemistry between him and any other guys. i know tetsuhina is pretty popular but i just don't really like tetora enough for that dkjdkj. i also like his relationship with sora as friendship only. so yeah, i'm not really interested in pairing him off with anybody! (wait is this more evidence for the aro take)

A brotp I have with said character: HINATA-AIRA FRIENDSHIP IS SO REAL AND IMPORTANT TO ME I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA DIE WHEN HINATA HUGGED HIM IN ROAD TO SHOW THEY WERE SO CUTE I WANT TO SEE THEM TOGETHER MORE OFTEN

A notp I have with said character: again, i am simply not invested enough in shipping him to really care sklhdfljk. i've already talked about tetsuhina and hinasora, i think the only other ship i really see consistently is hinahiiro which. i am too into hiiai for that too :laugh:

A random headcanon: he smells like a vanilla sugar cookie candle

General opinion over said character: MY SPECIALEST BABY BOY I'M CRY ABOUT HIM ALL THE TIME he never does anything right and he will never learn his lesson but he's trying so fucking hard and that's so important to me. god i want him to rest he's been going going going for almost his entire life he doesn't know how to stop any more he doesn't know how not to be a self-sacrificing big brother he doesn't know who he is anymore. i want to give him a hot chocolate and wrap him in a warm blankie and just let him sit and decompress for a while. and then i'm forcibly dragging him to therapy

Yuta

Sexuality headcanon: bi grayace! he's the biggest romantic ever but that's probably all he's interested in. give him a candlelight dinner and then go the fuck home

Gender headcanon: this may surprise people given how i'm talking in the rest of this list but TRANS GIRL. my trans yuta universe (yuuniverse?) lives rent free in my head she's so important to me i love her so much. i think it would just be a very cool conclusion to her search for identity arc and finally create a strong enough division between who is yuta and who is hinata that they'd both finally be able to fully realize themselves as individuals. however, as noted above in hinata's section, i also really can't stand misgendering the canon versions of characters, so you won't see me referring to yuta as a girl unless i am specifically talking about my trans headcanon.

A ship I have with said character: still nothing.....i think i am simply too invested in the twins' relationship with each other to have the headspace to think about shipping them with people. yuushino's pretty cute though!

A brotp I have with said character: i constantly wanna see more yuta and himeru interactions they both have the same similar sort of gentle polite vibe and also there's all the lovely Identity Issues

A notp I have with said character: again i simply Do Not Care dkdklsd. also i've really only seen him shipped consistently with shinobu which i'm fine with. i'm sure there are sora and tori and tsukasa shippers too but i'm very neutral on all of it.

A random headcanon: very strong. i think he could pick me up easy

General opinion over said character: ALSO MY PRECIOUS BABY OK HINATA MAY BE MY FAVORITE ON PAPER BUT THAT'S JUST A TECHNICALITY THEY ARE EQUAL IN MY HEART i think he's such a fascinating character because if you're on his good side he's one of the sweetest people you will ever meet. it's easy to forget sometimes though because there are a lot of people on his bad side and if you're on his bad side then He Wants You Dead. he will never forgive he will never forget it's just Violence all the time. He Contains Multitudes!!! he also needs therapy except unlike his brother i think he would willingly go so i don't need to drag him instead i will prepare a nice little treat for when he gets back and then he's getting blanketed too babey. i can poorly braid his hair while we talk it'll be great

#mt answers #the 2wink...the most beloveds.....they are my everything i would kill for them i would die for them but also they'd never let me #aoi hinata #aoi yuta #enstars #badgerhuan #roch

[always-andromeda]

You asked for a Louis promped and I love her so much and I love your writing so hope you like this idea :) Helping Louis with a play they are writing and you are a theater actor / another writer

Author’s Note | I’ve executively decided to file this one under Fool for Love since my Louis NEEDS all of the fluff 🥰 thank you for the request, anon!

When Louis first approached you with their idea, frankly, you were ecstatic. Working for Terra along with the continual discouragement from Henry had almost completely obliterated their creative drive.

So, hearing that they had begun a new screenplay was exciting enough. But when Louis said they wanted your input...that was just the icing on the cake for you. You had been immensely flattered when they said sincerely, "I think you're one of the most brilliant writers on Terra's team and I would be honored if you'd give me just a bit of your time; just to go over some of my ideas."

Really, you would've given Louis every hour of your day if it meant not having to be stuck at your desk all day, writing and editing fluff pieces and drivel that you really didn't give a damn about. Louis, without even realizing it, colored your days with their ideas.

It started with getting coffee after work. You sat with them, reading over the notebook they'd presented to you. Dozens of pages were filled with the general plot as well as drafts of little scenes. You liked the premise of their play: the story of a concert pianist, Addison Montgomery, who holds a love for theater and classical music and who feels the overwhelming pressure to perform the part of manhood and traditional strength. 

The angle seemed interesting. And you almost certain you had possibly found a shred of Louis buried somewhere inside of this character. The softness and sensitivity behind Addison's lines often read like diary entries directly from them. That was equal parts heartbreaking but relieving.

You're glad that Louis feels comfortable enough expressing these worries through their art. But it makes a deep pit of dread settle in your stomach knowing that those insecurities were most likely personal. So you handle Louis and their work like a bird with a broken wing.

With your coffee half drank and Louis' barely touched and growing cold, you ask the question that had been growing on your mind. "You said your working title is Adelaide? Was there a character named Adelaide that I'm missing...?" you flip through the pages, searching for the name somewhere in the dialogue markers.

Louis reaches forward and slides the book away from you. They turn to one of the final pages in the book before looking back up at you nervously, "Adelaide is Addison...by the end of the play." Louis rotates the book around so it faces you once more.

There, on the page before you is Adelaide. She looks gorgeous, dressed in a flowing silk dress and her short, dirty blonde hair gelled in perfectly formed waves. She's perched at the seat of a grand piano, head tipped back in sheer joy. The pencil drawing is small but it drags the breath from your lungs as you realize all at once what Louis is trying to express.

Once the pounding heartbeat in your eardrums fade, you tune back in to Louis explaining, "...and by the end, Addison performs for the first time as Adelaide in front of the largest audience he's–"

"Wouldn't it be 'she'?" you ask quietly.

"Hm?"

"Adelaide...do you mean 'she'?"

Louis stares back blankly. For a second, it strikes you that perhaps they had never really gotten to think that far about it. Adelaide may have been written an ending, but Louis certainly hadn't figured out what their own ending would look like.

Louis laughs sheepishly, "I...I don't know. Would you say 'she'? What do you think?" strong brow turned up and lips pursed, Louis looks vulnerable waiting for your response.

Your finger drags down the length of the finely dressed, hand drawn figure as you choose your words carefully. "I think...that what I think here doesn't matter. I think that who Addison or Adelaide will be is up to you, Louis. As long as whatever you write honors yourself and what you need...I think that no matter what you choose, you will be accepted."

Louis' quivering lip forms a gentle, grateful smile. With a trembling hand, they wipe away the single tear that had begun to form in the corners of their eyes. "Thank you," they reply and release the breath they'd felt they'd been holding possibly for years. They finally reach forward to grab the coffee they'd ordered hours ago.

Louis chokes down the cold beverage and you tease, "You really had to wait for it to cool down, huh?"

Louis quips, "Of course. Don't want to burn my mouth." And you laugh. God, you laughed at the joke. And for the hours spent after the tense moment, you don't seem to look at them any differently. You still flash them that warm and inviting grin, still engage in conversation freely and comfortably.

You couldn't have known it, but it reassured Louis greatly. They'd experienced varying shades of cruelty and intolerance masquerading as understanding. But this was an acceptance they had yet to have; one that encouraged them to flourish and grow. One that told them that whoever they were, they wouldn't have to be alone anymore. 

#strange trails milestone✨ #paul dano #danonation #danocel #the extra man #louis ives #louis ives x reader #louis ives x you #louis ives x y/n #˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚

[schleierkauz]

Capricorn, Basta and Gwin

Capricorn: Who are your top 3 otps?

I am a simple woman.

Roxanne x Dustfinger: Love conquers all. Love is all you need. Love is stored in the bread.

Resa x Dustfinger: He has two hands 🙏No seriously, I think their relationship is super interesting. For a while they were pretty much all the other had and I think they developed a pretty intense trauma bond for a while there... and yet they were both absolutely still in love with their respective partners that were just out of reach. No offense @ Mo, all the best for his marriage, he's a great husband (most of the time) but Resa and Dustfinger are just very interesting to rotate in my mind. I will always respect Cornelia for how she handled these four.

Capricorn x His unnamed lover who was so fucking annoying that Cornelia kicked her out of the story: Okay I know I know. But ever since Cornelia told us about her in that one Q&A I've been obsessed. Whoever this lover was, she haunts me. Can you imagine how dramatic that relationship must have been? With Mortola literally right there? Was this lady chilling in the Blackjacket's village? Was Capricorn still having ""affairs"" with his maids (aka assaulting them)? What about Resa? Did his lover care? Was Basta jealous of her? How active was she when it came to evil scheming? Was she from the Inkworld, and if so, what's her story? If not - oh my god? What's her story?? Please I have so many questions about this-

Basta: Who are your top 3 brotps?

Dustfinger and the Black Prince: Always!! I love their relationship so much, they have such a great dynamic. I love that the Prince has always protected Dustfinger, I love that Dustfinger always got in trouble alongside him anyway, I love how they both became legends in their own rights, I love that the Prince respects Dustfinger's choice to be fucking useless in battle despite having the potential to be a hightly effective fighter, I love how the Prince shaved his head when he grieved Dustfinger's death only for the motherfucker to show back up again, I love that as kids they decided they were soulmates because their names started with the same letter- god I love them so much.

Dustfinger and Mo: Where the fuck to begin honestly. I'm pretty sure they've both felt every emotion the human brain is capable of towards each other. They have SUCH a complicated and messy history and the fact that after All That, they seem to just be... friends? Regular dad friends? Absolutely incredible. I do hope Cornelia will put some more focus on the mind bond of death they're implied to still share because ??? Come ON, they literally felt each other's emotions and read each other's minds. Are they still just... just living like that, these days? Jesus Christ.

Elinor and Fenoglio: They meet up once a week just to fight recreationally. I love these senior citizens. Seriously, the way Elinor just DRAGGED Fenoglio to HELL every single day once she got to the Inkworld? And their relationship developing when they were travelling with the Motley Folk and all those kids? Them deep down really valuing and respecting each other? 10/10

Gwin: Who are your top 3 notps?

HM. Let me think.

Meggie x Farid: This is mainly nostalgic hatred but as a child they annoyed me to no end. I Did Not Care about their teen romance, I wanted to know where the story was going! In hindsight it starts out kind of cute, I guess, but... eh. And we all know where it eventually goes. Weird all around.

Violante x Cosimo: I probably don't need to explain this one but for the record. Yikes.

The Adderhead x Anyone: Again, obvious answer but man I just felt so bad for his wives during Inkdeath. DISGUSTINNNNNNG.

Overall it seems I don't carry much hatred in my heart when it comes to ships. I feel like the chill aunt. Like. As long as they're happy... :)

#ask game #this was so much fun! i couldve gone on forever with the first two questions haha #these are not in order btw #i just went with whatever i thought of first

[taechaos]

Idea series oc sneaking Tae in the house after he had big fight with his father about something (your choice if it's smutty or fluff or angsty) with a peek of a vurberable Tae? Honestly i think he would change the topic as soon as he started it and prob with sex.

Anyway I'm really interest in their family dynamic since I remember don't know if it was in part one or two that you mention they have really religious parents? And seeing how harsh their dad is with Taehyung it have me wondering how is his relationship with the mother and ocs with both parents, despite everything the seem really distant from their kids, maybe thats why Tae and YN find comfort in each other. OC is the first real bond Tae made with someone so maybe that's the reason of his fear of being replaced and his obsession with her, and ocs mother probably don't pay that much attention to her so that's why even after the incident she still want him to be there. At this point I'm just rambling I'm sorry. And this ask is all over the place, started with a request and ended questioning characters life 💀💀. Sorry hehe.

when i read this yesterday i was literally blown away by this like hOLY shit your analysis is so in-depth at first i was like damn do my characters have more than oNE DIMENSION?? WHICH IS RLY FLATTERING BUT I THINK ITS JUST UR WORDS THAT MADE ME SOUND SMART 💀💀💀 the ending is chef's kiss tho made me bust a lung SHFJJD thank you so much for taking the time to write this its honestly so fucking amazing. hopefully u can see more of their family dynamic in this drabble :)

Rays of sunlight slither through the cracks in the blinds of the living room, allowing Taehyung's father enough light to scan the newspaper he holds in his hand, with the musical, happy chirping of mockingbirds filling in the silence. All of these beautiful signs of nature and peaceful rotation of the earth makes Taehyung tense up even more.

The moment he got back home from buying drugs, his father greeted him in monotone with a, "would you sit with me for a moment?" and he hasn't spoken since. The zipperbag in his pocket crinkles every time he shifts in his seat, making him cringe momentarily before he starts nervously fidgeting again.

This is so awkward and yet equivalent to hearing: we need to talk. God, why is he so silent?

Clearing his throat, Taehyung stands just as his father flips a page with a lick of his thumb. "I'm going to my room really quick."

"No."

"Oh." When will his step-mother return? She's his only hope as he sits down while avoiding looking at his father, whose gaze is set on the black and white printed pages.

It's only a minute later when he talks without diverting his gaze.

"Your sister is in her room, researching her major to get a headstart on a typical syllabus."

"Smart," he comments with disinterest and nibbles on his upper lip.

"Taehyung, how was your attendance in college?" he folds the newspaper and curiously peeks at his son, who is doing a poor job at hiding his nerves.

"It was alright–"

"Lying is a sin, son," his movements are aristocratic when he leans his chin on his fist. "Don't lie."

"I'm not," he stammers and his eyes flicker, "it was bad at the beginning of the year, but I fixed it."

His father pinches the bridge of nose where his frames lie. "I love your sister, Taehyung," he sighs and takes off his glasses, "I want her to do well. I've given up on you, but her? She can accomplish great things if you're not there to influence her. You're a bad influence. Are you following me?"

Taehyung nods dumbly with a racing heart before registering his words and shaking his head. "What?" he blurts. "I used to help her with her homework all the time–"

"You were home once every month."

"Just because you didn't see me doesn't mean I didn't see her," he coldly says. That's not entirely accurate, but it is true that he saw you more than he saw his parents before he started living here again. For you.

His father is taken aback, offended as he scoffs, "You avoided me and your mother, and yet have the face to stay in our home?" He stands up and passes the coffee table that was Taehyung's only barrier to hover over him with distance. "I expected so much more from you, but you can't even do the bare minimum. An adult without a stable job, respectable girlfriend, and embarrassing grades. I'm ashamed to have raised such a boy, for I can't even call you a man."

Taehyung abruptly stands but he continues, "If you can't even pay rent, go back to that landfill you came from."

"I have to pay rent to live with my family?" He's livid and his hands shake by his sides; they're taking you away from him because what? He isn't the son they wanted him to be?

"You've made it clear that the only thing keeping you here is my daughter," he blindly points at the closed door of your room, "and you will have to try much harder to see her again. Get your life together, and you can come back."

Taehyung's face is heated with anger from the injustice. "What the fuck?! This is such bullshit; you're kicking me out?"

His father frowns at his language, growling, "Taehyung! I will not let you drag her down that path with you. When you stop destroying everything you touch, I'll gladly let you live here."

Destroy? He hasn't done any harm to anyone—especially not you. He knows he's self-destructive, but it doesn't extend to his environment. If he fails, it's his failure, but his father takes it personally instead of encouraging him to do better.

The importance of reputation and success in this family enrages him; he's aware that he's not much of an affectionate person either, but a little love wouldn't hurt to witness in the household.

Instead of defending himself or speaking his mind, he obliges bitterly.

"You need to get laid," are his last words before he slams the door and opens the zipper bag to pop a pill. Ecstasy isn't so fun when you're not around, but he can use the distraction. It's been a bad day.

He flips off a stray cat idling around the garden before casually leaving the property.

—————

Studying isn't fun for you, never has been, never will be. Though you hate every second of it, it does give you something to do to make time pass faster. You've been tutoring yourself about things you'll learn sooner or later anyway, but you guess it doesn't hurt to have to study less when the time comes.

You check the time. It's approaching night at 9 PM, and your father wouldn't protest against a break now, hopefully. He only suggested that you should start studying, but you know what his suggestions really mean.

Do it, or get shamed into doing it with subtle glances.

As if that isn't enough, he constantly checked up on you throughout the day. He wasn't exactly giving you a choice, which irks you.

But that's done and over with, and there's a more pressing matter at hand: where is Taehyung? You heard bits and pieces of the argument, but you couldn't get the whole scoop. You worry he's going to go back to his old habits of never being here, rarely seeing you. He would've been hanging out with you six hours ago out of routine... It can't just be you being clingy. Something happened.

You: are you coming home tonight?

The response takes a few minutes.

taehyung: nop

taehyung: but i am coming to ur room

taehyung: cuz ik u cant sleep without me 😖

You: actually the opposite but ok lol

You: when are you coming

taehyung: whenever u want uwu

You: uwu...?

You: just come before it gets too late

—————

So that was a lie. It's 1 AM and still no word from Taehyung. Okay, maybe you're just being clingy now, but it's unlike him not to be clingy. Maybe he wanted to cool off for a long time after his tak with your step-dad, or simply wanted to hang out with his friends after spending all of his time with you.

That makes sense. What doesn't is the slide of your window and shuffling of your curtains. You instantly sit up in your bed and clutch your blanket closer. You watch a silhouette enter your room as you pick up your limp, your tense muscles relaxing only when you recognize the intruder. You put down the lamp with a click of your tongue, ignoring the relief in your pounding heart.

"Hey," he stupidly grins at you. He looks disheveled, clothes untucked and wrinkled, and from the little light you have, you can see his redshot eyes.

"There's also the door," you remark sassily. "Are you um... high?"

He shrugs and crawls in your bed, dismissive as usual. You both make an effort to keep your voices quiet.

"I talked to mom earlier," you ease into the discussion until he butts in.

"That's great."

You roll your eyes and prop an elbow to look down at him. His head lies on his hands while staring at you, mood strangely upbeat. He's definitely high.

"She was a little sad about something, and I know it involves you. I heard you talking to–" You're interrupted with a lingering peck, a little rough in its force but not unwelcomed.

"I've missed kissing you. Shouldn't you be asleep, by the way?"

Recovering from the unexpected attack, you reply, "It's not that late. I don't have to wake up early."

"You shouldn't ruin your sleep schedule," he tucks a hair strand behind your ear without taking his eyes off of you. "Staying up is hard to stop once you start."

"Yeah, you're a great example," you joke with a quiet giggle. Whispering with him feels intimate in a heart fluttering way. His heart pangs with a feeling he can't put a finger on. "You didn't answer my question."

"Hm?"

"Don't play dumb, I'm really curious. What happened with dad?"

"A lot of things happen with dad," he shrugs, "sometimes we play catch–"

"Taehyung," you give him a pointed look, and he giggles.

"You're right, he'd never play catch with me." He groans as he stretches in your bed before trapping you with his arms on either side of you in one motion. You don't know what he's trying to do, but you watch him above you in amusement. "No offence, but when is your mom not sad when my dad is around?" he laughs with a huff.

"That's rude, Tae," you remark seriously, "she's happy when you're around."

Taehyung's smile falters like yours, his happy guise crumbling when he says, "Are you?"

"Pfft," you roll your eyes, "What do you think? I was up waiting for you."

Ah. That's not a very good influence.

"I'm here now," he whispers, "go to sleep. It's okay, I won't do anything, I know you worked hard today."

You agree with a yawn and nod. But even in your sleepy state, you can read the room—Taehyung is especially attentive of his tone and volume aside from being so tense. "Are you alright?"

"I'm in and on ecstasy," he falls back on his former spot, "I can't not be alright."

"Taehyung, I haven't seen you all day–"

"Yeah, because I didn't want to be here," he looks at you dead in the eye, "and I don't want you to be here."

You blink rapidly, slightly shaking your head in confusion, "What are you saying?"

"Move in with me."

He's met with cold silence, so he persuades persistently, "Don't you want to get away from here? You'll have so much more freedom with me, and I can help you with your assignments and everything. It'll be perfect."

"I— do you... Where?" Taehyung is high and he doesn't know what he's saying is what you believe because this is so out of the blue, so irrational, but he describes it like it's utopia; you are not completely against the idea.

"I have enough money from drug dealing to rent an apartment, and you can tell dad that you want to move out to be like an adult or whatever, that you have a stable job, without mentioning me," he rambles, and his dilated pupils are more noticeable up close; it slightly puts you off.

"Wh-what about mom?"

He scoffs, "If she wants out, she can get her second divorce. Don't worry about them; after all, they're apparently the only real adults here," he relates back to not being worthy of being called a man. You shift away from him little by little. "Just trust me."

The phrase is triggering for you, a reminder of the time you were tricked into trusting him moments before your trauma. "We'll talk about this when you're sober," you meekly say, avoiding eye contact.

A wicked smile grows on his face, "I can't wait, princess."

#idea tae #*cue big time rush theme* #just gotta say this one last time #the analysis was so well written #its honestly a sight for sore eyes 😫

[tb5-hellbound]

talented amateurs - deleted scene (Scott and Jane)

the interlude to close out all that emotionally charged and highly dramatic Island Nonsense was originally going to be a monster of a chapter, a six way rotation through the POVs all of the significant other characters (plus a couple new voices) who we haven’t heard much from. this proved to be FAR too monumental a task and while I’m happier with the simplicity chapter I wound up with, there are still a few thousand words worth of written but unpublished extra content that add context and depth (as well as a bunch of important points I didn’t get to address on account of opting out of The Monster Chapter, fml), so here’s one of them.

There's a certain kind of long distance intimacy to the fact that they always know where to find one another. It's the first thing she does when she lands anywhere new---tells him where she is and how long she'll be there, just on the off chance that it's somewhere he's got the time to be. He responds in kind, and especially makes a point to let her know when he'll be free for more than one or two days at a stretch, and when possible, they'll both make a point to get together.

Jane's job takes her to almost as many corners of the world as his does, and currently she finds herself in a hotel room near the airport in Singapore, getting the requisite amount of sleep before her next cargo flight, a contracted sequence that takes her all over the South Pacific.

But she isn't sleeping. She'd already called Scott earlier in the evening to let him know she was going to be in the neighbourhood, relatively speaking, and he'd promised to get back to her as soon as possible. Now she's in her pajamas, curled up beneath the blankets in her hotel room bed. Instead of sleeping, she lies awake beneath beneath the bedsheets, frowning at the messages that glow from the screen of her comm.

S: I need to see you.

J: ooh I kinda hoped you might <3

J: Room 301 @ Aerotel Singapore ;)

J: bring me a bottle of whiskey or I'm not letting you in

S: Not like that.

J: oh.

J: Is everything okay?

S: Can't talk about it. Unsecured comm. I'll be there in an hour. Talk then.

And then nothing else. There's not much to go on, and she knows better by now than to try and press Scott for information when there's something bothering him, and she knows something's bothering him by the way he's terse and sharp and short. Whatever it is, it must be serious enough to warrant such strict privacy.

An hour is a long time to lie alone in the dark wondering what exactly her boyfriend's problem is. Initially she scours the news for any mention of any sort of disaster requiring the involvement of International Rescue and Thunderbird 1 by extension---but there's nothing. Nothing that's been publicly reported, at least. It's not in Jane's nature to worry about things she can't change, and so she puts it resolutely out of her mind. She passes the time reading recipes that she never intends to make, and browsing idly through the latest offerings from the tabloid press, though the "news" is all fairly stale and none of it sparks her interest.

She's dozing a little bit by the time there's a knock on her door, hard and loud enough that she starts awake, briefly bewildered before she remembers she's expecting company. There's an insistence to the second knock on the door that makes it more of a pounding, and she mutters uncharitably under her breath as she climbs out of bed.

The hotel room is cool, and it's late enough that it's starting to be early. Outside, the first suggestion of dawn creeps into the sky, a reminder that she really does need to be fresh and well-rested for her next flight, and whatever's brought Scott to her doorway right now had better be urgent.

Even though she's expecting him, natural caution has her stop and tap a fingertip against a touchscreen embedded at eye-level in the door. Just to be safe. This activates a camera to reveal a view of the hallway, and grants her a glimpse of Scott in an unguarded moment. The weariness and the worry in his bearing stifle any inclination she might have to tell him off for pounding on her door. He's rested one of his forearms against the doorjamb, and leans against it, looking worn out in a way he usually doesn't. He's also in full uniform, which isn't exactly uncommon, considering the usual manner of their meetings. Every now and again their schedules will overlap in such a way that she can join him somewhere where they can both be in their civvies---but tonight her uniform hangs pressed and ready in the closet by the door, and he's still in brilliant IR blue when Jane opens the door.

She only just catches him straightening up and pushing a hand through his hair, and if he doesn't quite smile when he sees her, some of the tension around his eyes seems to soften slightly.

"Hey," she says, and offers a smile that's gentle where it might otherwise be wicked, if this were their usual flavour of rendezvous. "C'mon in."

"Hi," he answers, but something about the way he says it seems almost absent, perfunctory. He's visibly distracted as he steps into her hotel room, moves swiftly past her as she closes the door behind him, and when she turns, he's made a beeline straight for the minibar in the corner of the room. A glass hits the countertop, and there's a melodic chime as the mini fridge swings open, and then three tiny bottles of liquor cluster around his chosen glass.

"I was kidding about the bottle of whiskey," Jane volunteers, watching as Scott deftly twists a tiny lid off a tiny bottle, and pours himself a shot of straight tequila. For Jane's part, her current employer maintains a strict zero-tolerance policy for drugs and alcohol, and there's a twelve hour delay required betwixt bottle and throttle. "I'm due back in the air in nine hours, I won't be joining you."

"Wasn't planning to share." Shots of rum and vodka join the tequila, tinting the concoction into a light amber colour. Scott reopens the mini fridge, frowns into it briefly, before closing it again. Before Jane can comment any further, he's picked up his drink and thrown it back, in the manner of somebody who'd better not intend to fly anywhere in the next twelve hours. This accomplished, he abandons his empty glass on the countertop, and turns away from the bar to drop bodily onto the waiting couch at the far end of her suite, tipping his head back and closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Jane, having watched this dramatic little one-man tableau from the doorway, takes her cue to pad across the room in her bare feet, and seats herself gingerly on the sleek coffee table in front of him. She doesn't say anything, quietly expectant, and waits patiently for Scott to set the tone with whatever he decides to say first.

To his credit, he doesn't make her wait long. "...Sorry." He lifts a still gloved (gauntleted, really) hand to rub his fingertips against closed eyes, and then drags his palm down his face.

"Hit the bottle kinda hard there, champ," Jane observes, keeping her tone carefully light and non-judgmental, at least until she has a better explanation of what's going on. "You're lucky the room gets charged to my company card."

Scott chuckles but doesn't look at her, darkly sardonic in a way that he just isn't, usually. "Just following orders."

That's uncharacteristically cryptic, and something about the way he's said it makes her skin crawl slightly, hinting at something she's starting to suspect, but doesn't want to believe. Three little bottles still sit empty atop the minibar, winking in the low lights of the hotel room and persistent at the edge of her awareness. She'd been joking about the bottle of whiskey, but it's true that some of the best times they've had together have been over beers at a ballgame, or sipping Scotch at some nameless hotel bar. But this is clearly different. And not just because he's on his way to getting very drunk, while she remains resolutely sober. Something's wrong; this isn't like him. Something brought this about.

Jane reaches out to put a hand on Scott's knee, and her voice is gentle and sincere as she asks, "Are you okay? What happened?"

Scott takes a deep breath, and his gaze falls to her hand upon his knee, as though he can't bring himself to look at her when he answers, "...I fucked up." His fingers close over hers with a kind of desperate urgency, like her touch is a lifeline he can't lose hold of. "I mean I really fucked up, Jane, and I came here because I need to talk to somebody, but I don't know if I can even tell you. It's some shit about me and some shit about my family, and it's big and ugly and complicated and none of it's good and I just---I don't know what you'll think."

He falls silent, and Jane isn't sure what to say. Even after two years, vulnerability is rare in the man who saved her life, and truth be told, Jane likes it that way. Not that she'd fault him for it, just that she wouldn't entirely know how to respond. She knows, though they never really talk about it, that Scott's seen some shit. Jane doesn't know how to talk about that kind of thing, because that kind of thing is the kind of thing she renders in terms like "seen some shit". Sensitivity isn't her strong suit. Softer emotions don't come naturally to her.

But then, Scott knows that. They have it in common.

It's some instinct, then, that has her take his hand in both of hers. Idly, absently, she starts to undo the assorted straps and buckles that fasten his gloves. It's easier to talk if she pretends that this task is meticulous and demands more attention than it really does. All she really wants is to get down to bare skin, the intimacy of real contact, and hope it'll help make her point clear.

"I remember when I told you about my dad," she says, not looking up and unbuckling a clasp and loosening a strap, and starting to work the fingers of the gloves loose. This gets a little tricky as Scott's fingers twitch, reflexively trying to clench into a fist at the mere mention of her father. She squeezes his wrist gently and his hand relaxes, so she goes on, "Speaking of 'big' and 'ugly' and 'complicated'. I didn't know what you were going to think, either."

She tugs the glove free, tosses it onto the couch beside him, as he protests, "This is different."

Now her hand clasps his for a moment, before she gets up from the coffee table, and sits right back down, beside him this time. Insistent, she curls herself up on the couch, leans against his chest, tilts her head against his shoulder. "Maybe. But you let me tell you, and you listened, and it helped to get it out, and now you know something about me that almost no one else does. If it would help to get it out, Scott, just talk. Or do you need me to get you another drink?"

"I need you to stay just exactly where you are." His right hand is bare now, and much more deftly than she had, he pulls his other glove off. Reflexively, maybe, his arm wraps around her shoulder, and though she'd nestled close, he pulls her closer still. The bare skin of his palm is warm against her arm, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath when he rests his cheek against the crown of her head and sighs.

Jane tilts her face up and kisses his cheek. For being as brave and intrepid and daring as he is, it can sometimes be hard to get the ball rolling with Scott. More often than not, Jane finds herself initiating things between them. She gives him another little nudge, literally and metaphorically. "Look---I recognize the irony of telling you this while we're in another damn hotel room, but babe, when we decided that this whole thing was going to be more than just hook-ups in hotel rooms, part of that was an agreement to talk to each other about our lives, once in a while."

He shifts beside her, but she refuses to do anything but cuddle stubbornly closer, even if she can hear the discomfort in his tone when he protests, "It's my brothers, though."

She can't help a snort of laughter at this. "You tell me everything about your brothers. The number of times you've come bitching to me at the end of a long day about Alan's whining or John's micromanaging---some days I think I know your brothers better than you do."

The statement is carefully crafted, deliberately phrased so as to needle at Scott's not-so-subtle competitive edge, his perpetual need to prove himself. Still, even thus prompted, it takes him a few long moments to volley back, and there's genuine anguish in his voice when he asks---

"Do you know what to do when one of them gets his girlfriend pregnant?"

#TA meta #here's some Scott #and some Jane

[catboyebooks]

am still rotating 2-1 in my mind so have another post about it. i promise i will continue the actual game soon

i think it's interesting how komaeda avoids outright stating that the plan was for him to get himself killed. it winds up being pretty clear that that was his intent but he never explicitly states this nor does anyone else point it out, and this is like... the one thing that could maybe sway the group towards viewing him sympathetically. like, maybe they'd at least feel bad for him? but i think this must also be deliberate, because he doesn't want to be pitied, he's still aiming to get himself killed somehow and that's easiest if the group distrusts him / views him as a threat.

i'd forgotten that nanami had such a pivotal role in this trial! i mean, it's not a big surprise, she's part of the main trio, her overall role in this game is pivotal. but she's the one who figures out the murder was committed from under the floor and she's the one who first points out komaeda's involvement. these are both huge breakthroughs that wouldn't have happened without her and this really serves to cement her role as tritagonist early on. prior to this trial it actually seemed like twogami was being set up to fill that role, at least at points.

cannot stop thinking about the whole part where komaeda starts arguing on hanamura's behalf and it only serves to make hanamura look more suspicious. i'm certain now that this was his intent. when hanamura gets named as the culprit by hinata, he's unable to form an argument to defend himself and that's when komaeda starts arguing for him, and hanamura's reaction to this makes it very clear he's guilty — every time komaeda brings up a reason why hanamura couldn't have done it, hanamura is quick to jump on that reason, only for hinata to shoot it down two seconds later. and this happens several times in a row. it's very deliberate on komaeda's part and it's... nasty, in a really fun way, where it's obvious what he's really doing is guiding hinata to the correct answers while taking advantage of the fact that hanamura doesn't catch on. he's having much too much fun being the smartest person in the room here. he does this kind of shit a lot, i'm sure we'll talk about it again, but i'd forgotten about this (or just didn't notice the first time).

this trial is Really Fucking Long. i don't think we've gotten a trial with an intermission before. i spent a long time talking about this case because it's a favorite of mine but i want to clarify that i actually think this is the longest case in a danganronpa game thus far. they do just keep getting longer btw.

like 1-1, the identity of the killer is actually pretty easy to figure out. in 1-1 the main issue is that naegi goes in trusting maizono and doesn't realize she was using him as a fall guy, but i think the average player could probably solve that one a lot quicker than he does because it does become obvious in hindsight that she was manipulating him. because all of that has to get sorted out in trial, it's a while before leon gets named as the killer even though it was probably obvious to most players that he was the culprit well before the trial began. here, it's pretty simple to figure out hanamura must have done it simply via process of elimination, but komaeda's behavior throws a much bigger wrench in the works because there isn't an easy explanation for it. he wasn't manipulating hinata from the get-go the way maizono was with naegi, and in fact his plan here didn't really involve hinata at all. furthermore he's still alive so he gets to spend the entire trial misdirecting the conversation and dragging things out for 5000 years so he can explain his philosophy on hope to everybody.

i think that's all i can think of for now. we might as well just start 2-2 (though not immediately) (i have to go to work)

#kes plays sdr2

[easkyrah]

So while I was delaying my hw by surfing through the web, I came across a quote that said, " 'Angels can fly,' she whispered, and then jumped." Can I challenge you into including this quote with Elain bc she's rarely mentioned? I'm really interested in seeing how your intricate, emotional, and haunting style and words incorporates this. Plus, I feel like this is kind of a hard prompt. But based on your works, I know you can handle it.

This short fic was written quite sloppily to K. Flay’s High Enough on repeat with Julia Michael’s Issues intervening once — perhaps playing the songs allow understanding in why I shaped the fic this way. The music greatly influenced the way this turned out from what I originally had in mind. I couldn’t quite find the edge I needed with this prompt, and recent events from reality pushed me towards this direction.

little bird, fly before they clip your wings for you have escaped the cage, where no man wants you to leave, forever chained

Angel

The air conditioner had broken this morning, causing damp currents of humid drafts to blast through the bakery. The loose strands escaping from her bun plastered to the nape of her neck, and Nesta had to occasionally wipe beads of sweat from her forehead.

Three more hours and she could retire for the day.

She tapped the customer’s order into the screen, ignoring the ache building up in her legs.

“That’ll be twenty dollars and twenty-six cents,” she droned, holding out her palm.

The older woman shuffled through her purse, and pulled out a wad of one-dollar bills. She frowned up to the Nesta, her forehead wrinkling. “Could you let the twenty-six cents go?” she tittered nervously. “I just have enough for twenty.”

Nesta’s face hardened. She was already on line with her boss, Ianthe. One more slip up, and she’d be fired.

Before she could turn away the elder and wave over the next customer, a tiny hand placed a handful of coins of the counter.

Elain Archeron blushed, nervously tugging a strand of golden-brand hair. “I’m pretty sure there’s about twenty-six cents there. Keep the change.”

Nesta watched the youngest Archeron dance off to her corner in the coffee shop, drawing up her knees to her chest, and staring out the window. Elain pressed her forehead against the window, tracing lines and shapes against the glass.

“What a nice little dearie, wouldn’t you agree?” the older woman crooned, and pushed the pile of coins to Nesta. “A lovely angel.”

Nesta internally snarled, snatching the bills and scooping the change. That was her money — precisely seventy five cents — that Elain had given back to her.

She dropped the extra forty nine cents in the tips box, watching her younger sister twirl out of the shop, twirling her bag around her elbow and tossing her water bottle in the air.

Cassian winced as he lumbered through the streets, rotating his sore shoulder. His wrestling partner had been merciless today, and it took Cassian an extra round to force his opponent to tap out.

If Nesta was in a good mood today, there was about a five percent chance she’d massage his tight muscles, usually ending with passionate kisses and fueled sessions locked in a bedroom.

He rubbed his bloodied knuckles, ignoring the dirty looks shot his way. A mother tucked her child under arms, muttering the word “savage” and “bastard” under her breath.

The breath winded out of him quicker than the punch his sparring partner had thrown to his abdomen. Society hadn’t been quite kind to him, watching him grow up in the sewers to become one of the elites.

A hand touched his wrist.

He glanced down to see the youngest Archeron sister. Elain pressed a water bottle into his hands and reached into her bag, fingering out a green towel.

Cassian gratefully took the towel, rubbing away the blood, and watching the stains weep into the fabric. The mother and child moved on, quickly shooting Elain confused glances.

Elain merely went on her tip-toes, slightly tilting her head. She grabbed Cassian’s hand and moved it so that the bottle poured a little bit of water onto the table.

“You should drink,” she lightly commented, wrapping the towel around his right knuckle.

“If only Nesta could be more like you,” Cassian sighed, and took a quicky chug of the bottle. “An angel.”

Elain stared into the distance, a little smile playing over her lips, as if she were seeing something he couldn’t. “But you like wildcats better.”

Cassian arched a brow and looked down at the youngest Archeron sister. “You’ve got that damned right.”

And he hurried away to the bakery, where the eldest Archeron sister awaited, casting one grateful smile over his sore shoulder to the youngest Archeron sister.

But she was already weaving through the crowd into the streets, her arms swaying to an unheard melody.

Lucien swore loudly as his blueprints scattered across the floor, black boots and thin flip-flop walking over them. Tamlin would have his head if he lost their company’s infrastructure plans for the new building.

He swooped down, gathering the papers into his arms as quickly as he could. Pedestrians briefly spared pitying glances at him, the malevolent few directly stepping onto the his plans, little smirks playing over their faces.

A passerby gently moved the crowd away, twirling in a circle around Lucien. The figure swooped down and gracefully plucked the blueprints farthest from him.

Lucien stared, enthralled by the beautiful golden-brown haired female. He gently took the blueprints from her outstretched hands, and smiled down at the doe-eyed beaut.

“Thank you,” he murmured, hefting the papers more securely in his grasp. “You’re my savior, my angel.”

She blushed prettily, gazing up at the sky. The sun cast down golden rays across her face, chasing away the shadows.

Lucien bowed at his waist, the ridiculous notion overcoming him. “May I know my rescuer’s name?”

She didn’t look at him again, much to dismay, but rather closed her eyes, her eyelashes fanning across her lids. “I am Elain Archeron,” she whispered, so softly he had to lean forward.

“Thank you, Elain Archeron.”

Her brown eyes opened, studying his red hair.

He awaited for those eyes to travel down his face and note the russet eye and scar running along his brow to jaw — to turn away in distaste, as all his former acquaintances refused to hire him for his appearances.

“A fox,” she lilted.

The corners of his lips tugged up. “Cunning and sly?”

“No,” her head slightly tilted to the side, a hummingbird’s movement. “Misunderstood.”

Lucien blinked, and watched the wondrous creature float through the crowd and past the street — into the trails of the green forest.

Azriel brooded silently, wondering why he knew bothered sticking around with his two brothers — Cassian and Rhys.

After his sparring session with Cassian, he’d taken the shortcut through the forest trails, only for Rhys to jump him and tie him to a tree. The match with Cassian fatigued his muscles beyond repair, the other brother the champion in hand-to-hand combat.

So it seemed he would remained tied to the trunk until he regained his strength and the pulsing headache faded.

Rhys had dragged him a little ways from the trail and in the shadows under the covers of a large, draping branch full of blooming leaves. Here, the darkness did wonders for the throbbing in his forehead, but did not alleviate the pain straining in his muscles.

Sighing, he leaned the back of his head against the tree, testing the ropes around him. The knot had been at the other side of the truck, so he’d have to somehow stretch the ropes out enough and slip underneath.

A gasp broke his concentration.

Azriel stared at the outline of a feminine figure swaying through the cluster of vines Rhys had dragged him through.

“You are ensnared,” the voice breathed.

Azriel watched the shadow move forward, revealing a phantom of a fading, suppressed woman, one struggling with inner demons — and seeing his own.

One who lived in the light but bathed alone in the darkness — one who had seen too much and saw too soon — one who listened to the insanity of humanity — one who danced along the lines of the beckoning darkness and toed the line of heavenly light —

— the ropes fell around his waist and ankles and wrists.

The woman emerged from behind the trunk, the thick rope unknotted.

Azriel bowed his head. “Thank you—?”

“Elain Archeron,” she mumbled. Her gaze flickered to him, asking the unspoken question.

“Azriel,” he easily returned, the cover of the darkness draping them both in silken robes.  

Elain turned the rope over in her hands, running her fingers over each harsh strand.

“You strayed from the path,” he observed, watching.

She merely smiled sadly and tilted her head to the side. “And what does that make me?”

Azriel stared at the pale cheekbones and haunted eyes, one would mistake with fragility. Her unbound hair messily tangled over her shoulder, as if searching for order and reason. He supposed that this creature wearing the robes of shadow’s whispers already knew of the answer — but desired confirmation, a sound.

“An angel?” she whispered, voice edged with the scratch of softness.

Azriel rolled out his shoulders, and looked at the dangling vines behind her.

“No,” he murmured. “A fallen one.”

A quirk of an eyebrow. “Fallen?”

“Not for sins — but for seeing too much.”

A nod, and a breeze of sigh. Brown eyes connected with hazel orbs, locked into an eternity of silence and understanding.

A little light of warmth protruded through the umbrella of darkness, shattering a tacit completion.

Elain closed her eyes. Azriel blinked.

“Goodbye, Az,” the woman whispered, and then disappeared between the canopy of vines — past the fleeting sanctuary of the oppressed’s suppression.

Elain Archeron pushed past the forest and stood at the edge. There was a rushing river at the bottom, culminating at a chasm and waterfall. The sun broke across the sky, eating away at the clouds.

She looked down, and at the flourishing and teeming greenery at the end met with rushing, flowing water.

Freedom beckoned her.

Pure, undiluted liberty.

Welcome arms, greeting her.

The taste of honey filled her mouth, and she stared at the golden beams shooting down, creating life from Earth’s rich soil, most battered away and cut into slices for construction zones.

She stared at the flight and pattern of birds soaring in the air, the monster of vines fading rapidly from memory. She remembered the drums of footsteps, stepping over creations and the Earth. She knew of the misunderstood and the broken, and thought of that fractured body still full of love and hope. She knew the darkness and coldness seeping into bones.

She stared at the whispers of nature and of light and of darkness — ensnared by the gray area.

She took a step forward, toeing the edge of the cliff.

“Angels can fly,” she whispered—and jumped.

— and as the wind tore at her cheeks and the coldness bit at her skin—the serenity quelled over her even though the chaos of the ending beckoned—

—she knew she would crash—

—because she was a fallen angel.

I want to note that I teared up writing this. I didn’t like the writing, but it forced itself out as a wicked weed. I’m not sure if this made sense to outside eyes, but if you can observe and note Elain’s condition, and the indirect flaws of society I shall not outright name, then I have done a sliver of justice. Sorry anon, hopefully I didn’t let you down too much ^.^

#elain archeron #azriel #lucien #cassian #nesta #nesta archeron #sjm #acotar #acomaf #acowar

[calciseptinefic]

solo and pair

Yuuri!!! On Ice || Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki || Hasetsu, Part VII notes: also available on ao3. warnings: none

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part vi

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After Yuuri fails to qualify for the Grand Prix series, life returns to the same monotonous rhythm: morning runs, school, evening practice, school work, and sleep. Occasionally, a minor competition or exhibition will shake up the monotony. Yuuri wins a majority of them with the same routines he performed at tri-regionals, though at the gentle behest of his part-time coach, he minimizes the two quads in his free skate to triples.

"You don't have the right number of rotations," his instructor says. "We can continue to practice of course, but for now I think we should increase your number of combinations and focus on your presentation. That should buff up your points."

Yuuri acquiesces, and only the plethora of prizes—the ribbons and trophies, the monetary consolations and the small prestige—help soothe the sting of disappoint. He needs to start landing quads if he wants to further his career, but it seems that not matter how hard he tries, he cannot pass the point he has reached.

"You're plateauing," Nishigori says one day as they sit on the benches outside the rink, boots laced and hard guards on as they patiently wait for open skate to begin. Yuuko, already graduated from high school and working full time at Hasetsu Ice Castle, is helping a small semi-circle of children take their first tentative steps on the ice. "It happens."

Yuuri huffs, irritated. He knows that all athletes plateau, and he knows that they often do so multiple times over the course of their careers, but knowing it and experiencing it are two entirely different things.

"I've plateaued before," Yuuri bites out. He sounds whiny and petulant even to himself, but he cannot care. He is tired of his lack of progress.

"Then why are you letting it bother you?" Nishigori slaps his broad palm down on Yuuri's bouncing knee. It does not hurt but it does startle, and Yuuri jumps in his seat. "You have to let your body catch up to your ambition. Take a break." Nishigori grins. "You do know what a break is, right?"

Yuuri frowns at Nishigori's teasing. Though it is good-natured and friendly, it still strikes a nerve. Yuuri knows that his body—freshly seventeen and nearing the rough end of adolescence—is adjusting to the physical and mental rigors of semi-professional figure skating, but it has been months, and he hasn't completed a quad of any sort. Even the easiest jump—the pick assisted toe loop—evades him. He feels stuck. Stagnant. In his darker moments, Yuuri wonders if this new plateau is actually his summit.

"I know what a break is," Yuuri mutters as he pushes Nishigori's hand off his thigh. "Don't be a jerk."

"Hey now!" Nishigori's self-satisfied grin grows. "I'm just being honest!"

"Oh," Yuuri drawls. "And here I thought you were just being rude."

A year ago, Yuuri's smart comment would have prompted Nishigori to scowl and punch Yuuri just a little too forcefully in the arm. Now, Nishigori merely laughs and knocks his shoulder companionably against Yuuri's. He has become more agreeable in the past year; he is kinder and easier to talk to. Yuuko says it's because Nishigori has finally grown up, but Yuuri—who has seen the soft way Nishigori presses his fingers to the middle of Yuuko's stomach—is not sure age is the only contributing factor.

"Seriously though," Nishigori continues once the mood mellows. "Taking care of yourself isn't just about training and eating right. It's also about taking time for yourself. Focusing on what's important." Nishigori's eyes follow Yuuko as she glides slowly backwards over the ice, a train of inexperienced kids trailing after her. "Besides, the longer you practice, the more likely you are to make a mistake and hurt yourself. Can you imagine what a disaster that would be?"

"No," Yuuri replies instantly. Though bruises, cuts, and chapped lips are a fact of figure skating, Yuuri has never experienced anything worse than a grade II ankle sprain. The ten days he had to stay off the ice had been the longest ten days of his life. "No, I can't."

"Then take it easy," Nishigori says.

"I'll think about it," says Yuuri.

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March in Hasetsu is a nebulous time. Snow clings stubbornly to the curbs while patches of grass brighten along walkways. Birds return to roost in blossoming trees, yet the sun remains a distant and heatless white disk. The thawing air being to smell of clean earth and sharp ocean salt. The chilly wind nips. The last of winter tangles with the first of spring and Yuuri—who spends half his life on artificial ice—puts on a coat but not his gloves before he leaves for school.

"Are you going to be home tonight?" Mari asks, taking a drag of her cigarette. They are sitting side by side in the private entryway as Yuuri ties his shoes and Vicchan's wagging tail thumps against the floor.

"Same as usual," Yuuri replies. "The rink closes at nine."

Mari exhales, smoke dissipating upwards. She taps the ashes from the end into a small ceramic dish she carries in the folds of her work robes and says, "You're not going to celebrate with friends?"

Yuuri is confused for a moment, thinking of Yuuko and Nishigori. He is about to say, "But I always meet them at the rink?" when he remembers that it is the last day of his second year of high school.

"Oh," Yuuri murmurs. He tightens the knots of his laces. "I don't—they're my classmates."

Mari scoffs, "What, so they can't be your friends?"

Yuuri frowns at his sister. There are classmates he talks to before the first bell, classmates he sits with during lunch, and classmates he exchanges good-byes with when the day ends, but he's never spent time with any of them outside of school. Few of his peers understand his dedication to his sport and those who do spend their time with their own passions. It's a little ironic; his parents had originally enrolled Yuuri in figure skating to help him make friends, but it ended up being one of the things that prevented him from deepening acquaintanceships.

"I didn't say that. It's just…" Yuuri shrugs. "No one's really interested in skating."

"Or," Mari drawls, "Victor Nikiforov."

Despite the faint flush that scores his cheeks, Yuuri is more annoyed than embarrassed at Mari's pointed remark. He turns away from her, pushes the heel of his palm against his sternum to ease the ache he always feels when Victor Nikiforov's name comes up, and huffs wordlessly.

"Okay, kiddo, okay. I'll stop teasing you about your crush." Mari laughs, a low rasp, and snubs her cigarette out in the dish by her knee. "Have fun at school."

Before he leaves, Yuuri scratches Vicchan behind the ears one final time and begrudgingly says goodbye to Mari. He is sure that the last day of school will be sedate and uneventful, and he is right; exams were completed the previous week, and the busy work his teachers assign is simple. Some teachers don't even bother with the pretense and announce a free period. Predictably, Yuuri's classmates break off into their usual cliques and talk about their plans for the three week long break ahead of them. Yuuri—who is not as anti-social as Mari accuses of being—joins such a group instead of staying at his desk and re-watching the previous Four Continents free skates on his phone.

"I'm going to my grandfather's in Hokkaido," one of the three other boys in Yuuri's circle says with a grimace. "There's still a ton of snow up there and he always puts me to work. I'm in the prime of my youth! I should be somewhere warm, playing video games and meeting cute girls at the café."

"You'd need a girl to actually agree to a date first," a second boy interjects. Yuuri and the other boys snort at the slight.

"Hey!"

"Maybe getting it will be easier in Hokkaido?" the second boy continues with a smirk. "At least those girls don't know what a meathead you are. Who knows? You might even meet your soulmate! I bet she's gonna be a country girl with a huuuuuge pair of—oof!"

The first boy punches the second in the arm, harder than is considered friendly, and they begin to slap and pinch one another over the desk separating them. It is not an uncommon thing; they push each other's buttons in the way close, lifelong friends often do, and no one in the room pays any attention to it.

"Man, I wish I got to leave town," the third member of their group bemoans to Yuuri. "I tried to get my parents to let me go to Osaka with my cousin, but they want me to attend cram school the whole time. They keep bringing up early entrance exams, too." He sighs and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. "What about your parents? Have they been riding you too?"

"No." Yuuri shakes his head. "I mean, my older sister started working at the onsen right after she finished high school, and I don't think my parents ever said anything to her, either."

"Lu-uh-cky," says the other boy, drawing out and doubling up on the first syllable. "I wish I had a family business. I could just skip university altogether and get to it."

Yuuri says nothing. He does not mind the inevitability of working at Yu-topia—the onsen has been in his family for many years, and he likes the traditional, sedate atmosphere of the inn—but he knows that he cannot do so immediately after he graduates high school. First, he must find out how far his skating will take him; if he does not, he knows he will regret it for the rest of his life.

"What about you?" The question startles Yuuri from his thoughts. "What are you doing over break?"

"I'm—uhh—I'm going to practice my quad toe loop," replies Yuuri, truthfully if not a little cautiously. Mari's earlier sentiment rears its ugly head and makes Yuuri wonder if he's boring. He isn't interested in the same things as his peers—isn't interested in destination vacations, or studying for exams, or fooling around—and he is acutely aware of this fact. "I want to be able to land a quad by the time the season starts."

Yuuri will also be watching the ISU World Championships with Yuuko in a couple weeks, but he doesn't voice this plan. If he does, he knows he'll inevitably wax poetic about Victor Nikiforov and his stunningly bittersweet programs. After Mari's inaccurate assumption that morning, Yuuri knows he isn't ready to be teased a second time about his…. idolization.

"You know, I always forget that you figure skate," the other boy murmurs. "Aren't you nationally ranked?"

"Yeah," Yuuri says. He competed in the All-Japan Figure Skating Championships in late December and finished twentieth with an total score of 152.08. Yuuri is keenly aware that, if it weren't for his presentation scores, he wouldn't have ranked at all. "I didn't do very well."

Yet before Yuuri and the other boy's small side conversation can go into further, more difficult detail, the first half of their group stops rough-housing and pushes the topic back to their break. Yuuri is thankful for the change of subject. It has always been strangely hard for him to talk about his skating to people who aren't Yuuko, Minako, or his part-time coach; he puts too much of himself into the sport to express himself properly to people who aren't a part of the figure skating world.

The rest of the school day passes and ends uneventfully, and less than half an hour after break begins, Yuuri is in the locker room of Hasetsu Ice Castle. Nishigori is already there; he goes to a different high school than Yuuri, and he often beats Yuuri to the rink by several minutes.

"Hey," Nishigori greets as Yuuri sets his gym bag down on the concrete floor. Their assigned lockers are next to one another, as they have been for several years. "Not celebrating with friends tonight?"

"No," Yuuri says. "Are you?"

"No." Nishigori shrugs nonchalantly. "My graduation ceremony is next week, anyway. You're still coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it," says Yuuri. He knows that school has always been hard for Nishigori; Nishigori wasn't book smart, and he struggled through most of his classes. His diploma will have been hard earned. "I'll even wear a tie."

Nishigori snorts but does not say anything while Yuuri perfunctorily changes out of his school clothes and into the athletic gear he wears while on ice. Over the past year, Yuuri has grown several inches and lost the last of his baby-fat; his jawline is sharper, his stomach is flat, and his hips are narrow and trim. He knows he will never be as tall or as muscular as Nishigori, but those things matter less to him now than they once did, and Yuuri no longer hesitates when he unbuttons his navy slacks and strips out of his sweater.

Yuuri's lack of self-consciousness while undressing is also due to his customized soul mark cover. Minako had bought the first one online for his last birthday; in the four months since then, Yuuri has amassed a dozen of the same mark covers in various shades of black, blue, and gray. The cover is a sleeveless top that cuts beneath his ribcage, rises high on his neck, and hides every wild tendril of his mark. The fabric is tightly-woven, light-weight, and moisture-wicking, which is perfect considering that he wears one at all times: when he goes to school and when he works out, when he skates and when he dances, when he's at home and when he goes to bed. The only time Yuuri does not wear his cover is when he showers.

Once Yuuri is done changing, he sits down on the bench next to Nishigori and pulls on his skates. He hunches over to reach his laces, his sternum pressed to his knee.

"Yuuri," Nishigori says. "I… I want to ask you something."

"Yeah?" Yuuri—who is focused on properly lacing his boots over his high arches—does not quite catch Nishigori's subdued tone.

"I need a favor."

"Sure," Yuuri says as he moves onto his second skate. "What is it?"

Nishigori does not answer. Instead, there is a rustling noise as though Nishigori were shifting the clothes around inside his gym bag, then silence. It is not until Yuuri finishes his task that he looks up—

—and sees the small, unopened black ring box cradled in the broad palm of Nishigori's hand.

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part viii

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#fandom: yuri!!! on ice #pairing: victor nikiforov/yuuri katsuki #rated: m #victuuri #yoi