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Combeferre prides himself a bit on his card game ability, so the scene before him is one he finds quite disturbing. He has been standing in the entrance to Joly and Bossuet’s rooms for the past twenty minutes, unbeknownst to this game’s players, and cannot make heads or tails of the rules. He watches yet another round, eyebrows furrowed.

Grantaire glances at his hand. “Hit me.”

Joly passes him another card.

“Stand.”

Bossuet pushes his pile of loose change to the centre of the floor between them. “I raise your stand.” He flips over a card from the deck.

“The trump is spades,” Joly announces.

Bossuet slumps. “I fold.” 

Grantaire clicks his tongue and tosses his two cards on the ground. “Just 19. No spades.”

“Remove your shirt, Bossuet.”

Bossuet takes off his shirt and tosses it onto the growing pile of loose garments--braces, waistcoats, hats--which appear to be largely his. Bousset shivers in the cold.

Combeferre gives up. “What in the world are you three playing?”

They turn to the door and notice him at last. 

“Quite simple,” Joly says. “I am playing euchre, L’Aigle here plays poker, and Grantaire, blackjack. Come, play a round with us.” 

He waits for some further explanation, but none comes. Grantaire collects the cards and begins to shuffle them. Stupefied, he takes a seat on the floor with them.

“What are the rules? And...what of the undressing?”

Bossuet laughs at him. “There is no need for rules. The loser is clear enough each round.” 

“You will play hearts,” Grantaire says, dealing him a seemingly arbitrary number of cards. “Pass to your left. He with the best hand will win.”

Combeferre frowns, but picks up his cards nonetheless. He passes three to Joly, two aces and a queen, as if they were playing a simple game of hearts.

“Stand,” says Grantaire. 

“Call,” says Bossuet.

“Erm,” says Combeferre. He places the two of clubs on the table.

“Trump is diamonds,” says Joly.

The other two reveal their hands, and Combeferre takes that as his cue to do the same. 

Without speaking, they all look at his hand, and then at him. He is reminded of bees; of the knowledge they all seem to share without the need for verbal communications. A trio with the mind of a hive. He supposes that comparison would have him be the beekeeper, able to wrangle and somewhat make sense of the creatures, but not enough to ever know their inner workings.

“Remove your waistcoat, Combeferre.”

He has the freedom to refuse, but he does not. Perhaps more time spent with these three might lead him to a better understanding of them. Or bees, at the very least.

“Who has the next deal?” he asks.

The palatial home where she was lodged had been strategically selected for its location - surrounded by mountains, like Sparta had been, about four days’ ride from Paris on a good horse. Around it there were no villages, no markets, no city. The closest sign of human activity was a small settlement, formed by roughly a dozen people and located about halfway from the french capital, which allowed Helen the greatest luxury she’d never had, even as a queen, thousands of years before: privacy. A rare thing to experience, not to be taken for granted. The castle had previously belonged to a fallen count, or an earl of some sort - one of those senseless titles invented by the people of these times in order to rank their aristocracy - then left abandoned for centuries. 

It was within the main hall where she received an elite, rather selective group of guests who’d come to worship the Olympian Gods - where she kept their name and glory alive. Some of them were french nobles who’d found their true faith in them. Others were fellow countrymen of the present century, sparse though they were in this nation, who found in this place a memory of home - though home, as she knew it, had vanished through the millenia.  That night, however, Helen performed no cults. Her guests were welcome to stay or leave as they pleased - most remained to partake in the communal activities of her days: to share meals together, to hunt together or to strengthen their virtues through hard exercise, conducted by her guards - Spartan soldiers of her times, risen from the House of Hades to fulfill this mission with their queen. As they did before, men and women gathered around, seminaked, to run races against one another and perform trials of strength. A restoration of society as she’d known.

Thus, given the secrecy of her mission and location, when one of her soldiers entered her chambers to announce the presence of a stranger requesting an audience, Helen received the news with curiosity and suspicion. “Send him to the shrine”, she commanded, and covered her face with her veil to meet this man. 

It was mostly dark inside this shrine, though the light from dozens of oil lamps danced with the shadows as the breeze conducted them around the ivory sculptures depicting the gods and goddesses of her motherland. The architecture was typical of the present days in its structure, though the interior decoration was different from anything the french considered fashionable. There were no gilded arabesques or pastel figures of angels and naked virgins: the frescoes on the walls had been made in Greek style, portraying scenes from the life as it was then: nude children wearing belts and boxing against each other, an acrobatic spectacle with an athlete leaping backwards on top of a bull, chariot races and bare-breasted priestesses with kohl-painted eyes - like hers.

Clad in the fashion of her times in diaphanous, shining linen, her peplos was tied at the waist by a golden girdle; the skirt, albeit long, had two slits at the sides which went all the way up to the tops of her thighs - scandalously revealing for the period, as it would have been back then outside of Sparta. Her jewelry too was older than anything still alive, heavier and less ornate than those worn by the french ladies. Helen entered the room with imperious steps, imposing as ever, and climbed upon the altar where a high chair was placed, resembling a throne. There, she could assess him from above. Without saying a word, her eyes invasively inspected the man as if both his body and soul were laid bare before her, without ever lifting her veil to reveal her face. “State your name”, she demanded. 

A small blurb about a gender-neutral reader. Calum thinking about your relationship together and also about your future. 

It was strange, how perfectly your hand fit in his. He didn’t understand what was so comforting about your clammy hand in his cold one, but he knew when he didn’t have your hand is his, he wanted it. 

Calum was never one for cheesy nicknames, but the beaming smile on your face, whenever he called you Angel made his stomach swirl. He loved when you would comb through his hair, or tickle his tummy. 

On tour he missed waking you up from your kisses and hearing say “Morning Squish” in your sleepy voice as you proceeded to press sloppy kisses to his cheeks. 

Without even noticing he would lay his hand on your thigh when sitting next to you, yearning for it when you were just a little out of reach. He loved to lay on top of you, to bury his face in your neck while you ran your hands up and down his back. 

He used to love coming home, but now it didn’t feel like home without you in it. He wanted to be with you whenever he could and when you expressed you felt the same he was on cloud nine. He’ll never forget going through your belongings one by one, the hours of distractions. You lost yourself in your memories and he hoped that moving in with him would be one you would recount fondly someday. 

You moved your belongings in slowly, taking your time and savouring every moment. You started with the basics, your clothes, toiletries. Calum loved watching your things join his one by one, your towels next to his on the rack, your clothes in his closet, your shampoo next to his. His favourite thing was watching you slowly getting used to his place and letting it become your home. 

The nights you would spend bundled up in each other’s arms, making bets to decide who had to make dinner, he wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

It felt good when he was away, knowing there was someone there with Duke who loved him as much as he did, that his plants wouldn’t all be dead, that when he would come he wouldn’t have to take time to bring the place back to life again, because you’re already in it. 

He called you whenever he could, saved all the photos you sent. He was anxious at first, scared you might leave him, hate being with someone who has to be away all the time. Then when he expressed your worries and you assured him you’d be with him even if you only saw him one day out of the three-hundred and sixty-five. 

So if you’ve recently gotten a DM here from me you know I’m doing a project again! so here is the deal! Im giving out gift fics this year! they may not all be done on time but i will do them! goal is to have most of them done by new years, or valentines day if i do a whole bunch of them.

what this is: me loving my friends and mutuals and fandom. This year has been mostly shit. so let me know if you want a gift! 

will i write your rare pair?: probably!! talk to me about them a bit and we will see!

does it have to be a pairing you know i like?: nope! i’m doing a lot of diffrent ships! not everything is bnha either! i just have to know the fandom!

i haven’t messaged you and you want one?: ask me through dm’s or just through my ask box! ive always got anon on as all of you know!

can i give back?: Yes! its not required though! this is something im doing for you and if you want you can give me one in return but absoulutly no pressure at all.

where are you posting these: Ao3 and Tumblr. Ao3 will get the whole collection dropped at once. it will be closed this time and only a few people will be able to add to the collection. I’m sorry but that is the way i want it to be this time instead of like writetober where everyone joined. Tumblr will be scheduled to drop later vs all at once.

If you dont talk to me a lot and are wondering if you can still get one?: of course!!

No deadlines. ask me anytime for a fic. i do not care for the passage of time.

No minimum or maximum word counts.

No stress or pressure!

No commitment nessacary! you have to drop out?: go ahead. i understand and you don’t have to explain. this year has sucked and i’m alright if i never get that gift you wanted to give me. take care and stay healthy please.

I also write Gen fic or Found family so it dosn’t have to be a pairing!

I am still working on my other projects and fics. I have plans to update secret baby soon, but i really want to do this currently.

As always you can ask me about Fics i am already doing to see if your present would be a duplicate (hell i’ll do the same trope/otp twice diffrently if your alright with that) or if your curious.

have a idea you are worried about asking me to do? ask me, on anon if thats the comfyiest for you, and ill awnser you privatly if you want. i won’t write if i’m not comfortable but i’m not going to judge you either. you’ll never know unless you ask.

Long time no see (even though it’s only been a week?)! I have a small progress update and predictions for the word count of the next update!

- I’m going back over everyone’s introductions (and finishing them) plus the beginning of chapter 1 (part 1?) because the first version felt rushed. TBH I’m still not satisfied with it, but it’s fine for now.

- I’m thinking the word count for the next update will be around 15k but it may expand depending on if I decide to add things. I don’t think it will be less than 15k but I’m terrible at for sure’s and maybe’s, so take what I say with a grain of salt.

- I also threw out a few ideas to a friend and got some extra things planned to hopefully implement into the Trails! It needs to be fleshed out more, but I’m fairly happy with how things are going!

- I don’t know if I ever said this, but Trails has take a slightly different turn than expected and I’m thinking the story is going to focus HEAVILY on self-discovery and reflection (with some mystery thrown in probably). I don’t know how deep it’ll get but we’ll see soon hopefully!

- I’m once again fixing the stats because I’m not happy with how it’s laid out (I’ll forever mess around with the stats). Nothing is being added atm, but I’m just expanding sections and making them (hopefully) flow a bit better. I’m also going to fix the save system because oops! I think it broke?

- I’m also working on flavor text -- right now it only reflects the head vs heart stat but more will be added.

- Working on figuring out how buying things will work and what you can buy -- I have some items set in stone but it’s pretty bare-bones.

I’d also like to apologize for how late this update is! I aimed for March but never met that goal and that’s my fault -- I probably won’t announce a goal or deadline for updates to avoid stressing myself out and disappointing anyone waiting on the next update. ;D

@akaza-s-bitch @kimetsuno-yaiba-imagines So you know that feeling when inspiration suddenly strikes at 1:30am and you just HAVE TO write? Yeah, me too. Me too.

Also my first time ever trying to do anything involving Yahaba so I’m sorry if I’m terribly ooc.

The temple stood proud and imposing. Inside, the high walls were bedecked with rare and rich colors depicting the goddess, with her sculpture placed at the heart of the room, towering over the women who had come to worship her. Her marble figure sat easily, bare-breasted, with her children beneath her arms. Before her image stood Helen, her gaze fixed upon the eyes of Leto, her palms open and lifted, a basket of offerings at her feet containing weapons that her husband had taken from the hands of his enemies, along with flowers which Helen had picked and collected herself – the finest, most rare of her gardens, in shades of deep purple, a yellow that was almost golden and blue like the sea at night. She had her chest lifted, her heart open to welcome her blessings and pass it forward to the other women, a bridge between the human and divine.

She inhaled deeply that warm smoke that emanated from the incenses surrounding the statue along with the smell of burning oil from the lamps that glowed around her. Slowly and gradually, Helen allowed it to ease her senses of body and mind into a state of numbness, her eyes opening, rolling upwards then closing again, whilst her feet remained firmly planted on the marble floor beneath. Her blood was running warm, eyelids withdrawing halfway only to meet again lazily. The darkness soon took the shape of her, consort of her father, goddess of things that Helen had always been faulty of. It was only after it was gone that she was able to notice her. Regaining awareness of her surroundings, she turned to look at Cersei, her interlocutor; glowing with jewelry as befitted women of their rank, but Helen’s face showed her no amity once she listened to her words.

Bahorel strides into the upper floor of the café wearing a beanie, and the whole room goes silent. He stops in the doorway and waits for the inevitable barrage of comments as seven pairs of eyes swivel to face him.

There’s a classic spaghetti western standoff for a good long while, Bahorel almost able to see the tumbleweed rolling by, before he grumbles, crosses his arms, and breaks the silence.

“Joly, first question,” Bahorel says.

“It’s August,” Joly blurts.

“It sure is. Boss, next?”

“You look exactly like a lumberjack. Like a really cheesy lumberjack in a deodorant ad,” Bossuet says.

Bahorel looks down at his shirt and curses at the Bahorel from this morning for going with red plaid on his trip to the salon. He makes a mental note to never try and pass as straight again.

Combeferre raises his hand.

“Yes, Ferre.”

“Why, exactly, are you wearing a beanie in August?”

“Bad haircut. Enjolras?”

Enjolras takes a beat. “Can we see it?”

“Hard no.”

Of course, that’s when the hat is ripped from his head from behind, and Bahorel whirls around to see Grantaire holding it, shit-eating grin on the bastard’s face. His hands fly up to cover his shaved sides, but his fingers brush the crusty gel the stylist had put on the longer part of the hair and he pulls them away again, perturbed.

The room falls silent once more.

“I know it sucks,” Bahorel says, “And I know that now I look like some military jerk-off, but this garbage will take months to grow out again so if any of y’all talk shit right now we’re gonna have words later.”

He swipes the hat back from Grantaire and finally moves out of the doorway. The room remains silent as he scrapes back a chair and slumps melodramatically into it.

“Uh...Bahorel,” Feuilly starts, tentatively. “It doesn’t look bad. Like it really, really doesn’t look bad.”

“It’s a crew cut, Feuilly,” Bahorel moans. “What was I thinking?”

Courfeyrac speaks up. “Yeah, okay, no one else is gonna say it outright so I will. Bahorel, buddy, my dude, you look fucking hot.”

Bahorel arches an eyebrow and looks around the room. There’s a couple quiet “yeah”s, and Grantaire gives him two big thumbs up. He looks to Enjolras, who purses his lips and gives him a single, terse nod.

“Huh,” says Bahorel, stupidly.

He turns to the only person whose fashion opinion he trusts. Jehan grins and flashes him the “O.K.” sign, and Bahorel feels better about himself instantly.