#ooghh

She would go 'accidentally' set off a firework stand in his honor.

And maybe go hunt down the asshole that did it.

//something somethiing sometimes she wants to strangle deidara but if anyone else hurts him she would fireball them? something like that.

My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.

Another one is inspired to make art while he's fucking dead! But that's what happens to artists, isn't it? Their art has no value, no recognition, while the artist is alive but then as soon as their body is cold (or in pieces) they are all of a sudden noticed and very very famous.

@scarfbond​​​ said : a spot to kiss 11. a kiss on the corner of the mouth. (:    //    accepting.

the constant message of lungs:  keep going,  keep going,  keep going.  his lungs after battle,  his lungs running to catch up with link,  his lungs after their faces get just a bit too close for men who are supposed to staunchly dislike each other.

well,  octavo would admit it would be a lie to say the two of them were always at each other’s throats.  they were . . . friends.  yes,  he felt comfortable with that word.  although if anyone asked him,  he’d deny it,  and he expected more or less the same from link.  they were too far in their coy insults and shared glares,  but somewhere down the line the oh - so - annoying hero grew on him,  and octavo knew the sentiment was mutual  ( why else on farore’s green earth would he continue to tolerate him? ).  if only it stayed as simple as friends who often gave themselves a good,  tough ribbing.

octavo’s strongest weapon was his words  —  as is typical with his sort.  he ran after him,  grabbing the cloth of his sleeve,  breath coming out in pale clouds against the cool air.  

“ in the looms of our bones we are constantly weaving together memories and blood, ”    he rambled,    “ do you feel how your wounds knit themselves back together after you fall;  you will grow to be more than your wounds  — ”

some stinging sort of desire buzzed through his body  —  sharp as a blade,  numbing  —  when his shoulders were grabbed,  in a clearing with nobody to see them,  as if it were some moonlight tryst.  the pressing of lips to the corner of his,  the emptying of air from his lungs begging keep going.

octavo knew the game being played.  there was a boundary,  a certain line of intimacy not to be crossed.  he could have grabbed link’s face and crossed it,  smash their lips together  —  perhaps that was what he wanted.  although,  maybe it wasn’t,  either.  and then octavo would be the one to overstep.

his cheeks burned,  fire and roses blooming beneath his thin skin.  he wanted to pull him closer,  but he at least had the mind to display some amount of self - control.