#xresistance

There's a soft, shaky sigh, and he finds himself leaning into her side. A rare gesture, one reserved only for moments of real peace and quiet, like now.

For once, he can feel the weight of the universe bearing down on his shoulders.

 kurama considers himself to be a patient man. he knows he’s not a kind one, or a very forgiving one, but he figures he at least has his patience. it’s how he’s survived so long virtually unaffected by anyone that opposed him, how - once upon a time - he’d managed to become the greatest thief in the makai. time was infinite for a creature like him, once of spirit and now of flesh and bone and youki, and he knew that given enough time passing, most opponents would make a mistake.

 so he waits, waits two whole days for the guise to slip, for him to show his true colors in one of the preliminary matches. only, it never happens, because he’s not fighting.

 what does happen is kurama’s own infinite patience turning finite not minutes after his win in the preliminary round. his temper, normally as well-tamed as it can be, snaps, and the minute the match is called, he’s storming through the arena’s stands. his temper is bad enough, or maybe his expression, that not even hiei stands in his way, the imiko stepping aside and letting him pass with no argument or even a look of disappointment.

 finding him in the stands is easy, the scent is burned in his nose, and he could be blindfolded and yet still find it’s source, even among all the youkai and blood in the air. but standing there and waiting until he’s noticed, that’s the hard part.

 it’s hard to remain calm and not make a scene when there’s another person wearing the skin of his dead partner. it’s hard to remain calm when yet another person seeks to manipulate his weaknesses. 

 he’s growing tired of this, no, he’s beyond tired of this.

 arms crossed over his chest, kurama considers the other youkai as he approaches, mouth set in a line. he’s familiar, the smell, the walk, the neatly folded wings, the wide smile and sharp fangs. if kurama didn’t know better, he would think that this was him, his partner, back after so long.

 but he knows better. he’d seen the bamboo spears fall, had smelt the blood. 

 kuronue was dead.

 and this, this was another bastard imposter.

​The apartment was bright. White walls, big windows. Harry had turned down a lot of apartments that were too dreary. If he wanted dreary, he’d stay in Grimmauld place. It had a living room with an open kitchen, a bedroom, bathroom, loo and another room which Harry planned on using as office. The floors were parquet. Of course Harry had also made sure to get a proper fireplace to make flooing possible.

It still looked a little bare, but things started to come together. Harry had collected things from his friends. Luna’s paintings were covering the walls in the hall and the living room, and Neville had given him some plants which were standing on the windowsill in the living room and his bedroom. He got lots of Quidditch posters from Ron and Ginny, and Hermione picked a nice bookshelf for him. Harry had gotten a big carpet to make the living room cozier.

@xresistance​​ asked: Move, he told himself, get up and fucking move. Ronan laid on Adam's floor in his St. Agnes' room, slowly bleeding from where talons had ripped into his flesh. It had got him in his ribs, his shoulder, and his forearm. His nose was even bleeding sluggishly; he could taste blood as it was dripping slowly into his throat and mouth. Fuck. Finally his body stopped being paralyzed - as it always was when he came back with something, even just wounds - and Ronan sat up with a wince. He carefully made his way to Adam's bathroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to stumble too much, as he pressed a hand to his torn ribs.

Adam happened to be a light sleeper most of the time; the slightest sound — like the sudden creak coming from a floorboard — would slowly reach to his right ear and that would send signals up, up, up to his brain, thus suddenly waking up, full-on alert, panic flashing in his ocean blue eyes. ( & there were moments where he was too exhausted to wake up. ) But he wasn’t that exhausted to be woken up there and then, his sleep abrupted by a sound, something that made him shift under the thin cover that soon spills down his lap as he sits up.

“——Ronan …?” He suppresses the unleashed panic by immediately determining the noise came from Ronan, and no one else. He rubbed at his eye and kept looking at the dreamer. “...Is something wrong, Lynch?” He hasn’t noticed the blood yet, however, he notices that Ronan’s dark silhouette was pressing a hand to his side. He reaches over to the side to turn the lamp on, and then, he sees the blood and his heart squeezes painfully. 

Rare was it that the agent could be found somewhere other than his place of work or a bar if he wasn’t at home and wasn’t deployed but miracles did happen and technically he was at a place of work - it just wasn’t his own.

Yes, he’d checked beforehand to make sure she’d be there.

Yes, he got a few dozen looks on entering the elevator and he would swear there were mutterings about who he was off to visit because there were two coffees on his little cardboard cup-holder. And despite few of them having actually seen him before, never mind seeing him in the building, he seemed to know precisely where he was going.

He could feel the eyes on him as the elevator doors closed in their own time and he let out a sigh, hanging his head for a moment in the seconds of privacy he had between floors. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. He’d been struck by a whim.

Soon enough, he was rapping on the open door of a certain redhead’s office and stepping in with his bounty of coffee, raising it just enough that she could see it over the top of her monitor.

If we’re mutuals, send 🎂 and I’ll make you a treat! / accepting!

i am so deeply influenced by my friends and the plotting we do together. it is really important to me that my muses exist in tandem with those of my friends, that we build these collaborative worlds and rich relationships. my muses are fundamentally shaped by the ways in which they exist in relation to other muses - these interactions don’t just happen to my muses, they change and shift the way i write them, permanently. shisui is inextricable from @divaur‘s obito, @daybreakrising‘s itachi, and @drgnsheir‘s lu ten. kankuro is inherently linked to @hopeburnt‘s tenten and @nasakc‘s gaara. minato’s life is touched by rin (also @hopeburnt), obito (also @divaur), @fightingdreamcrs’s kakashi and @foxreigns‘s kushina. there are more, of course, but these are the ones that come to me most strongly when i think of my muses.