#!wordfart

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wordfart: jenny, darling, you’re my best friend

when yr so salty abt seeing slash fanworks using “jenny” (as in the studio killers song) that you immediately sit down and write femslash that vaguely alludes to the song in order to restore balance to the force.  or: soleil navigating boundaries post-a support w/ophelia and trying to figure out if the attraction is mutual (it is).

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"Before you go," Ophelia says, her fingers feather-light on Soleil's wrist, "Hold on just a moment."

"Okay," part acquiescence, part question, part wishing she hadn't nearly jumped out of her skin at such a simple touch. She doesn't mean it like that, Soleil knows.

"I keep meaning to enchant your armor, and yet you keep flitting away like the shortest days of winter before my blessings can ever catch up with you."

"Do you need me to take it off to enchant it? 'Cause I'll get an earful from Siegbert if i'm late." This is what Soleil says. What she doesn't say is that she would cheerfully strip naked and later pay the price of listening to Siegbert attempt to lecture her about punctuality for hours, if it meant Ophelia would work her magic right here with just the two of them. She has only the vaguest understanding as to how magic even works, but she trusts that whatever it is Ophelia wants to do will be done right. Ophelia's gaze drops down Soleil's figure, then back up.

"It's not strictly necessary--unless, of course, you'd prefer the blessing of skin upon skin?" Ophelia punctuates the statement with a saucy wink, and Soleil feels heat jump straight from her heart into her cheeks. She doesn't mean it like that, Soleil is fairly certain. She laughs to punctuate the tension that only she is feeling, to take up the space in between words until she stumbles upon the right thing to say.

"I'm all yours," she concedes, and she means it very much like that.

"Excellent! Now, take hold of my hands, close your eyes, and focus hard until you can feel yourself fortified like the very core of a star--no peeking, mind you." Ophelia's instructions come in an enthusiastic rush, her fingers already laced with Soleil's before she's even done speaking. Soleil squeezes her eyes shut tight, regretting the fabric of her gloves between her hand and Ophelia's. She has such nice little fingers, and Soleil would let her do such wicked things with them. Soleil exhales a bit too hard at the thought, not thinking about fortified stars at all.

"Are you focusing?" comes Ophelia's lilting voice from somewhere in front of her. She sounds more amused than stern.

"Yes, ma'am," Soleil says, all mock seriousness. She straightens her back and squares her shoulders, just to make her point. Ophelia giggles merrily, giving Soleil's hands a final squeeze.

"Well, then, if the stardust has settled, you may open your eyes." Soleil complies, blinking once or twice to readjust to the midday light that filters through the tent's canvas. In it, Ophelia is radiant.

"Am I all protected now?" she asks, wondering if she's meant to feel different, or if she's just a complete clod when it comes to magic (when it comes to Ophelia). Ophelia purses her lips, like she's debating something with herself.

"Actually, there's one more step, should you be willing to indulge me in a bit of magical experimentation."

"You know I'd be willing to indulge you in pretty much anything," Soleil teases with a wink of her own. To her surprise, Ophelia looks away for just a moment, a hint of embarrassment playing at her features.

"Lean down, then," she says. Soleil opens her mouth to respond, and promptly forgets how to speak at all when Ophelia presses a soft kiss to her cheek. She stands there, absolutely gobsmacked, hyper-aware of Ophelia's slightly-parted lips pressed right against her skin. It lasts for maybe a few seconds before Ophelia pulls away, her face awash in a blush that borders on luminous. She still holds onto Soleil's hands. "For luck," murmurs Ophelia. She means it like that, Soleil begins to think.

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wordfart: we reach ad astra, ad astra we reach

i was talking to my dad abt the voyager crafts, and this happened.  my kingdom for more of daichi and saiduq having weird existential discussions where daichi is totally out of his element but saiduq still enjoys hearing his thoughts.  daichi’s candidness and everyman nature are the reason he’s the true route, imo, and i think saiduq knows it.  title is from a line in cathy park hong’s dance dance revolution lmao

---

"So, uh...  Why do you even care, dude?  I mean, each person is, like, I dunno--an MP3 file on your computer or something, right?  Like how bad guys in sentai shows are always all like, 'you all are nothing more than ants to me, ha-ha-ha' or whatever."  Saiduq blinks slowly, like he has to think about the action instead of performing it on instinct.

"Please, do not mistake this for callousness when I say that a music file is far too great a comparison, Shijima Daichi.  Each human life across every iteration of existence is but a fraction of a fraction of a pixel's worth of cosmic data within the Akashic Record."  Already, Daichi is regretting broaching the subject, an uneasy thrill jolting through his entire body.  Despite all his near-death experiences, the realization is flashing in front of him like a strobe light.  His entire life is a blip on Saiduq's radar, and Saiduq will still be there, watching, when the sun swallows his beloved earth whole.  Daichi shudders, trying to shake the thought out of his head, the idea that the world and the cosmos will carry on long after he stops being able to see them.  One or two (or three or four or five) existential crises are more than enough for his puny lifetime, thanks.

"Uh...wow."  Daichi says lamely, talking just for the sake of talking, just for the sake of not thinking about the cessation of his own consciousness.  It's a yawning, gnawing feeling.  He wonders when exactly he became deep and cool enough to have these kinds of thoughts, or if it's just a side effect of being around Saiduq.  Beneath his bangs, Saiduq's brows furrow.

"My intention is not to make you feel insignificant," he begins, delicate fingers curled over his lips, red eyes narrow slits between his thick lashes.  "On the contrary, you and every other human comprise something in your togetherness.  Were we to return to the analogy of a computer--rough as it may be--an amalgam of pixels can create anything from a series of calculations to the image of a loved one, no?  Humanity en masse is made to create in unison, its constant mutability is perhaps its greatest strength.    Stagnation is, arguably, the less favorable trait for an entity such as myself to have.  A star's very existence necessitates solitude, even in the case of a binary system like the one to which I once belonged.  The relationship there is bound only by gravity, nothing more."  

"Isn't gravity basically like, the most powerful thing in the universe, though?" asks Daichi, feeling very much like he's grasping at straws, trying to draw on his incredibly meager stockpile of physics knowledge. At least he actually understood about nine out of ten of the words Saiduq just used.  This is a record, as far as he's concerned.  

Saiduq's catty smile reaches his eyes, and he does not cover it with his hand.  "Was gravity the force that rallied this world against the heavens, not once, but twice?"

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wordfart x 3

lil pretentious lowercase porns i've been capping and posting on twitter, now cleaned up here (fea x2, desu 2 x1)

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cherche/chrom (i can explain)  (i can't explain)

she's on top of him and her weight against his back is at once reassuring and overbearing. chrom is never sure how he feels about cherche being so visibly taller than him, equally unsure why he cares anymore when she's chided him for it. goodness, she'd said, i should hate to think i intimidate you. in the bedroom, he doubts that very much. he's not used to the idea of going down without a fight, it's something that he'd thought would go against his every instinct until cherche pushed him facefirst into the mattress and bound his wrists with his own belt, tight enough that it will leave weals for everyone to see. the worst, the best part is that she could hold him down without bonds, she could snap him in half over her knee and he'd thank her for it afterwords, beg her for it again. maybe there is something of a born sacrifice in him, too, moaning through a ball gag with his legs spread like an offering upon an altar. cherche kisses his shoulder, neck, back, he rocks his hips back into her thrusts so hard they ache.

she pulls him back by the hair and his vision tunnels with the shock of it, she murmurs against his skin, "are you a good boy?" and he's thinking yes, yes, gods yes, he is a prince just to be her whipping boy.

cherche/olivia (cheating, this is entirely joanna's fault for selling me on the plot angie did better w/femrobin and sumia)

"your grace," cherche calls her, with obeisance between a bow and a curtsy.

"don't," tumbles from olivia's lips, "please don't, just 'olivia' is fine. please, let's be good to one another." cherche smiles down at her and it is so much warmer than the cold marble against olivia's back. she cannot rush in again, cherche's gloved hand beneath her chin as,

"oh, i intend to," their lips meet with a magnetism that olivia is already regretting. she moans in spite of herself and her skin is tender like a bared throat against cherche's armor, hooking a leg around her waist, she is still so very soft and fears her body's betrayal of lucina more than her heart's betrayal of chrom.

"i'm sorry," her fingers in cherche's hair as cherche kisses between her breasts, still full, grazes her fingers along the outside of her thigh. she is so fickle, so sorry, her inconstancy makes her sick and cherche's mouth on her body makes her unbearably warm.

"of course you are," cherche's voice is thick and warm, she is on her knees as if ready to be knighted, olivia can scarcely breathe. "we have a saying in valm, 'heavy is the head that wears the crown', and your poor head seems especially burdened." she smiles with her lips right against olivia's inner thigh, just a puff of her breath makes olivia's leotard feel as if it's no longer even there. "i ask for nothing. simply let me, as you said, be good to you." olivia thinks this is a bit more than simple goodwill, wonders what this means about her skills in diplomacy when all she can ever seem to do with dignitaries from other countries is love them and fuck them (a word she would never say aloud, maybe, though for a moment she pictures herself pleading it with her nails down cherche's bare back).

urehibi (choking, luv this sub!hibiki)

hibiki is the one who guides saiduq's hands to his throat, an exercise of free will, premeditated--he likes to feel as though whatever burdens he carries can be so easily lifted from his shoulders by something like this. and it would be a lie, to say saiduq is all soft, that he does this only because hibiki's asked it of him. his hands are cold star steel (they are always cold) against hibiki's jugular, feeling a pulse he himself does not have.

"thank you," hibiki breathes. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, a catty smile plays at his lips, an imitation of saiduq's own. there is no malice in the gesture, only a coy sort of pleasure in the way he can feel the pressure of each finger atop, underneath his skin. his breath comes shorter, tighter, as he rolls his hips up against saiduq's. saiduq moves back, more out of a desire to reciprocate than a desire for desire itself.

his own signature smile, then, a peering, esoteric little look, as, "shining one," he murmurs. his voice is a fever dream in hibiki's ears. hibiki brings his hands up to saiduq's wrists, slim and strong enough to wring his neck in a cruel instant (it would never, could never happen). his vision is tunneling, the next breath out from between his lips is a surrender that pounds against the insides of his temples.

"call me," hibiki gasps--he is letting his composure slip, still rubbing himself off against saiduq's thigh--"call me by my name." saiduq's eyes narrow even more. "please," added on in little more than a hiss, "please," a little litany.

"hibiki," not dispassionately, simply quiet and curious, softly reverent as hibiki comes with a strangled little moan he lets escape entirely on purpose.

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wordfart: me crying for 400 years abt micaiah and little sothe

sad raspberry noises, i am in tellius hellius

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"You're going to be mad with me," Sothe accuses, round little face set in a pout. Still, he makes no attempt to hide the knife, only a dull old blade with a rag for a hilt. By all rights, Micaiah should be mad with him. Instead, she smooths down his hair, making sure he can see her hand the entire time--a year in, and he is still skittish as a cat about being touched, though she can feel his satisfaction, no longer so grudging as it once was.

"Perhaps not. You might at least tell me why you feel you need a knife."

"To keep safe," he says with all the worldliness of a boy of seven. He insists that he is nine; Micaiah is not quite yet old enough that she can no longer keep track of beorc years. If anything, she feels them more keenly.

"These are not the back alleys you knew, Sothe," she tells him patiently. "Do you still feel unsafe with me?" It hurts to ask, but she needs to know--he is such a little scrap of humanity, and she knows for certain that if she does not care for him, no one will.

"I never said that," mullishly. "It's just for someday, is all." Someday, as if he expects to be alone again. There is a sour taste in the back of Micaiah's throat. Someday, he will use that knife, and someday, she will leave him. Today, she tells him to put the knife aside and teaches him to pick a lock, watching his eyes grow round as she works.

"I thought you were supposed to be good," Sothe accuses, wonderstruck. A smile tugs at the corner of Micaiah's lips.

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wordfart: lossy compression

can you belieb it's taken me a whole fuckin year to write post-loop rehab sysmei

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When Meiya can bring himself to talk about loop rehab, he only does so in euphemisms and in the dark. Sys can see him just fine, vision automatically adjusted to deal with the absence of light, but he cannot see them, and they gather he takes a childish comfort in it. They do not push him.

"So you remember all the loops?" Meiya asks, cheek warm and flushed against Sys' thigh.

"I do, yes."

"Even the ones at the very beginning?"

"Yes, as well as my own memory serves." Sys has begun to notice that their memory is an organic thing, less a hard drive and more a cloud. They do not recall conversations verbatim the way they used to, and only certain faces are saved into their systems permanently. It gives them a tiny sense of pride, that they are still growing into less of a machine. In Meiya's small bedroom, the lone fan blows almost aggressively. Summer is in its last throes, but not quite ready to cede yet. Sys can feel the pace of Meiya's breath speed up on their skin, and it comforts them and concerns them in turn.

"Was I happy?" Simple and plaintive. The question shouldn't surprise Sys, but it does so all the same--they will never delude themself into thinking they can "fix" Meiya, nor will he try to doggedly pursue an old state of happiness Sys knows he still blames for everything that followed. Still, they think he misses it, in some ways.

"I remember you being so," and they mean it. Meiya reaches up to take their hand and place it atop his head. Sys runs their fingers through his hair and wonders what color it will be five, ten, fifty years from now, if Meiya will ever stop dyeing it and looking for men who are supposed to be dead at every street corner.

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wordfart: send me 2 lucisere hell

so kozaki yuusuke(the fea char designer) recently said that severa probs did lucina's marth hair and i.............  this is so half-baked and i still can't write lucina but w/e these yuris just keep getting realer

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Severa's hands are warm at the back of her neck.

"Of course your hair would still be perfect when all the rest of the world's gone to hell," she snipes, though there is no bite in it.

"I might have just cut it," Lucina says, not for the first time. "It would save us both the trouble." Sentiment has kept her hair long when practicality should demand it short, and there will be no room for sentiment in the past--if anything, there will be even less. Lucina tries not to dwell on the feeling of her mother's hands in her hair, a voice she's half-forgotten telling her that long hair is a pegasus knight's pride. She is not a pegasus knight, nor is she a hero-king for true, but hero-kings neither have nor need long hair.

"You mean you might as well have just chopped it off like a butcher with a hacksaw?" For all that her fingers twine through Lucina's hair with a grace that is natural before it could ever be practiced, Severa's derisive snort is distinctly unladylike. "Just make sure you watch this carefully so that you can do it yourself, okay?" In one sweep, Severa takes the two plaits of Lucina's hair and pulls them taut, tucking them beneath a shorter layer until no strands hang loose. Lucina can't help but wince in surprise as Severa rather brusquely pins the whole affair into place, and rules against asking where she had even been keeping hairpins. "There," she says, with no small trace of smugness at her handiwork.

The empty air around her collar feels naked and vulnerable, and Lucina cannot help but let her fingers wander up to feel it.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

They stand, and Severa will not meet her eyes. Lucina's tiara in hand, Severa crowns her with a reverence that holds no irony, lips parted and close enough to what, to kiss? Lucina can only hope she crowns a king and not a princess.

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wordfart: the tide that sticks around like something in your teeth

of course the first thing i'd write in 2014 would be satoenma.  post-loop rehab, this little scene just wouldn't leave me alone--ftr enma's suppressor is just a black band embedded into his skin at the base of his neck, so most shirts cover it up easily.

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"Stop," halfhearted, before he can even really stop himself. Their room is pitch-black, and the cold rushes back in over Enma's skin as Satoshi pulls away.

"It hurt?"

"No," Enma says, regretting having spoken in the first place--it's not like him. "Just feels weird." Satoshi's thumb brushes over the base of Enma's throat, the suppressor hums quietly in response, all at once deeming the touch nonthreatening, not a breach of conduct. It makes Enma shiver, like the uneasy sensation of vibrating teeth.

"Like a bad weird, or what?" Satoshi's question is entirely good-natured--a touch impish, ready to aggress or let it go depending on Enma's response.

"Mm," dry tongue across his lips, cracked from the cold and tender from a round of kisses just minutes before, it's not an answer either way.

"S'got kind of a hum to it," Satoshi observes.

"It's embarrassing," Enma says.

"Embarrassing?" He doesn't need to see Satoshi's smile to hear it in his voice, feel it in the way the hand on his throat moves to slide up his bare chest. Enma has yet to decide whether Satoshi's hands are always warm or if his own are always cold. "You get shy about the weirdest shit, man." Satoshi moves in the space between what little Enma has to say, kissing down his neck again, licking a stripe across the suppressor that is not entirely unpleasant this time.

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wordfart: they're kind of like team rocket only gross and also they kill each other sometimes

himeyou, probably just before everyone starts remembering past loops and figuring out how the system works?  fun fact of the day: himeko is a one-woman doujin circle with a pretty decent-sized following--obvs she puts out nothing but the raunchiest r-18 and r-18g.

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“Nice panties,” fingers at the edge of her skirt to push it up a little higher.

“Thanks,” at a clip, her smile is the kind that even models would have to practice in the mirror, “Not that you’d ever be able to afford them.”  Himeko sets the last stack of neatly-wrapped books on the ground with an exasperated huff too loud to be sincere.  At her desk, Youichi picks a stray volume up, flips through it.

“People buy this shit from you?”

“People eat this shit out of my hands,” Himeko says, breezy.  “I sold out at the last four conventions I tabled--if you bend the corner, you’re buying it from me, you skeevy fuck.”  Turning to the last page of the book, Youichi folds a nice, deep dog ear into the page.  “What are you, five?  God, you’re so gross.”

“Not as gross as you, sweetheart,” and out of context, it could almost sound affectionate.

“Of course not!  I’ve aspired to levels of grossness that you couldn’t even get to in, like, your wettest dreams.”  She stands at his side, arms akimbo--in response, he settles more comfortably into the chair.  “Have it your way,” unceremoniously plopping down on Youichi’s lap with enough force to make him grunt a little under his breath.  He still slides his arms around her waist, nuzzles at the spot behind her ear until she swats at him, almost absently.  “Stop that!  God, why do I even hang out with you?”  A beat, “Oh, wait, I know.  Because I’m the only person who knows just how nasty you are?  I mean, you totally started it, but you’re such a weirdo about everyone thinking that you’re some nice guy instead of, like, an actual asshole.  At least,” and she’s sure by now he’s contemplating offing her, “I’m honest about it, yeah?”