#(he has that homing pigeon genes after all)

[aliteralmine]

trobed during epidemiology vs trobed during geothermal escapism

"This story is a tragedy because it didn't have to end this way."

vs

"This story is a tragedy because it was always going to end this way."

[vaya-writes]

Not Quite A Life Debt - 3

A handful of f reader insert scenes with m demonic love interests. Fluff, hurt/comfort, and smutty shenanigans that lean kind of poly.

You (kind of unnecessarily) tried to save Ludwig’s life. Out of pity, he lets you crash at his place for a few weeks after. It probably wouldn’t be so bad, but he doesn’t live alone. Reader stays with the triplets until she gets back on her feet. Smut, family shenanigans, and possibly even romance ensues.

Mervin is kind of crabby after his heat he gets sick. You begin searching for employment. And Ludwig helps you out on a high pain day. 5900 words.

Content warnings for this chapter include: mild isolation, some blame from the resident pride demon, pain and sickness during menstruation, the briefest and undescribed animal death (Obie eats a pigeon), and smut.

Smut warnings include: consensual fingering and groping whilst menstrating, brief joking/discussion of menstural oral (does not actually occur), soft stuff that turns a little rough, unintentional and unplanned breath play (hand over mouth), nonconsensual biting (from both parties), dry humping, semi-public sexual stuff, lack of aftercare because of an interruption.

Divider by firefly-graphics. Characters by @eldritch-spouse.

Masterlist - A03 - Previous

You get used to living in Perdition.  

Well, it would be more accurate to say you get used to living with Ludwig and his brothers. You’re not allowed to leave the house by yourself; the triplets make no secret of the fact that they live in a bad neighbourhood – a bad ring, as Ludwig puts it.  

It’s frustrating, but you don’t doubt them. It only takes a few brief tours around the area for you to understand. You attract stares everywhere you go. Leers, really. And watching what demons do to each other (both strangers on the street, and the brothers among themselves), you hate to imagine what they might do to a human. 

It’s as if everyone here speaks several additional languages that humans just aren’t fluent with (literal infernal aside). Greed. Hunger. Violence. The first time you watch Mervin and Ludwig descend into a proper argument, you’re horrified. Nothing you’d seen at home – and you were no stranger to domestic scraps – could prepare you for it. Teeth and claws and broken furniture. Mervin draws a gods-damned weapon. You’d seen people fight before. But not like this. You’d dismissed yourself and locked yourself in the spare room the first time it had happened.  

Obie had dragged the two upstairs by the horns and made them apologise for scaring you. 

It’s not the only thing you notice. You don’t put your finger on it for a while. It takes several outings with the triplets, several more incidents and scraps before you start to suspect another key difference between demons and humans.  

It has something to do with their priorities. Their sense of self. Their interactions within a community. Humans aren’t selfless, by any means. But bonds form fast between them. Connections are quickly made, common goals are easily worked towards, and interconnectedness is practically built into our genes. The human instinct for empathy, to help those around us, to lean on each other for support – it's as if demons lack it.  

It truly is survival of the fittest for them. You suspect that if a demon can’t survive alone, they won’t survive at all. You see it in the way they think of themselves first. How Obie might reach for your food, before hesitating. Or Mervin opens his mouth to speak, before thinking better. That consideration, cohesion are learned traits. Conscious choices to practice, and not instinct.  

It scares you more in strangers. That the curiosity is not the first thing demons look at you with, but hunger. You’d feel like prey if you didn’t watch them do it to each other too. Like every person is a mark; looked at with the question ‘what can I gain from using you’ before asking something more basic, like ‘who are you’.  

Long story short, you don’t mind keeping to the house. 

The first time you go anywhere without them, it’s to Sloth, to stay with Katia. The circumstances are odd. Mervin had just come back from one of his extended trips. He’d strode through the door, seen you in the lounge and frozen for a moment, before stamping straight to his bedroom, and shutting the door with a slam. Ludwig had come home early that day and explained that Mervin was sick and needed the house to himself for a week. 

It didn’t make sense to you. But what did you know? Mervin was almost never around. You didn’t know what he was like when he was sick. Still, the hesitation when Ludwig had explained the situation, the look he shared with his mother when he dropped you off at her place – it led you to suspect that a key piece of information was being kept from you.  

It fills you with paranoia. But Katia is lovely. Spending time with her helps ease the anxiety in your chest. Most of her hours are spent at work or sleeping, but the moments of lucidity she spends with you are enjoyable. She shows you how to cook a few new meals. Lets you go through her photo albums and look at baby pictures of her sons. On the weekend she even takes you clothes shopping, and for the first time in almost a month you feel at ease, wearing clothes that you’ve chosen for yourself.  

When Katia returns you back to the common ring, Mervin is still home. He’s currently your least favourite triplet, but you make an effort to smile. “Feeling better?” 

He scowls, and you’re surprised at the amount of vitriol in his expression. “As if that’s your business.” 

You try not to visibly deflate. 

Katia tsks and frowns at her son. She pats you on the back. “He’s just embarrassed, sweetie. Don’t you pay him any mind.” 

She gives you a peck on the cheek before leaving, and sound of the door closing sends a wave of dread through you. You really don’t want to be alone with Mervin. 

But when you turn his expression has softened. If only marginally. He tilts his head. “She likes you.” 

You’re not sure what to say. You shrug as you take your shoes off. “We had fun.” 

You feel his stare on you, even as you cross the room. You head towards the kitchen, hoping for something to eat.  

“She bought you clothes.”  

His tone is almost accusatory. You can’t help but flush, shame starting to weigh on you. “She’s very kind.” 

To your dismay, he follows you to the kitchen. He crosses his arms and watches when you pull out the materials for a sandwich. Uncomfortable, you ask, “Do you want one?”  

He scoffs. “How long are you going to keep eating our food? Wearing our clothes?” 

You don’t let it show, but his words strike deep. You’re more than aware of the position you’re in. You cast your eyes towards the task at hand. Prepping food. “I don’t like it either. But it’s kind of hard to find a job when I’m forbidden from leaving the house.” 

He crosses his arms. “Excuses.” 

 “Did you want to escort me to Earth every morning?”  

“Now you’re asking us for transport too?” 

You’ve had enough. It’s either cry or snap. And you are not going to cry in front of Mervin. Instead you slam your knife to the counter.  

“I didn’t ask for this. I did not ask to be shunted from place to place my whole damn life. I’m sorry if that inconveniences you,” your tone is in no way apologetic.  

He’s silent as you leave. 

Immediately upon returning to your room, you regret the encounter. The last thing you need to be doing is antagonising your benefactors. But still. Ludwig was the one who invited you here, and if Mervin has a problem, he should be taking it up with his brother. 

-- 

You finally get a new job.  

It’s not without its difficulties – transit mainly. One of the triplets has to take you through a series of rifts. One to Earth. One to continent you hail from. Another to a large town. Ludwigs talks about establishing a proper route, about using the most stable rifts, and being prepared for a disruption to travel if any of them close. There’s a lot of jargon you don’t really understand. But he gets you back to Earth. Back to ‘gainful employment’.   

Mervin straight up refuses to be your escort. He’s not around enough anyway. Ludwig handles it most days, but Obie is always available to fill in when Ludwig is busy elsewhere. Neither seem to mind your spotty hours. You tell the triplets when you start and finish, and they’re usually able to have you delivered on time. 

Sometimes you take an afternoon for yourself. Spending time in a human city is good for you. You visit a library. Buy yourself necessities. Even do some grocery shopping. Nobody seems to fault you for it, and Mervin certainly complains less when you start bringing home your own food.  

And so you fall into the new routine. Working four to six days a week. Ludwig or sometimes Obie walking you there, chatting about your day or your plans. Finally starting to feel at ease in their home, now that you’re less of an imposition.  

You’re a shift worker, usually working mornings at a cafe. Your customer service is without fault and you know how to use a coffee machine. It was enough to get you the job. That and your eclectic resume. 

There’re still moments that throw you off. Behaviours from the triplets that take you by surprise, or the occasional week when you’re banished to Katia as one of them comes down sick with something. The three of them are rarely united about anything, but they all seem intent on keeping you in the dark regarding that odd ritual. 

One morning you wake up and are immediately torn over whether or not you should go to work. It’s a little late to call in. And Obie had already promised to take you. But your underwear are saturated with blood and your gut is torn up in cramps. Your period isn’t usually this bad, but you can already tell that today is going to be a hard one. 

You decide to suck it up. It’s just a bit of cramping. Of pain in your joints. Sure, it’s nauseating, and it takes a few minutes before you can stand and walk without limping. But you’ve done this before, and you can do it again. You didn’t survive this long by flaking out of work when things got tough. 

You almost miss the odd look Obie gives you as you head downstairs. Perhaps you mistake it for sympathy. You wear a grimace and make no effort to hide your discomfort. Still, Obie doesn’t say much on your way to work. He seems distracted, focusing his attention on the details around him, often picking up items to chew on.  

You try not to gape at the number of small things that disappear as you pass. A handful of bark flakes from a pot plant. A table number at an outdoor cafe. A pile of junk wrappers from his pockets. (Garbage from the pavement. A handful of leaves and twigs and flowers from any trees you pass. An actual bird that doesn’t have the fortune to flee in time.) He’s not hidden his gluttonous habits from you, from what you can tell, but today he consumes far more than usual. You wonder if he’s unwell.  

You put it out of mind when you get to work, saying your goodbyes and clocking in for the day.  

You don’t last long. It’s probably only an hour or two before you’re curled up on the couch in the break room, banished there after the manager spotted you limping. She tells you to go home. You’re torn between humiliation and gratitude. You send a message off to Obie.  

Unwell. Can you bring me home early? 

He sends you a thumbs up and you’re left to wait. 

His behaviour on the way home is almost distraction enough from your pain.  There’s pretty much always something in his mouth; this time he’d brought food from home with him. You watch curiously as he pulls out several sticks of gum when his food is gone. He only chews for a moment before he’s swallowed them too. It’d almost be funny if he didn’t seem so distracted. Ravenous to a degree which you’ve never seen. 

“Are you alright?” You ask at one point. 

He finally glances your way. Shrugs. “Smelt something tasty.” 

The explanation makes sense, if a little understated. You give him a sympathetic nod.  

Obie drops you off at the door before mumbling his excuses and leaving.  

You make a beeline for the lounge, planning to lay down and watch some tv. You grimace as you round the corner – Ludwig is already sprawled across the couch. 

“Is there room for me?” 

“Thought you had work?” He doesn’t quite straighten, but he does change his angle, leaving enough space for you to squeeze in beside him. 

Carefully, you do. “I was sent home sick.” 

Ludwig tenses and turns your way.  “You smell like blood.” 

You grimace.  

You know that demons have superhuman senses, and that such things are normal to them. But you still can’t help but feel self-conscious around them. Every time your heart speeds up, or your breath hitches, you have to wonder if anyone notices. If anyone overanalyses it. If they can tell when you forget to wear deodorant or can smell your lunch on your breath.  

You’d go crazy if you let yourself worry about it too much. After moving in with the triplets you decided to believe that they might notice these things, but they likely wouldn’t care. The same way you’d react if you saw a customer with a large zit, or a coworker having a bad hair day. You choose not to make a big deal about the things people can’t change. 

But if Ludwig is going to bring up the little details, if he’s going to speak without tact, why should you? 

“Probably because I’m bleeding from my vagina.” 

Ludwig winces. “Oh. Oh.” He snorts. "Guess that explains his behaviour.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

Ludwig gestures to the door. “Obie. Your blood. The smell.” He shrugs. “Delish.” 

Your nose crinkles. “Gross.” 

He grins. “I thought humans loved the blood drinking gimmick. Ya’ll go mad for vampires.” 

“Pop culture aside, I doubt many of us want to consider period blood in that context.” 

“Why? Blood is blood.” 

Your lip curls. “It’s different. Different composition. Different texture... Full of waste products... I really don’t want to think about it.” 

“I’ve seen that demon eat literal garbage. I don’t think he’s worried about your waste products.” 

“Don’t say it like that.”  

He doesn’t get a chance to tease you further, straightening when another series of cramps has you tucking your knees to your chest, gripping your abdomen to ease the pain. 

“You alright?” 

Your reply is hoarse. “Just peachy.” 

He touches his hand to your back. “What usually helps?” 

“Heat pack. Pain killers.”  

“I can have Ob bring some home. What else?” 

You clutch a cushion to your chest and rest your head against the couch end. “It’s fine. It’s just pain. I don’t want-” you stop. Restart. “You don’t need to do anything else.” 

Your eyes spring open when Ludwig grabs a fistful of your hair. Starts tugging on it. Gentle tugs, reminiscent of schoolyard teasing. Until a sudden yank that leaves your scalp stinging. 

“Ow!” Impulse has you slapping his hand away. “The fuck is your problem?” 

His voice doesn’t hold a drop of concern: fastidiously sweet. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” The tone drops and becomes resolute. “You should let me make it up to you. Tell me how to make you feel better.” 

You scoff at the ploy. “There’s nothing to do. Unless you want to spend the next few days waiting on me.” 

He pinches your cheek. “What, you want some coddling?” 

You swat him away again. “Your words, not mine.” 

“Hmm.” He rearranges himself. Before you have a chance to protest, you’re pulled between his legs, your back to his chest in an awkward embrace. “How’s this?” 

Your eyes are wide open now, and you’re stiff with surprise. Ludwig hadn’t struck you as the cuddling type. 

You’re still formulating a reply when he wraps an arm around your midsection, his forearm coming to rest against where your cramps are strongest. You note the heat, normally oppressive, seeping through the back of your shirt to relax your muscles. 

“That’s... that’s actually great. Fuck.” 

His chest rumbles with a laugh. 

You frozen, still unsure how to respond to the proximity. You haven’t been hugged in... a long time. 

 He pinches you again. “So what’s this shit about you imposing?” 

“I didn’t say-” 

“You implied.” He adopts a higher pitch, in mockery of your voice, “’You don’t need to do anything, being here is enough because I’m so sad and pitiful, wah.’” 

You mumble out a curse. “I don’t sound like that.” 

“You going to answer the question?” 

Your nose crinkles and you cross your arms. This isn’t a conversation you want to have. “I don’t like relying on other people.” 

“Obviously. Why?”  

You shrug. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” 

There’s a silence before Ludwig sighs. His fingers tangle in your hair again, this time to scratch at your scalp. It feels nice. 

“Are you always like this, or did Mervin say something?” 

You scowl, not pleased to have been read so easily. Your silence is answer enough. 

“I’ve lived with those two for decades. Believe me when I tell you that you’re a perfectly pleasant housemate in comparison. You’re tidier, quieter, more polite-” 

You shrug off his words. He’s not wrong. But years of living precariously has instilled into you a deep wariness of getting comfortable.  

“-and I told you that Mervin would talk shit.” He pauses, just enough for smugness to creep into his tone. “He likes you, you know.” 

You huff. “Doubtful.” 

“Yeah, he’d never tell it to your face, but I know my brother. And he’s said some pretty interesting things when you’re not around.” 

You almost turn to check his expression. Your stillness has probably given away your interest.  

“I don’t believe you.” 

Ludwig shrugs. “Believe me or don’t. But I know he likes you.” 

You chew on your lip, considering your recent interactions with the demon. If he likes you, he isn't very good at showing it. 

“Not as much as Obie though.” 

You get the distinct impression that you’re being teased. It��s hard to be mad with Ludwig kneading your shoulders, but still, you feel ill at ease. “You’re just making fun of them.” 

“I’m serious. Why else would he be so jittery today?” 

“You said that I smelt tasty.” 

“Do you think everyone smells good to him?” 

You scrunch your eyes closed. Lean your head back to rest against his shoulder. He’s starting to give you a headache. “How would I know?”  

“I guess you wouldn’t. Good thing I'm here to keep you informed.” 

You roll your eyes. “That’s such a Mervin thing to say.” 

He crinkles his nose. Flicks you on the forehead.  

And despite yourself, you start to relax. It’s incremental. You’re still uncomfortable. You’re in pain and leaning against an absolute furnace of a demon. But your muscles loosen, and your breathing evens.  

You could probably sleep off the worst of your cramps if Ludwig stopped fussing. His ministrations aren’t particularly disruptive, but they do hold your attention. He squeezes your shoulders. Presses the flat of his palm above your mons, where the pain is worst. Gently scratches at your scalp and massages the back of your neck. 

You haven’t been just touched in a long time, and there’s a walled off piece of you that stirs to life at each point of contact.  

When he wraps his hand around your throat, the heat and firmness of his grip nearly have you melting. It’s enough to have you forgetting yourself, and you let out a hum of satisfaction. 

“You know, I’ve heard orgasms relieve pain.” 

Reality slams back into you, leaving you hyperaware of how you’re draped across Ludwig’s lap. The work he’d put into relaxing you is completely undone as you thrum with tension. Your mouth shuts tight with embarrassment.  

Your jaw is stiff when you reply. “Are you coming on to me?” 

He huffs a laugh. “Maybe. I guess.” 

You struggle to process. “Weren’t you just telling me that Obie liked me?” 

“Mm. You do have a knack for charming my family.” 

That doesn’t answer your implication. “Wouldn’t he be upset?” 

Ludwig shrugs. “First come, first served. And if he really has a problem, I don’t mind sharing.” 

You almost sit up, thoroughly scandalised and shocked.  

Almost. 

Ludwig is silent. Patient. Awaiting a response. Or perhaps just content to watch you reel. 

You take a breath. Try to consider his suggestion.  

It has its appeal. You haven’t gotten off in a while. Long enough that just sitting in Ludwig’s lap is enough to set your heart racing. But thinking about any form of intimacy ties your stomach up in knots that have nothing to do with your period. 

“I don’t want to fuck this up.” You’re thinking of your position here. Your welcome, and the things that could change if you were to start a casual fling.  

His lips brush your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “No strings attached. I’m just offering to help out a friend. Relieve some pain.” 

“Get your dick wet?” 

His hand creeps upwards, dipping under the hem of your shirt. It's hard to concentrate on anything else. “Not even.” 

You bite your lip, frozen with consideration. Anticipation.  

You like Ludwig well enough. He’s handsome, even. Rough around the edges, sure, but disarming with his occasional teasing and laid-back behaviour.  

“No strings attached?” 

“None.” 

“No further expectations?” 

He lets out a huff. “You can say no.” 

You shake your head. You’re not opposed. Just wary. Scared, even. 

But if he’s being genuine- if you have nothing to lose from accepting his help- 

Your knees fall apart and you relax further into Ludwig’s grasp.  

Then why not? 

“Okay.” 

Given permission, his hand disappears beneath your shirt. Traces the contours of your stomach. It almost tickles, how gentle he’s being. Something you hadn’t expected. With his free hand he squeezes your thigh. What limited area he can reach in this position is subject to deep, massaging touches.  

It helps to relax you, until your head is lolling back and your muscles are going slack again. And at first it seems like he’s content to just explore. Mapping out your abdominals. Your ribs. The underside of your breasts.  

He thumbs at the bra and tsks.  

“That can’t be too comfortable.” 

You hum your agreement. 

“Are you attached to this bra?” 

You shrug and shake your head. It’s just a plain white bra, one of multiple you own. 

“Good.” 

You’re pulled out of your lull by the sound of tearing cloth. Air touches your breasts, and you realise what he’s done. 

“You shit-” 

He grips you by the jaw, movements taking on a hint of force. Impatience or desire, you’re not sure. But your words are cut off when he crushes his lips to yours, tongue invading your mouth. 

The tips of his claws dig into your flesh where he grips your thigh. The sudden intensity has you reeling. Fuzziness closes in on your thoughts, enough to keep you pliant. There’s a part of you that’s indignant about the bra. The rough treatment. But mostly, you just want to see what he does next. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips. “Wanted to see you. Feel you.” He emphasises with a squeeze of your breast. 

He goes back to kneading your thighs and you can’t help but squirm. You need your pants off. Now. You need to feel him against your skin. 

Impatient, you unzip them. Manage to shimmy them down to your ankles before giving up. But Ludwig gets the idea. 

Teasing, he runs a single digit up the inside of your thigh. The point of his nail prickles against your skin, hard enough to hurt. 

You can’t stop your hips from twitching. The shuddering intake of air. Your murmured little, “Fuck.” 

The sound must do things for Ludwig, because he stills. Then takes hold of your throat, nuzzling your neck and grinding against your back. You become aware of his erection.  

“You sound good,” he says against your ear.  

He palms your core and huffs a laugh when you shudder. “Feel good too.” 

You’re wet. When had that happened? Slick to the point where it’s too easy for him to stroke you through the cotton. It’s impossible to miss when he runs a claw directly over your clit. 

You buck, biting back a little groan. It’s getting harder to think. To control yourself. 

Ludwig chuckles at your response. “Someone’s keen.”  

You want to retort, but only manage a whine in response. He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last time somebody touched you like this. 

Almost as if to punish you, his hand leaves your underwear. You do whimper this time, when he takes hold of your throat. The grip is solid, but not choking. Enough to scare you. Thrill you. But still light enough to keep you at ease. Even if you wish he’d go back to stroking your clit. 

He presses his lips to yours again. Starts to knead and squeeze at your breasts. 

You protests slip away as he fondles you. The pain too- you're too preoccupied by the cold air on your chest. The scrape of claws against your skin. At the hot breath on your face, the kiss with entirely too much teeth, and the tongue that keeps stuffing into your mouth.  

He’s more intense than you’d expected; the hand around your throat drifting up to grip your jaw. He ignores your attempt to break away for air. Steers you back towards him, insatiable and eager. The heat of his skin turning the kiss sweltering. Sweaty. Almost too warm. Too crowded.  

But damn if you aren’t into it. 

Finally you grab him by a horn and yank his face away, desperate for air, for an inch of space. 

It doesn’t deter Ludwig. He just reaches back towards your underwear, pressing kisses against your neck instead. Sucking hard against the tender flesh of your shoulder. Relishing the gasps he draws from you. Rubbing between your legs again. 

You’re deeply embarrassed by the way your underwear are starting to stick to you. It has you torn, the desire to be touched combatting your reluctance to be vulnerable. An instinctual compromise has you covering your face.  

“None of that,” Ludwig intercepts you by the wrist, pinning your arm to the couch. “I want to hear you.” 

You’ve no choice but to let your head slump back. It’s an effort not to clench your jaw, to let your body relax. To allow your composure to fall, and a string of soft gasps to escape you. 

It’s a blessing when he pulls your underwear aside. The cold air shocks you out of your self consciousness. Pulls you out of your own head a little more. 

There’s a moment of tension before he touches you, your knees spread as far as you can manage, trying not to cant your hips with how desperate you are for friction. 

He doesn’t touch your clit straight away. Your control breaks pretty easily, and you find your hips leaving the couch, seeking out his touch. 

He huffs a laugh against your ear, stilling his hand and waiting for you to settle.  

With the softest little huff you do, nearly vibrating out of your skin with the effort it takes to keep still as he places his hand on your mons. Strokes across your vulva. Spreading you open and exposing your wetness to the air. 

“If I’d known we’d be doing this, I’d have filed down my claws." 

You become hyperaware of them. Tense. With anxiety, with anticipation. Part of you is afraid of pain. Of a possible misstep. But mostly you just want to be touched. 

Ludwig flexes his hand. Rubs you with the pads of his fingers quite harmlessly. His free arm wraps around your chest and holds you in place when he finally touches your clit.  

You arch at the touch, inhaling shakily.  

It’s nothing fancy. It’s not like you haven’t touched yourself the same way before. 

But the breath on your neck, the change of scenery, the erection pressing into your back- 

“Shit,” you murmur.  

Then you’re coming against his fingers, far too quickly. 

Ludwig clamps a hand over your mouth. Your moans come out muffled; still entirely lewd. You grip his forearm, nails digging into his skin as you arch against him.  

His chest rumbles at the contact and he grips you tighter, grinding against your ass. In a moment that both startles you and extends the aftershocks of your orgasm, you feel teeth clamp down on your shoulder. Hard, jagged, just shy of breaking the skin. 

Your moans turn into whines and you buck against him. He only grips you harder, hand skewing enough to cover your nose too. You’re not getting any air, and while part of you panics, another part of you melts. Light headedness kind of feels nice when your heart is pounding and pleasure is still rolling through your being.  

Still, all things in moderation.  

Soon you can hear your heart in your ears and your chest is aching for air. Your wriggling doesn’t dissuade Ludwig at all, but you desperately need to breathe. You could probably communicate this to him, could probably just tug his hand away from your face. But your limbs aren’t really back under your control yet, so instead you do the next best thing and bite him. 

“Oh- f-fuck.” 

His hand leaves your face as he grips you by the hips. Holding you in place as he grinds against you, lowly groaning against your shoulder.  

He stills. 

You both pant heavily in the following silence. 

“Did you just...” 

He relaxes back against the couch. “Oops.” 

“Ludwig!” 

Your embarrassment at how quickly you came is immediately washed away. You turn to stare your disbelief, but Ludwig isn’t even looking at you. His brow is raised, and he’s looking up towards the doorway- 

The front door opens. 

“Hey, sorry, I forgot my phone-” 

Obie only takes two steps into the room before his head whips towards you and he freezes. 

You’re still hazy, and for a moment nobody reacts. Then shame rushes in and you’re yanking your shirt down, clamping your knees shut. Your mouth opens, and you want to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out. 

Ludwig wipes his hand on his pants and snorts. “I guess you caught me... red handed?” 

Eyes wide, you turn to him, incredulous. How can he be joking right now? 

A noise escapes the glutton. The sound of air- a hiss or perhaps a sharp inhale.  You don’t have a chance to identify it further before his brows crease and his shoulders square. He reaches towards the wall, blindly groping for the first object in range.  He rips a poster from its place. And stuffs it into his mouth. 

Ludwig straightens. “Really? You’re going to be like that?” 

Obie's jaw sets. He swipes one of the t-shirts hanging off the back of the couch – one of Ludwig’s. And swallows it whole too.  

Ludwig sighs. “C’mon man, that was a collectible.” 

Incensed, Obie continues, grabbing at knickknacks across the room and stuffing them into his mouth. You notice all of them belong to Ludwig.  

You’re surprised that Ludwig doesn’t move from his spot. Doesn’t act to stop his brother, only grumbling at each disappearing item. 

You wince at the crunch of ceramic as Obie chews on a mug. Otherwise you’re still frozen in place, not sure what to make of the scene. 

“I told you he liked you,” Ludwig mutters. 

“You did what?” Obie says around a mouthful of pottery, his voice shrill. 

“What? It’s not like you were being subtle.” 

Before you have a chance to blink Obie is striding across the room. Mouth still full of ceramic, he starts to cuss Ludwig out, reaching out to grab him by the shirt, heedless of your proximity.  

Ludwig just keeps smirking. 

You wriggle out of his lap, unnerved by the prospect of being caught between two warring demons. Still jelly legged, you yank up your pants and stand, not wanting to be anywhere near them if they’re going to have it out. 

But you stagger.  

Pain flares through your abdomen and a hiss escapes from between your teeth.  

Obie and Ludwig fall silent, still. Before- 

“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” and “Hey, we didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

They both miss the mark, but share twin looks of remorse. 

You shake your head. “Just period pain. Standing hurts.” 

They reach for you at the same time.  

“Did getting off help? Do you want more?”  

“Have you had any meds? Or some food to settle your stomach?” 

The fretting is short lived however, when Obie pauses and shoots Ludwig what you can only assume is his version of a glare. 

“Seriously? That was your excuse?” 

Ludwig shrugs. “She needed a little pampering.” 

“Pampering. Is stuff like a foot rub. Or brushing her hair. Or carrying her bag. Not sticking your fingers inside of her!” 

You bite your lip at the statement. You’d convinced yourself that a short fling with Ludwig wouldn’t be a big deal. But Obie might be right. You’d done it in the house they shared. In a space they shared. After having been told that the glutton had feelings for you. 

It really was a dick move. You should have considered what might happen if you were caught. Taken things to a private room. Turned him down completely. Anything but what you’d done. 

Obie and Ludwig don’t look like they’re going to come to blows. But you don’t want to stick around and listen to their bickering. It’d only embarrass you. Guilt you. 

“I’m going to lay down,” you mutter, heading for the stairs. 

The pair fall silent.  

Obie follows you upstairs. You really hope he won’t stop you. You don’t know what to say. 

“Hey.” 

You do your best to wipe the discomfort off your face before turning to face him. “Hi.” 

His cheeks are red, and he twiddles his thumbs, before stuffing his hands into his pockets. And pulling them out to fidget again. 

“I- uh. There’s chocolate. In my room. If you want some.” 

Standing there, pain creeping up your back, loose bits of your bra hanging limp under your shirt, and a mess of blood and slick in your underwear, you try not to grimace. 

“That’s sweet of you Obie.” You’re tired. Tired of being perceived and fussed over. Of being embarrassed. Of feeling gross. But you get the feeling that if you blow Obie off right now, you might damage something irreparably between you. “Normally I’d love some, but-” 

“I’m sorry.” 

You blink. “Huh?” 

“I wasn’t trying to shame either of you. I was just... jealous. Mad. That he made a move before I could. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

It takes you a few moments to decide your reply. 

“I need a shower. And to change.” 

His face falls and he steps back. Forces a little laugh. “Oh. Of course. I’ll just be-” 

“I’ll come by after? If you want?” 

He stills, as if surprised by your reply. The embarrassment leaves his features and he straightens, “Yeah, okay. I’ll just tidy up a bit. See you in a bit?” 

You drudge up a smile and reply before turning back to your door. “See you in a bit.” 

[fanficwriterlover]

Safe With A Ghost

18+ Readers Only

Chapter 9: All I Ever Wanted

Summary: Like any other day, returning back from missions Ghost/Simon really takes a moment to appreciate his life, and how lucky he is to have you...but now he sees there's more to it than he ever thought he'd imagine.

Expectations:~

Pet-Names: Pigeon & Lovie

Word Count: 2.4k

Simon "Ghost" Riley Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been a couple months, since Simon's return. He still went on missions but definitely did his best to keep you more updated as well, thanks to Price's help too. Colton was on his chest sleeping holding his toy lion. His hair has grown out more, it was blonde, obviously getting his genes which you'd always seem to jokingly complain about. His eyes however were your color and he was getting your skin complexion for sure. He stroked his small son on his chest as he rests, they were on the couch, you went to the store to collect some more groceries. Simon had returned from a last co-op mission, was only gone for a week, he had returned last night to your surprise. With that, you were insistent on making him dinner tonight. He absolutely didn't mind, he loved your cooking. Since being a full time stay at home mom, you started to have a passion for cooking. Looking at the clock, he noticed you have been gone for almost an hour, he frowned a bit, a part of him was starting to worry something had happen. Tempting to stand up even though would wake their son, you open the front door coming in. His eyes met your figure as he immediately began to sit up gently pulling Colton into an upright position against him as he walked over to take some groceries from your arm. "Gimme that Pigeon-"

You look at him seeing the still sleeping Colton in his arms pulling away hissing at him "No, I got it. Colton sleeping in your arms still." Simon gave you that stern hard eye look, one you sure was not even close to compare to what his rookies have to deal with. You relented, he took some of the groceries from your hand setting them down then looks at you "Is that it ?" You blush a bit "Um well, I did get a few more things" he grumbled a bit as Colton squirmed sleepily in his arms. He gently handed off your son to you as you took him "Simon-" you get another stern look as you bite your lip holding you big 9 month old son mumbling softly "Fine...bossy" he chuckles going out to the car to get the rest of the grocery, it seemed almost natural to be well, normal. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that here he can be Simon Riley, but off this property he's Lieutenant Ghost, someone people feared him as, but for once he isn't looked at as a military use. He looks at his home, as he thought about the night the two of you talked more like a normal couple~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two of you were laying on the couch, you were laying on his side, with your head laying on his chest, his arm around your waist as the two of you lazily enjoyed your evening together after tucking Colton to sleep. It was times like this he enjoyed himself and felt selfish for keeping you knowing his lifestyle and how much you endured. The tv was playing some show, that neither of you truly watched just something to have on the screen as you broke the silence "Do you ever think about our future Simon ?" Your voice was almost hush, he considers your question using his thumb to stroke your side "Mm, sometimes. What's on your mind ?" You look up at him he wore his normal balaclava skull mask, as you gently prop yourself up "Like Retiring ? Having another baby ? Or maybe even-" you seem to contemplate on saying it as he could tell you were hesitant "Go on Pigeon" his eyes now fully on you as you blush more pushing back a strand of your hair, a sign he knew too well that you were nervous "Maybe, getting married ?" This actually surprised him, his eyes were wide slightly, studying you as you seem to shift on his chest "Don't give me that look Simon" his eyes relax "What look ?" You whack him on his chest getting a low chuckle and grunt "I'm serious Simon...I think we should talk about it"

How your eyes bore into him, he knew he couldn't resist or escape. He sighs softly resting his head back down "What's there to talk about." you purse your lips, with the cutest frown as Simon always thought "I want to know how you feel about it...I know Colton wasn't exactly planned, but makes me wonder if at all you would've wanted a kid if we did talk about it." Looking back into your eyes, he processed your words judging from how locked you were on him to get an answer he knew it was unavoidable, this wasn't his strong suit. He grumbles softly "Honestly, you knew I was-" as you interjected "Scared ?" Wiggling your brow to challenge him to counter, he knew how you were so he let it slide pinching the bridge of his nose sucking in a breath "but- I wouldn't change it. Planned or not. I know I would've wanted my life to be with you." He looks at your gaze, you looked relieved hearing these words stroking his chest as he reached his hand over yours, taking into his holding it, "I honestly never thought we'd get far...." He mumbles softly this made you look at him surprised "You thought I'd break up with you at one point ?" He frowns a bit studying your delicate fingers.

You knew Simon struggled opening up so you gave a gentle squeeze on the hand he was holding dipping your head softly for him to continue. He obviously understood as he spoke lowly "The day...I almost lost you. I thought you'd want to leave me for sure. Even if you weren't pregnant then, still makes me wonder, if you hadn't, I wouldn't have blamed you for leaving. You got hurt because of me." He frowned more the image of your nearly limp body that time running down the staircase, from driving in the van holding your body, to pacing the med bay halls waiting to hear if you made it through. Even as you live in breathe in front of him he can't help but blame himself for endangering you because of the life he chose. You could see he was obviously in a trance in his mind, thinking of every scenario probably as you lean up lifting his balaclava to kiss his scar on his lip "Simon...even then-" you pause waiting to have his attention which you did, his eyes fully on you "I still wouldn't have left you. Sure I was scared...but if I didn't date you and that had happened to me, I would've been dead." Apparently that pulled a chord on Simon, cause his eyes widen, they looked fearful bracing you at your hips tightly and then pulling you up closer. You blushed surprised as he spoke deeply, almost threatening the idea "I wouldn't have let that happened" you smile gently kissing him on the lips, which he kissed back with the same force and passion, you part your lips from his, after an aggressive kiss panting near his lips "I know Simon...I'm still here. But seriously...do you ever think about marrying me ? I don't even care if it's in front of our friends and family or if we just run to the courthouse. I just want my life to end with you, and be with you even in the after life." You say out of breath. He processed your words searching your eyes, as if hoping to find something as you saw the slight twitched of his lip, until it formed a soft smile "Yeah, I'd like that too one day Pigeon." You blush as he chuckles leaning close to kiss your neck then whispers near your ear "Maybe even give you another Riley Jr." He says husky as you blush even brighter as you countered back with a slight smirk "What if it's a girl ?" He frowns deeply eyeing you "Then God help us, if she's as stubborn as you" the two of you laughed before the conversation dragged on to the idea of having another kid and what else the two of you would want to do together.

Back in the Present

That was the last time either of you had discussed that topic, a part of him wondered and worried if maybe you were losing interest in him. Perhaps you were just tolerating him because he's your son's father. Gripping the last grocery bags he looked at the house intently, a part of him wondered if he was willing to take the next step. Sure was a huge step having Colton, but he had learned to love his son dearly and actually enjoy the life of a child that is of him and you. Being with you truly brought him peace, especially from wars and endless fighting he does from long missions. You truly were his light in this darkness. Maybe just maybe...should he ? He walked back into the house setting the bags on the counter, seeing you holding their son as you were bouncing him in your arms. Colton was laughing, obviously happy with the motion and attention you were making. When you looked at him he couldn't help but feel his lips twitch. This was his family.

You could see Simon was almost in a daze, as you approached him tentatively speaking softly "Simon...you okay ?" Her brows creased with concern, as he quickly changed his demeanor. "Yeah, I'm good love. How about I put that bugger to bed so you and I can have our dinner together." It was late. You nod your head giving a kiss on Colton head as Simon grabbed your son taking him to his bedroom. Watching both your boys go made your heart throb. It was something you never expected but absolutely adored. You began getting the food together, the ingredients, the pans as you started the long cooking progress.

Simon was putting Colton down to bed in his crib, one the toddler had room with his toys and such. He looked at his son for a moment as the boys eyes seem to be drowsy, he was an easy sleeper. Simon looks at his son, seem to fight his drowsiness almost fighting himself to stay awake but those little eye lids closed shut and he was down. This made Simon consider deeply She's given me everything...and I've given her nothing. Leaving his son's room going into their shared bedroom, he opened his dresser drawer grabbing something from there and putting it in his pocket. What's the worse that can happen right ? Simon seemed to be fighting in his head the whole way down the stairs as he saw you finishing up the dinner food. You look his way giving him a beautiful smile, one that made his heart flutter with pride that you were his and only his. Approaching you he wraps his arms around your waist looking over your shoulder, his eyes slitted as he inhales "Smells good...." He mumbles softly as she give a soft hum "Glad you like the smell...it's almost done. Want to set the table ?" He nods his head as he lifts up his mask to plant a kiss on your neck, one that makes you lean into his touch, lifting your head to the side willingly for him. "Simon..." He simply hums resting his chin on your shoulder as you glance up at him, he looks back at you for a moment before saying lowly "Meet me at the barn lovie." He presses a kiss on your neck once more before walking out of the kitchen , walking out the front door. It was unlike him to ask things like this especially before dinner. So once you finished cooking, you put everything in the oven to stay warm as you make your way to the barn.

In the barn you take note of his stiff shoulders and hands in pocket, his posture spoke a lot to you, something was weighing on him and it made your stomach churn because you didn't know what to expect. Your voice seemed to betray you as you say with a hint of nervousness, "Simon ? E-Everything okay ?" He catches this of course slightly turning to meet your gaze, his eyes were narrow, it made you even more anxious, what was it...you approach him tentatively which he doesn't object, which was a good sign as you touch his arm gently, he simply continues to watch your every move as you heart begins to race, your eyes boring into his own waiting for something. It seemed in that moment everything came crashing down as he spoke these words. "Marry me y/n..." He says softly.

His eyes never leaving yours, he had the more dead serious gaze, one that would probably send his recruits scurrying but not you, your mouth was agape and lips trembling processing his words, which he obviously says it again "Marry me." It sounded more like a command this time than a question but you were just reeling with mix emotions as your eyes welled up, which he immediately shifts his eyes to a more concern state "Pigeon...was it something I said ? Sorry I'm not good at this..." You couldn't help how almost innocent he seemed and obvious, your tears came gushing down simply because you were expecting the worse as you sobbed mixed with a low laugh "No...it's just....oh my God Simon...yes !" You laugh more embracing him "Yes I'll marry you" guess he was holding in a breath and it was weighing on his shoulders as they seem to relax and his eyes soften. He digs out of his pocket a small ring, it was simply yet delicate, with an inscription on the rim "S.R" you held your hand up for him, as he held it sliding the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You wrap you arms around his neck pressing yourself into him as he holds you at the waist looking down at you "You're all I need y/n...it took me long to finally see it but...you're my home." He huffs softly looking at you "Cheesy from a bloke eh ?" You laugh softly leaning up kissing his masked lips looking at him "Yeah, but I love the effort....and you know...I've always felt safe with my Ghost" he chuckles lowly lifting up his mask leaning close to your lips as he says with his deep British accent "This Ghost will always keep you safe. Even the lil bugger" with that you both seal it with a kiss. It was sweet and deep, not needy like more or craving, just simply adoration and love.

Thanks for Reading !

ꨄ︎Taglist: @jadama20 @lunamoons-posts @babygirl-panda19 @kat-nee @marshallowy @bi-witch-bxtch @unit-1021 @wwe1rdc0re @crazy-phan-girl13 @v3rnom @niss2mpm @kaiandersonrightpinkytoe @darling006 @cabreezer0117

[cleverinsidejoke]

Part 2

Part 1 | Part 3

I had fun with this one. It's been fun getting this started, writing characters as best I can, and getting this show on the road! If there are any triggering parts in this, let me know and I'll add on a warning.

wc: 1957

  The air in the Angel’s Share had shifted. The drunk Bard’s loud singing and boisterous laughter had dwindled to silence. Diluc looked up from the inventory book, seeing Venti sitting upright and tense, hand wavering just by the bottle of dandelion wine, head inclined at a subtle angle, as though listening to the whispers of an unseen being. 

    Beneath the mountains of Liyue, Azhdaha ceases his cries as the world around him silences as Teyvat’s internal conflict resolves itself. The earth begins speaking again, indecipherable words that Azhdaha is accustomed to, growing louder and louder, deafening to his sensitive ears.

Zhongli hears it too. Even in this mortal form, he is still attuned to the stories Teyvat says, has grown accustomed to ignoring the senseless chatter of the world. The silence unnerves him.

    The entities of the Abyss shift in the ancient halls, quieting as something calls to them from afar. The Princess smiles to herself.

    In turn, Foul Legacy claws at the edges of Childe’s mind in a poor attempt at claiming consciousness. It settles for a quiet harmony of Abyssal murmurs. It feels strangely calm for the creature. Too human. Almost religious. 

    Teyvat has been disquieted, in disharmony with itself. It hides it well. Celestia cannot be allowed to know.

    The landing lacks the same harshness that pulled you to this strange world in the first place, instead landing you on the ground carefully, as you would a pet or a delicate heirloom. “So this is real, right?” You look over at Gene, collecting yourself. “We’re in Genshin Impact?” They shrug, looking around with caution. 

    “There’s the Dawn Winery.” you follow their gaze. Sure enough, there it was. You were on the heightened area near the Statue of the Seven, overlooking Springvale. From here, you could see the great city itself, windmills dimly lit by the moonlight. A crisp breeze blew in, rustling the tall grasses around you. With the quiet surroundings and the peaceful atmosphere, Mondstadt felt nothing short of home. 

    “I don’t care if it’s Buckingham Palace or Disneyland. I want to find someplace to sleep.” It turns out that being transported into a new world after a long day of stress wasn’t the greatest of feelings. You begin a careful descent towards the road, using Windrise as a point of reference. 

    “Likewise.” Gene follows, taking hold of your arm whenever your footing becomes unsteady. As Windrise grows closer, so grows your need for rest. You’re soon leaning on Gene for support. The gentle breeze fades as you approach the large tree. The Statue of the Seven looms larger than you expected, even stranger to see in real life. Gene takes the opportunity to touch it. The Statue’s light glows violet in turn. A slow transition.

    “Let’s just see if we can get some place at the Goth Grand Hotel or the Church. Surely the sisters can’t say no to us. The poor, helpless outlanders.” Slumping over their shoulder melodramatically, you yawn. “It’s getting too late.” The pair of you make your way to the city, with no real plan. Timmy is absent from the bridge. A shame. You rather liked tormenting seeing the boy interact with his pigeons. But it was late, and thus, understandable that he was absent. 

    “Halt, strange, yet respectable travelers!” The familiar line wakes you up a bit, your head snapping up to look at the speaker. It’s only Lawrence, accompanied by Swan, guarding the gate. Of course it wouldn’t be Amber. It’s not her duty to guard the gate, after all. “What brings you to the gates of Mondstadt so late?”

    “We’re only looking for a place to stay for the night, sirs.” Gene continues to shoulder your weight as they speak to the guards. They offer a disarming smile to the men. That same gentle twist of the lips that you’ve become so accustomed to. A smile that practically begs to be trusted.

    “The Church or the Headquarters may have a place for you to stay. Do you know anything, Swan?” Lawrence glances at the other man, probing for an answer. 

    “I’m not sure. I can escort them to the Church if need be.” Your drowsiness dampens the words, your body growing heavy. Soon, your weight is heavy on Gene’s back, unsupported by your consciousness as a deep slumber overtakes you.

    The Anemo Archon had become restless. The dandelion wine was left untouched on the counter, the solemn nature of the bard causing some unease in the tavern. Diluc almost preferred the boisterous and easygoing attitude. 

    Not that it mattered at the moment though. The tavern would be closing in a quarter of an hour. It was time to begin closing. Diluc began by approaching the other patrons, quietly asking them to leave and informing them that the tavern would close soon. Finally, it was down to Venti. 

    “It’s almost closing time.” The bard remained still, unresponsive. Then he turned, looking up at the bartender. 

    “The wind carried news, Master Diluc.” Venti’s soft smile is out of place, unmatched with his quiet tone. “Good news.” He seems to have been waiting for someone to ask. 

    “News?” He couldn’t deny his curiosity, especially if the Anemo Archon thought it was good.

    “The Creator has returned, Diluc! The Creator! And, if the winds are accurate, then they’ve brought another with them!” Venti grinned, standing from his chair. “They should have reached Mondstadt by now. Good night, Diluc.” 

    The influx of information causes Diluc to stiffen. The Creator? But the holy texts had predicted them to arrive much later. Venti pranced out of the tavern, leaving the bartender alone to his thoughts in the Angel’s Share. 

    Venti allowed the wind to guide him, whispers fueling his excitement. Following the new Anemo footprint of the Creator, he made his way to the Church of Favonius. 

    You awoke to the sound of idle chatter. Sitting up, you took in the sight of the well lit interior of the Church of Favonius. Gene’s laughter was what rang out across the church, allowing you to get up and track them more easily. You grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around yourself, following the voices.

    You had been sleeping on a pew in the back of the church, so it wasn’t all that difficult to walk to the front, where people were gathered and talking. As you picked apart the crowd, you could see Barbara, the sisters, Gene, and Venti himself. 

    “Oh, Y/N!” Gene waved you over, settling their hand on their neck as they turned their attention to the others. “This is my dearest friend.” folding your arms across your chest, you approach the group, giving an awkward wave. Part of you had hoped it was a dream. The reality was an uncomfortable one to be accustomed to.

    “Oh, so this is the esteemed friend you spoke of!” Venti approaches quickly, drawing a subtle flinch from Gene. “Of similar caliber to yourself, Creator?” The final word is what captures your attention. Creator? You had read the stories and Aus. This couldn’t possibly end well, could it?

    “Yes. Y/N is from the same realm as myself.” Their discomfort was obvious, in need of something to lean onto. You approach, draping an arm across their shoulders.

    “Yep! So… what tales of grandeur are said about you, Gene?” Perhaps if you can find what myths detail them, then you can prevent future danger.

    “I’m not sure. I’ve been away for so long…” With a nervous laugh, Gene looks back to the people. Long conversations with strangers, no matter how familiar they seem, had always been a bit difficult for them.

    “Do you have any tales, Venti?” You offer a point of conversation to the extroverted bard. 

    “Of course! I’ll tell you all about it. We’ve even got a whole, ehm... library, for you.” Venti laughed. “I’ll tell you about it when we get there. C’mon!” Approaching the end of the cathedral, opening the entrance to the basement. “Oh, Barbara! Is everything ready down there?”

    “Yes, yes!” A rushed voice called back, the stairs creaking. The blonde deaconess exited the basement, curtsying as she spotted Gene. “It’s really you! And your attendant! It’s truly my honor to be present so soon after your descent.” Her words are honeyed, too sweet for your liking. “Um, please come down! We’ve been preparing it for you.” She ushers you down the stairs quickly, the creaking accompanying you. 

    You’re greeted by the expansive basement, the far ambulatory chambers with statues in the likeness of each archon, another in the likeness of Gene in the center of the apse. The nave has pews closer to the statue, albeit only a few rows. Bookshelves line the walls closest to the front. It is a meager church, unlike what you read about. 

    “The worship of the Creator is prohibited by Celestia.” Venti pipes up. “In fact, all texts about you were abolished and almost completely destroyed. This is what remains after years of tracking them down.”

    “Venti happened to have a collection. After your signs began appearing across Teyvat, the churches and temples opened in secret again. I would say they began happening after the Traveler arrived in Mondstadt.” Barbara smiles sweetly. “You’re more than welcome to come here as much as you’d like.”

    “Thank you.” The pleasantries continue as you wander over to the bookshelves, looking for interesting titles and points to research. “The Books of Creation”, “The Heavenly Principles” “Prophecies of the Primordial One”... Each book proves worthy of looking over. Pulling one off the shelf, you begin to read, opening to a note in the beginning. It appears to be a dedicated journal.

    The Creator, on their own, is reality. The only god needed to prosper. With their blessings, our nation can prosper. Remember that, Alberr.

    You skim through the everyday things, gathering context clues until you begin to read fully.

19.8. 

    The field tillers are working better than we thought they would. Other nations have expressed concern involving them, but it is a breakthrough that we cannot allow to go to waste.

24.8

    Siarri consulted the books the other day. The Creator is due to return from their journey soon. Perhaps they can give us an ultimatum about the field tillers then. I don’t want to give up so easily on the years of work we’ve put into it. It’s worth being outcasted from the other nations. 

24.8 

    Siarri has taken to calling me names.

1.12

    The creator is late.

25.1

    Khaenri’ah has fallen. Celestia came in with no prior signs of hostility. The archons were there too, fighting with a vengeance. Almost like they were taking something back. Were they upset because their people were inclined towards our ways?

    Celestia has been in turmoil since then. Worship of the Creator has been outlawed. Does that extend to the archons? Aren’t they closer to the Creator than us mortals are? Barbatos and Rukkhadevata used to be all for the worship of the Holy one. Maybe the Cataclysm is what caused this change. It caused Khaenri’ah to fall, so I can only imagine what damage has been caused to Sumeru and Mondstadt. What damage it will eventually cause.

    We can’t blame anyone. But we can make inferences. I’m going to travel and make as many connections as I can. I’ll get another journal to write that down in.

29.12

To-Do

Buy a new bag journal   

Check in with the kids

Document Mondstadt

    The journal is gently taken from you, glanced at briefly by the taker, and set aside. “I’m afraid that wasn’t meant to go to the library.” The voice is immediately recognizable. You turn carefully. “Kaeya, Knight of Favonius. It’s an honor.”

[theramseyloft]

I’d LOVEEEE to hear about Dodger and Alex’s line! I’m super interested in the contributions of captive “ex ferals” in a companion/therapy program

This ask vanished earlier, but now it's back!

Thanks, Tumblr...

Anyway!

Alex

and Dodger

came from Macon Ga, where they were rescued from a billboard by one of the workers hired to break it down.

Who found them jarred from destroyed nests after it came down.

They were nearly weaned, but not able to fly just yet, and ended up severely traumatized by their rescue.

Dodger, the hen, was actually the oldest.

Alex was younger by about a week, which was how I worked out that they aren't nest mates.

Their first two clutches were infertile and rotten, respectively. First egg infertile, second egg fertile, but failed to develop past the first few days.

They were flighty birds, easily startled off nest.

Dio was the first successful baby they had.

Very bright, excessively sweet tempered velcro bird that could have been mistaken for an imprint.

Because she was so clingy, she was adopted out instead of remaining in the program, tempted though I was.

Reo was very slow to develop.

He was one of the peeps I mentioned in a previous post who was too immunocompromised for vaccinations.

I waited until he was nine weeks old to administer them, and that was not long enough.

Murine was practically the perfect bird.

Because he was raised in a safe environment where he had plenty to eat and drink and never had to fear any kind of predator, all the intelligence that Ferals usually have to put towards learning what to watch out for and how to evade efficiently got put towards learning what my behaviors and communication went and how to interact with me.

He was very fast, but instead of being flighty, he was energetic and playful; curious and clever and interested in everything I was doing.

And instead of imprinting on me, he was interested in the hens and social structure for the flock like a healthy, mentally stable pigeon naturally would be.

He paired up with

Ibis: Lucerne x American Show Racer, bred by Mellifex Loft.

Who was every bit as sweet as that face suggests!

A completely shameless cuddle bug.

She was such a strong contender for house bird before we decided to bring Bird-Bird in that she almost didn't join the program at all.

She remained her wonderfully sweet tempered self regardless of where she was or what was going on.

They threw me

Sikku, who ended up being very nervous by nature.

And my big, beautiful boy Ninka, who I kept because his was the mellower temperament of the two.

Sikku and Ninka were some of the last babies to be hatched before we closed, in the worst year the loft has ever had.

This family line has been an object lesson in nature vs. nurture.

Murine hatched in probably the best year we ever had.

He was out of feral parents who were both just unspeakably skittish, so he absolutely had the genetics and upbringing to be wildly flighty and terrified of everything.

But because there were about the number of birds the loft could comfortably house, with babies going home pretty much as soon as they hit nine weeks, and I was in good enough health to easily keep up with tending them, none of the flock had to worry about scarcity or social pressures and he never developed any of the skittishness to which ferals, performers, and field birds are prone.

The keen intelligence and inquisitiveness that keeps ferals alive really got to shine through this one, unimprinted individual, unhindered by the genetics he received to be flighty and skittish.

The mate he took could not possibly have been more ideal for passing on the genes conducive to an even sweeter temperament.

But because those babies hatched when the loft was overcrowded and I was really starting to physically and mentally struggle, the temperament they developed being only about half as skittish as their feral grand parents straight off the street is a real testament to Ibis' genetic contribution.

[madrivervalleyicelandics]

I have become a bird mom once again. Well, not so much a mom this time as steward to this toxic pigeon couple (I say that with LOVE, y’all ❤️). Amiga (the darker bird) is a beautiful, muscular hen seething with dislike for mankind who has killed her last 2 clutches, making her both a poor pet & a poor breeding hen, & Raddish (the himbo who looks like a powdered sugar donut) has 2 copies of a cancer gene, rendering him useless for breeding as well. Together they have a VERY pinkie & the brain dynamic - Amiga already seems exhausted with Raddish’s head empty, no thoughts, cooing & twirling routine 😂

I love them so much, they’re hysterical.

These two were adopted from @theramseyloft who shipped them via post, a truly fascinating experience. I got a tracking number, & the morning they were supposed to arrive, I got this voicemail from my local post office:

The video above is what greeted me when I went to pick them up - SOUND ON. On my way out of the post office, an elderly neighbor flagged me down to ask if I had pigeons in the box - it turns out he kept carrier pigeons as a child (got his first pair at age 10) and after exchanging info, he left me a voicemail to tell me he’d dropped off some of his old books about pigeons at the post office for me to pick up!! He’s spending the winter in Florida but wants to come see my birds when he gets back. Absolutely adorable 😭❤️

Once I got them home, I discovered immediately that they were already creating mayhem - somehow they’d gotten thru their divider and wound up together in the same enclosure, which is apparently how Raddish ended up seriously injuring the last bird he shipped with 🤦‍♀️ after a panicked phone call to the endlessly patient @theramseyloft I carefully pulled them both out to examine them, and happily no one was harmed.

Raddish & Amiga then spent 2 days in cat carriers in my shower, where they could rest & focus on eating, drinking, and recovering from the trip. Raddish spent the whole time loudly cooing thru the bars at Amiga 😂 When I reached in to freshen up their food and water, Raddish would growl and do a VERY scary peck at me, very very scare, a terrifying marshmallow 😱😂

Amiga was pretty pissed off after her trip and tried to escape once right off the bat, but we had a discussion about appropriate behavior & she’s been fine since.

Yesterday, I moved them into the big loft space we had created for Moses. I opened the cat carriers and waited to see them fly up onto their perches. Raddish the happy himbo went first, and, uh…

Look, it can’t be easy when all of your brain cells are devoted to twirling & cooing & wooing babes, I get it. Once he sorted himself out, he looked around for about 15 seconds and then started RIGHT in on courtship behavior so I’d say he approves.

Amiga flew out of her cage and landed on a perch with the self-possessed grace of a jungle cat. She’s freakin’ gorgeous and clearly the brains of this operation. Every time Raddish twirls or falls off a perch she deadpan stares into the camera like Jim from the office. “THIS is the mate you have chosen for me?”

Anyway. They’re fantastic and settling in nicely and I love them, and also birds are very, very funny and I recommend them if you’re looking for some new chaos & whimsy in your life ❤️❤️

[mpreglover6969]

Timmie and The pigeon Archon

Timmie was happily living with his father who was a ginger and mother who was a blonde. One day, Timmies father left him and timmie was so sad. Moms blonde hair genes starts kicking in and it was time when timmie had to go to school. He was bullied for being fatherless but didn't tell mom. One day Timmie was outside killing time, when for the first time some approached him. It was a white pigeon. He fed him everyday and him and pigeon became best friends. But Timmie was bullied even more for having a pigeon friend. He was sad but very angry and decided to make a pigeon army of pigeons friends. Timmie bravely came to his bullies thinking he could win, but he was wrong. All that was left from that fight, were bullies leaving home with bunch of meat. Timmie couldn't even say a word. He ran away just to find a God. But not just some God, it was The God of pigeons. Timmie went on his knees and prayed to her. She was a kind Archon and since every kid would only scare pigeons away, she said "Meet me at this place every day and I'll lend you the power of a true pigeon Archon." Timmie couldn't help but run happily home. His mom was a bussy woman since his dad left him so she didn't notice him at all. After a week of Timmies training with The pigeon Archon, he overpowered her. Not only did his power grow but his ego and hatred also overpowered him that he abandoned The pigeon Archon. Timmie, stronger that before went back to the bullies. Bullies, not knowing his power, were ready to beat the shit out of him. But everything turned around when 69x bigger army of pigeons behind his back skinned those kids to death. Timmie has felt more powerful than before so he went back to his mom with his victims dead bodies. When his mom saw it she fell on knees so she could reach his height, she slapped him to the floor and ran away from the home just like his dad. Timmie was left all alone in his house. He knew the mistake he made just that second. After he called Hu Tao the 77th Wangshun funeral parlor and payed her to bury the bodies of those not so poor souls. Timmie went back to where he left The pigeon Archon. She was laying next to the tree waiting for her death after all her power got absorbed. Timmie sat next to her and with a kiss on her cheeks he gave her all the power he has stolen from her. The archon has woken up and Timmie apologized. Her knowing that he had become a better person from before she let him go. Timmie went home but he was sad when he saw noone was waiting for him there. He had no choice but to go on the bridge outside the Monstadt gates. Until now Timmie still dreams of having both of parents by his side. Now Timmie and his first pigeon friends are now hanging out on the bridge in Monstadt. The end

[maggiec70]

The Addams Family at Home in the Dordogne I had no desire to track down Jean-Boy’s descendants when I moved from city to town to village, London to Lisbon to Zaragoza to Vienna to Paris and many stops between in search of useful archival documents and elusive local knowledge for my dissertation in 1992. I already had a feeling that the descendants were an odd bunch. I just didn’t know how odd.

After graduating in the summer of 1994, I spent the last of my financial aid funds on two months in SW France with my besties who’d moved from Canterbury to the Gers and within spitting distance of Lectoure two years earlier. They suggested we pack a nice picnic, drive up to the Dordogne, and visit, for five francs each, the chateau bought, renovated, and occupied by the present duc de Montebello. My friend Jill had already been, but she said, with a straight face, that it was worth a second visit.

And as we say here in the South, “Boy, howdy!”

If this pile of stones, circa 11th century for its squat tower and through the 16th century for the rest of its unprepossessing additions, is the best that Jean-Boy’s descendants could do—or chose to do—then I have to think the gene pool has been sadly corrupted, in quite a few ways. As an aside, Jean-Boy loathed the English, so two of his sons married average middle-class Englishwomen; unfortunately, that trend continued down the line for a while. He hated the Ancien régime aristocracy, and another descendant, probably in the third or fourth line of dukes, married into the duc de Broglie’s family. He was until the end anti-clerical, and the last couple of generations are rabidly conservative Catholics, and religious artifacts, drawings, and paintings abound. He also hated the Chouans/Vendéans, and I think one or two of those somehow crept into the mix by the end of the 19th century.

The tour of the family pile—and when I say “family” here, I refer to the last duke only because he bought the place in the 1960s—began outside in the gardens. I think they were indeed supposed to be gardens because I saw a couple of roses among the knee-high weeds and a couple of shaggy ornamental hedges. Our tour guide was—wait for it!—madame la duchesse de Montebello herself; she is from some stalwart Prussian princely family, which explains why she looked precisely like Aunt Lydia or the wife of some former well-fed Nazi official. She was responsible for showing visitors around the outside grounds and the weeds.

After about 30 minutes, she shooed us inside, where Woody Allen met us. The present duke is about 5’5”, with a wizened little face, rather elf-like, with a hairstyle resembling a 13th-century monk’s tonsure. He was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, a plaid jacket, and khaki pants held up by—I do not jest here—a piece of rope. A pair of blindingly white tennis shoes and some red wine stains down one leg of the khakis completed this bit of sartorial splendor. As he greeted us, M. le duc held a full glass of red wine and never let go of it for the next hour or so as the level steadily decreased.

The tour languished in the 11th-century tower for over twenty minutes as Woody expected us to admire each stone on the way up a spiraling and quite worn staircase. At the end, we entered a large room with the usual array of wooden ceiling trusses and beams and early Renaissance features holding up an otherwise unadorned ceiling. The walls were stone with a few distinctly threadbare tapestries hanging here and there. The most noticeable feature was a long refectory table, enough for two dozen guess at least, covered in no discernible order with stacks of porcelain plates, serving pieces, and cups from wildly different designs and historical periods. The display included battalions of knives, forks, and spoons, then glassware, lots and lots of glassware. I picked up a glass and looked for a hand-written price tag; the entire setting resembled items arrayed for sale in a large junk shop. The patina of dust lay everywhere, as did the evidence of mouse droppings and a few pigeons that had flown in from holes in the ceiling to leave their calling cards on the dining table and some of the plates.

The next room was a reception room, but it was impossible to tell what historical period it represented. Jumbles of chairs, stools, small tables, a baby carriage, porcelain dolls, bookcases, modern lamps leaning to port and starboard added to the garage sale atmosphere. The oil portraits on the walls featured a collection of Ancien régime folks—Woody spent ten minutes of the glories of the de Broglies—a portrait of Berthier—Woody seemed fond of him too—and various high-ranking clergy, primarily bishops and archbishops. And who did I not see on the walls? Yep, you guessed it.

The last room on the tour was a small study, crammed so full of nondescript stuff that we could scarcely move around without bumping into something. But at last, I saw Jean-Boy. A black-and-white drawing, and not a very good one, of him, LouLou, and the five little Montebello rugrats all looking so en famille I couldn’t help but snicker. By then, I’d had it with Woody and his bottomless glass of wine. I asked what he had that either belonged to Jean-Boy or somehow related to him. He shrugged, took another gulp, rummaged around in a desk, and produced, encased in plastic, an inscribed invitation to the coronation. That was it. I asked, rather sharply, where all the letters, documents, uniforms, and other possessions had gone. Woody shrugged. His response, accompanied by more wine, was that those things had all disappeared over time.

I almost slapped him.

And that, Dear Readers, is one of the driving reasons I intend to bring to light all the dirty linen I already have, as well as the rest we’re gathering as I type. No one else has bothered. Everyone else is happy with the “official version.” But I do hate to see such a marvelous Kardashian-style saga go to waste.

[rockislandadultreads]

Architecture, Anthropology, & Deep History

The Age of Wood: Our Most Useful Material and the Construction of Civilization by Roland Ennos

A groundbreaking examination of the role that wood and trees have played in our global ecosystem—including human evolution and the rise and fall of empires—in the bestselling tradition of Yuval Harari’s Sapiens and Mark Kurlansky’s Salt. As the dominant species on Earth, humans have made astonishing progress since our ancestors came down from the trees. But how did the descendants of small primates manage to walk upright, become top predators, and populate the world? How were humans able to develop civilizations and produce a globalized economy? Now, in The Age of Wood, Roland Ennos shows for the first time that the key to our success has been our relationship with wood. Brilliantly synthesizing recent research with existing knowledge in fields as wide-ranging as primatology, anthropology, archaeology, history, architecture, engineering, and carpentry, Ennos reinterprets human history and shows how our ability to exploit wood’s unique properties has profoundly shaped our bodies and minds, societies, and lives. He takes us on a sweeping ten-million-year journey from Southeast Asia and West Africa where great apes swing among the trees, build nests, and fashion tools; to East Africa where hunter gatherers collected their food; to the structural design of wooden temples in China and Japan; and to Northern England, where archaeologists trace how coal enabled humans to build an industrial world. Addressing the effects of industrialization—including the use of fossil fuels and other energy-intensive materials to replace timber—The Age of Wood not only shows the essential role that trees play in the history and evolution of human existence, but also argues that for the benefit of our planet we must return to more traditional ways of growing, using, and understanding trees.

The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt

The author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil returns after more than a decade to give us an intimate look at the "magic, mystery, and decadence" of the city of Venice and its inhabitants. Venice, a city steeped in a thousand years of history, art and architecture, teeters in precarious balance between endurance and decay. Its architectural treasures crumble—foundations shift, marble ornaments fall—even as efforts to preserve them are underway. The City of Falling Angels opens on the evening of January 29, 1996, when a dramatic fire destroys the historic Fenice opera house. The loss of the Fenice, where five of Verdi's operas premiered, is a catastrophe for Venetians. Arriving in Venice three days after the fire, Berendt becomes a kind of detective—inquiring into the nature of life in this remarkable museum-city—while gradually revealing the truth about the fire. In the course of his investigations, Berendt introduces us to a rich cast of characters: a prominent Venetian poet whose shocking "suicide" prompts his skeptical friends to pursue a murder suspect on their own; the first family of American expatriates that loses possession of the family palace after four generations of ownership; an organization of high-society, partygoing Americans who raise money to preserve the art and architecture of Venice, while quarreling in public among themselves, questioning one another's motives and drawing startled Venetians into the fray; a contemporary Venetian surrealist painter and outrageous provocateur; the master glassblower of Venice; and numerous others-stool pigeons, scapegoats, hustlers, sleepwalkers, believers in Martians, the Plant Man, the Rat Man, and Henry James. Berendt tells a tale full of atmosphere and surprise as the stories build, one after the other, ultimately coming together to reveal a world as finely drawn as a still-life painting. The fire and its aftermath serve as a leitmotif that runs throughout, adding the elements of chaos, corruption, and crime and contributing to the ever-mounting suspense of this brilliant book.

Deep History: The Architecture of Past and Present by Andrew Shryock (Editor)

Humans have always been interested in their origins, but historians have been reluctant to write about the long stretches of time before the invention of writing. In fact, the deep past was left out of most historical writing almost as soon as it was discovered. This breakthrough book, as important for readers interested in the present as in the past,brings science into history to offer a dazzling new vision of humanity across time. Team-written by leading experts in a variety of fields, it maps events, cultures, and eras across millions of years to present a new scale for understanding the human body, energy and ecosystems, language, food, kinship, migration, and more. Combining cutting-edge social and evolutionary theory with the latest discoveries about human genes, brains, and material culture, Deep History invites scholars and general readers alike to explore the dynamic of connectedness that spans all of human history.

Iconic Designs: 50 Stories about 50 Things by Grace Lees-Maffei (Editor)

Iconic Designs is a beautifully designed and illustrated guide to fifty classic 'things' – designs that we find in the city, in our homes and offices, on page and screen, and in our everyday lives. In her introduction, Grace Lees-Maffei explores the idea of iconicity and what makes a design 'iconic', and fifty essays by leading design and cultural critics address the development of each iconic 'thing', its innovative and unique qualities, and its journey to classic status. Subjects range from the late 19th century to the present day, and include the Sydney Opera House, the Post-It Note, Coco Chanel's classic suit, the Sony Walkman™, Hello Kitty™, Helvetica, the Ford Model T, Harry Beck's diagrammatic map of the London Underground and the Apple iMac G3. This handsome volume provides a treasure trove of 'stories' that will shed new light on the iconic designs that we use without thinking, aspire to possess, love or hate (or love to hate) and which form part of the fabric of our everyday lives.

[everlarkficexchange]

The Change

Written by: @alliswell21

Prompt 59: Growing up Peeta started loving her. It was a gradual thing that happened throughout his childhood and into his teens. But something changes when he hits puberty. Her scent has heightened, he can spot her from miles away. He gets a bit possessive. But the biggest thing is when his body starts to heat up and even just the thought of you gets him hard for days. He finds out the family secret of his werewolf genes, something his parents thought passed him. How can he go by with his day and be with her without scaring her away by humping her because of his heat. [submitted by @animekpopxx]

  Rated M: for language and “adult-y” situations.

  Tags: Underage. No-Games AU. In Panem AU. Tags/Warnings will be added accordingly. Un-beta. All mistakes are mine. 

  Author’s Note: I really tried to write this as a one shot, but since the quarantine brought my husband and kids to work/do schooling from home, I’ve been busier than ever… and I really wanted to have something to post before the exchange was over. So here’s the first part of this story, around 2500 words.

  As always, thank you to the moderators of the Exchange, you ladies are terrific as usual. Thank you to @animekpopxx for her awesome prompts, I swear your prompts are my catnip and kryptonite rolled into one. 

Heads Up, there’s no verbal interaction between Everlark in this chapter.

Stay safe, everyone. Enjoy! 

Chapter One:

  Is ten fifteen in the morning when I start feeling feverish and thirsty. We’re in the middle of a social studies test, and I can’t keep from squirming in my chair, shaking the whole desk everytime I try to hold on to it for stability. 

  I catch the teacher’s eye and wince when she screeches in her affected accent for me to stop twitching. 

  I try to tell her I can’t help it, but before I get one word out she’s flying upon me from her own desk at the very front of the class. 

  “Mr. Mellark, you have exactly 5 seconds to—“ she gasps when her cold hand grasps my shoulder like a crow’s claw. “You’re burning up, Mellark!” She sounds concerned for a Capitolite, but by the way she extracts her bony hand from me, I have to think I must be burning through my thin cotton shirt. “Why did you even come to school if you were so sick, boy?” She snaps eyeing me suspiciously.

  Against my better judgement, I roll my eyes. “We have a test, Ms. Greer.”

  “A note from your father would’ve suffice.” She snips.

  “I didn’t feel sick this morning.” I explain, embarrassed when my voice cracks lamely and the other kids try to hide their quiet chuckles, so the teacher doesn’t turn on them. The boys in my year have already grown into their adult voices, and some of them even have facial hair. Not me. I still sound and look like a baby. “I don’t feel sick right now.” I almost whine, which actually disproves my statement, because I’ve never whined about anything; whining it’s a sure way to get on my mother’s bad side, so is the first thing we Mellark’s learn to suppress and avoid at all costs. 

  Ms. Greer huffs impatiently, “Well, you have a terribly high fever, and you’re starting to sweat all over the place, Mr. Mellark. I’m going to have to ask you to go home until you are well again. The last thing this district needs is some epidemic tearing everything apart.” She sniffs out the last phrase, probably more concerned about missing her fat paychecks every week she stands here feeding us Capitol propaganda that’s supposed to pass as schooling, than actually worried about the district’s well being. 

  I try to protest about the missing the test, but this time Ms. Greer rolls her eyes and waves me off, saying that I can make it up with a two page report on coal production and its impact in District 12’s economy… as if she herself doesn’t know that our local industry is a joke, District 12 is still the poorest district in Panem, even after the Reformation a few years back, when the Capitol dissolved the Hunger Games and promised to open fair Inter District negotiations. It never happened, at least not with us, yet the whole country uses our coal. 

  Ms. Greer’s glaring at me though, so I pack up and start shuffling out of the classroom, only stopping to grab a note she hands me to bring to the front office. 

  As I footslog to the door, strange things happen that startle the shit out of me: first, a rush of smells like pine needles, sun and wildflowers invade my nose leaving me disoriented and frenzied; is a combination like nothing I’ve smelled before, but somehow, instinctively my eyes lock with the gray orbs of Katniss Everdeen, who somehow I know in my bones is the owner of the aromas filling my nostrils— I already knew she was sitting there of course, I deliberately chose my seat so I could steal glances at her long, dark braid, during class, but… I’ve never stared at her so boldly and openly, and for a moment I think she is staring at me with some interest… concern, maybe? It’s gone as soon as her gorgeous eyes fly away. That’s when the third thing happens. I growl deep and low at her dismissal, a possessive and animalistic sound that rumbles in my chest, making the rest of our classmates stare at me… great! As if the other kids need any more reasons to giggle and whisper behind my back.

  I’m the shortest boy in my class; I still have what can be considered as baby fat in this District, holding on to my thick frame, and while my older brothers are wrestling champions, I’m too heavy and uncoordinated to wrestle myself. Is not that I’m at any risk of being bullied or anything, I learned to be witty and funny a long time ago as a self preservation mechanism, and everyone likes me well enough, but I still don’t want to give anyone any munition to use against me.

  Yet, I can barely control the noise rumbling in the back of my throat, an worst of all, I’m fighting this unbearable urge to stomp to Katniss’ desk and plant myself there until she turns her eyes back to mine and acknowledges me. 

  She scowls at her notebook and rubs her nose with her knuckle. There’s a spike of some strange smell— reminds me of discomfort, I think— mingling in with her original scent, and that’s what finally makes me snap to reality, and force my legs to trudge to the office to get me an official excuse for missing school for the next few days.

  I’m loathe to admit it, but I’m itching so badly all over my body, I’m glad Ms. Greer kicked me out of class for having a fever. I don’t feel sick, but the itching is just killing me, and I want out of my clothes now… maybe a layer or two of my skin as well, but that just sounds kinda gross. 

  To my surprise, when I arrive home, Mother’s hands stay put at her sides instead of flying up to scoff the side of my head for skipping school, as if I where stupid enough to come home if I was skipping for real. She looks at me oddly though, almost like she’s sad or disappointed I came down with this fever. 

  Father on the other hand, looks mildly alarmed for a moment, but after feeling my forehead, he cups my face and pulls the skin under my eyes downwards with the pad of his thumbs, tilting my head around like he’s checking their health. Then his thumbs let go of my cheekbones and hike up the skin over my upper lip, bearing my teeth to him. He tilts my head again studying my mouth like I’m some prized pony he’s hoping to buy. His thumbs slide the length of my canines and then prods the tip for sharpness. An uncharacteristic blank expression takes his face, then he nods seemingly done with his examination or whatever he was doing; he lets go of my face and asks in his usual, quiet voice, “Are you hungry?” 

  My stomach growls in response. I’m surprised at the sudden feeling of voracious appetite unfurling in my belly. “Yeah.” I mutter, watching him pin the school note to the board by the bakery door with all the operational permits, just in case someone comes asking about me missing school. The Hunger Games might be abolished, but school attendance is still compulsory and any unauthorized absences are punishable by hefty fines, no one can afford to pay.

  Father points at the dining table with a thick finger, and I sit down heavily in my usual chair. I’m very surprised when out of nowhere, my mother plops a plate heaped high with food— mostly fresh stuff too— but I ignore the serving of vegetables and the freshly baked roll, in favor of the few meats lining the plate. I know Mother keeps certain meats she can reheat and repurposed in other meals, so it’s disconcerting seeing this abundance in front of me.

  I only pause to look up at my parents standing side by side near the wall, watching me eat with some strange interest.

  “Eat, Peeta, before the food gets too cold,” My mother orders without her usual verb when they notice I’m staring back.

  I dig in unceremoniously, inhaling first a piece of goat meat, then a pigeon leg, and lastly a bite of fried squirrel that somehow makes me growl as soon as my teeth sink into the morsel. There’s an overwhelming taste of pine needles and flowery woods mixed in with the savory flavor of the squirrel; my mind is suddenly full of images of a long, dark braid swishing against a brown leather jacket. 

  “More squirrel!” I demand in a grunt. 

  My father’s eyebrows arch for a second, and again my mother is the one to bring a piece of meat, no bigger than the pigeon leg I just ate, and tosses it on my empty plate. 

  I throw myself at it like a savage beast.

  “After you’re done eating, you can go lay down.” Says my mother flatly. 

  Well, now I’m worried! 

  My eyes snap at my parents, anxiously. “Why?” I ask cowed. 

  The last time my mother encouraged any of us to rest during a work day was… never. They did send my middle brother to stay with our aunt once; he had chicken-pox. My brother got to stay in bed for as long as he wanted, until he wasn’t contagious anymore and Mother dragged him back home. 

  My father sighs, “So you can sleep off your fever, son. You can’t handle dough while you’re sick. We could get fined for a safety code violation. If the peacekeepers think you’re working while sick, we could get in a lot of trouble.” 

  “Oh… okay.” I’m relieved. But I still have to ask, “And you’re both alright with that?” 

  My mother snorts. “Eat up, Peeta. Then go to bed. We’ll see how you do in the morning.” She crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, dislodging a few blonde hairs from the tight bun at her nape. She leaves the room muttering to herself something about not being ready for any of this shit, leaving my father to stare at me alone. 

  We just stay there, mutely watching each other for a second. 

  “You like the squirrel meat best?” He asks, awkwardly pointing at the piece of food still clutched in my fingers. 

  “Yeah. I mean, everything is tasty, but this stuff is just great.” I take a big bite out of my piece to illustrate, and as soon as the flavors invade my mouth, I shudder involuntarily, even body parts that usually lay dormant during meals stir at the thought of the huntress this particular animal came from. 

  My father makes a noise at the back of his throat, then he asks, “How are you feeling? Any weariness? Tiredness? Lethargy?” 

  I shake my head, “Nah. I actually feel great. I feel like I should be outside chopping wood, or running laps for wrestling practice.” It’s true too, even the itchiness driving me insane earlier, is gone. 

  Father’s eyebrows arch, “Wrestling, huh?” 

  I shrug and go back to finish up my lunch. It’s the first time I’ve actually voiced my interest in the sport, but I don’t know why it should come as a shock? After all, everyone in town knows Mellark’s are somewhat legacy wrestlers. 

  “Well, we can figure it out if you still feel so energetic after your nap.” Father says before making his way back to the bakery, leaving me to my own devices. 

  I finish up my meal, returning to the icebox the vegetables and bread I didn’t eat, then wash my plate and put it away. Sick or not, Mother would throw a fit if there is a dirty dish in the sink when she comes back to the apartment. 

  I lay down, not expecting to find sleep since I’m so wired up. I’m tempted to fetch my sketchbook— really, it’s just a bunch of scrap paper I’ve put together in an ancient folder I keep under my mattress— and draw for beat, but I’m a 16 year old boy… lay in bed, idly. My mind wanders back to the stupefying smell I’m convinced belongs to Katniss Everdeen, and as usual, thoughts of her lead to stirrings in my nether regions, only this time my body heat increases to furnace temperatures, my mouth goes dry as a bone, my skin itches like crazy and I’m trembling with aching want like never before. 

  I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with me, but I only start to panic when my dick starts swelling in my trousers, and it keeps growing and growing and growing, until the crotch of my pants feels like it’s shrunk three sizes on my body. I tear at the buttons until the fly is open and hastily try pulling myself out of my boxers, but goddamned near impossible to do, and I desperately shove at bottoms freeing myself after squeezing and twisting like a maniac. 

  I’m a little disturbed at how purple and swollen my dick looks. There’s some kind of protuberance bulging at the base of my cock. I’ve never noticed it before, and I’m freaking out it may be some nerve end or some of those tiny veins that pop when pressured… I silently beg the universe my I didn’t break my dick while pawing at it to pull it out. I’m still pulsing with want, and my brain is screaming to go back to remembering the aroma of pine needles and freedom that’s Katniss… but at the same time, I can’t unsee the strange meaty ring at the base of my dong. 

  I bring my fingers to it apprehensively. I’m curious, so I poke it and hiss at the zap of pleasure I felt as soon as my fingertips grazed the turgid skin. 

  I chance another touch, just to see if I can recreate the sensation, and moan pitifully at the feeling. The head of my cock bobs dripping precome. I close my eyes and wrap my hand around myself, so I don’t have to look at how angry red my penis is. Images of Katniss come unbidden into my mind’s eyes, and before I know it, I’m pumping my fists and groaning like a wounded animal, lost in sensation. 

  I can’t keep a rhythm to save my life, but as soon as the heel of my hand makes contact with the strange, swollen ring around my cock, my body jerks violently; I double over at the waist, gasping, “Katniss!” Just as cum starts pouring out of me like a fucking fountain.

  I saw a kid in school convulsing once, it scared the shit out of me then, and the way I’m twitching and spamming in bed right now, vaguely reminds me of it. I wonder if this is what it would feel like to convulse? 

  My cock is still spewing ribbons of semen in every direction, but my erection keeps hardening and swelling; I try pinching the head of my penis to staunch the flow of cum to no avail and I’m getting anxious and scared enough, I consider calling my father for help, but the mess in my bed is embarrassing, and I can’t stop eyaculating. Suddenly, out of nowhere my mind is conjuring up memories of that sweet smell of Katniss’. 

  The phantom smell of pine and flowers tickles the roof of my mouth and start panting into my pillow. I’m lightheaded and out of breath, copious sweat covers my entire body and an overwhelming need to squeeze the base of my cock takes over my body. My hand wraps around the weird protruberance above my pelvic bone and I fucking howl on contact. 

  My vision goes dark, and I only have one more thought before passing out: “I have got to hide this filthy mess from Mother.” 

  To be continued…

[dillydedalus]

january reading

why does january always feel like it’s 3 months long. anyway here’s what i read in january, feat. poison experts with ocd, ants in your brain, old bolsheviks getting purged, and mountweazels. 

city of lies, sam hawke (poison wars #1) this is a perfectly nice fantasy novel about jovan, who serves as essentially a secret guard against poisoning for his city state’s heir and is forced to step up when his uncle (also a secret poison guard) and the ruler are both killed by an unknown poison AND also the city is suddenly under a very creepy siege (are these events related? who knows!) this is all very fine & entertaining & there are some fun ideas, but also... the main character has ocd and SAME HAT SAME HAT. also like the idea of having a very important, secret and potentially fatal job that requires you to painstakingly test everything the ruler/heir is consuming WHILE HAVING OCD is like... such a deliciously sadistic concept. amazing. 3/5

my heart hemmed in, marie ndiaye (translated from french by jordan stump) a strange horror-ish tale in which two married teachers, bastions of upper-middle-class respectability and taste, suddenly find themselves utterly despised by everyone around them, escalating until the husband is seriously injured. through several very unexpected twists, it becomes clear that the couple’s own contempt for anyone not fitting into their world and especially nadia’s hostility and shame about her (implied to be northern african) ancestry is the reason for their pariah status. disturbing, surprising, FUCKED UP IF TRUE (looking back, i no longer really know what i mean by that). 4/5

xenogenesis trilogy (dawn/adulthood rites/imago), octavia e. butler octavia butler is incapable of writing anything uninteresting and while i don’t always completely vibe with her stuff, it’s always fascinating & thought-provoking. this series combines some of her favourite topics (genetic manipulation, alien/human reproduction, what is humanity) into a tale of an alien species, the oankali, saving some human survivors from the apocalypse and beginning a gene-trading project with them, integrating them into their reproductive system and creating mixed/’construct’ generations with traits from both species. and like, to me, this was uncomfortably into the biology = destiny thing & didn’t really question the oankali assertion that humans were genetically doomed to hierarchical behaviour & aggression (& also weirdly straight for a book about an alien species with 3 genders that engages in 5-partner-reproduction with humans), so that angle fell flat for me for the most part, altho i suppose i do agree that embracing change, even change that comes at a cost, is better than clinging to an unsustainable (& potentially destructive) purity. where i think the series is most interesting is in its exploration of consent and in how far consent is possible in extremely one-sided power dynamics (curiously, while the oankali condemn and seem to lack the human drive for hierarchy, they find it very easy to abuse their position of power & violate boundaries & never question the morality of this. in this, the first book, focusing on a human survivor first encountering the oankali and learning of their project, is the most interesting, as lilith as a human most explicitly struggles with her position - would her consent be meaningful? can she even consent when there is a kind of biochemical dependence between humans and their alien mates? the other two books, told from the perspectives of lilith’s constructed/mixed children, continue discussing themes of consent, autonomy and power dynamics, but i found them less interesting the further they moved from human perspectives. on the whole: 2.5/5

love & other thought experiments, sophie ward man, we love a pierre menard reference. anyway. this is a novel in stories, each based (loosely) on a thought experiment, about (loosely) a lesbian couple and their son arthur, illness and grief, parenthood, love, consciousness and perception, alternative universes, and having an ant in your brain. it is thoroughly delightful & clever, but goes for warmth and humanity (or ant-ity) over intellectual games (surprising given that it is all about thought experiments - but while they are a nice structuring device i don’t think they add all that much). i haven’t entirely worked out my feelings about the ending and it’s hard to discuss anyway given the twists and turns this takes, but it's a whole lot of fun. 4/5

a general theory of oblivion, josé eduardo agualusa (tr. from portuguese by daniel hahn) interesting little novel(la) set in angola during and after the struggle for independence, in which a portuguese woman, ludo, with extreme agoraphobia walls herself into her apartment to avoid the violence and chaos (but also just... bc she has agoraphobia) with a involving a bunch of much more active characters and how they are connected to her to various degrees. i didn’t like the sideplot quite as much as ludo’s isolation in her walled-in flat with her dog, catching pigeons on the balcony and writing on the walls. 3/5

cassandra at the wedding, dorothy baker phd student cassandra returns home attend (sabotage) her twin sister judith’s wedding to a young doctor whose name she refuses to remember, believing that her sister secretly wants out. cass is a mess, and as a shift to judith’s perspective reveals, definitely wrong about what judith wants and maybe a little delusional, but also a ridiculously compelling narrator, the brilliant but troubled contrast to judith’s safer conventionality. on the whole, cassandra’s narrative voice is the strongest feature of a book i otherwise found a bit slow & a bit heavy on the quirky family. fav line is when cass, post-character-development, plans to “take a quick look at [her] dumb thesis and see if it might lead to something less smooth and more revolting, or at least satisfying more than the requirements of the University”. 3/5

the office of historical corrections, danielle evans a very solid collection of realist short stories (+ the titular novella), mainly dealing with racism, (black) womanhood, relationships between women, and anticolonial/antiracist historiography. while i thought all the stories were well-done and none stood out as weak or an unnecessary inclusion, there also weren’t any that really stood out to me. 3/5

sonnenfinsternis, arthur koestler (english title: darkness at noon) (audio) you know what’s cool about this book? when i added it to my goodreads tbr in 2012, i would have had to read it in translation as the german original was lost during koestler’s escape from the nazis, but since then, the original has been rediscovered and republished. yet another proof that leaving books on your tbr for ages is a good thing actually. anyway. this is a story about the stalinist purges, told thru old bolshevik rubashov, who, after serving the Party loyally for years & doing his fair share of selling people out for the Party, is arrested for ~oppositional activities. in jail and during his interrogations, rubashov reflects on the course the Party has taken and his own part (and guilt) in that, and the way totalitarianism has eaten up and poisoned even the most commendable ideals the Party once held (and still holds?), the course of history and at what point the end no longer justifies the means. it’s brilliant, rubashov is brilliant and despicable, i’m very happy it was rediscovered. 5/5

heads of the colored people, nafissa thompson-spires another really solid short story collection, also focused on the experiences of black people in america (particularly the black upper-middle class), black womanhood and black relationships, altho with a somewhat more satirical tone than danielle evans’s collection. standouts for me were the story in letters between the mothers of the only black girls at a private school, a story about a family of fruitarians, and a story about a girl who fetishises her disabled boyfriend(s). 3.5/5

pedro páramo, juan rulfo (gernan transl. by dagmar ploetz) mexican classic about a rich and abusive landowner (the titular pedro paramo) and the ghost town he leaves behind - quite literally, as, when his son tries to find his father, the town is full of people, quite ready to talk shit about pedro, but they are all dead. it’s an interesting setting with occasionally vivid writing, but the skips in time and character were kind of confusing and i lost my place a lot. i’d be interested in reading rulfo’s other major work, el llano en llamas. 2.5/5

verse für zeitgenossen, mascha kaléko short collection of the poems kaléko, a jewish german poet, wrote while in exile in the united states in the 30-40s, as well as some poems written after the end of ww2. kaléko’s voice is witty, but at turns also melancholy or satirical. as expected i preferred the pieces that directly addressed the experience of exile (”sozusagen ein mailied” is one of my favourite exillyrik pieces). 3/5

the harpy, megan hunter yeah this was boooooooring. the cover is really cool & the premise sounded intriguing (women gets cheated on, makes deal with husband that she is allowed to hurt him three times in revenge, women is also obsessed with harpies: female revenge & female monsters is my jam) but it’s literally so dull & trying so hard to be deep. 1.5/5

the liar’s dictionary, eley williams this is such a delightful book, from the design (those marbled endpapers? yes) to the preface (all about what a dictionary is/could be), to the chapter headings (A-Z words, mostly relating to lies, dishonesty, etc in some way or another, containing at least one fictitious entry), to the dual plots (intern at new edition of a dictionary in contemporary england checking the incomplete old dictionary for mountweazels vs 1899 london with the guy putting the mountweazels in), to williams’s clear joy about words and playing with them. there were so many lines that made me think about how to translate them, which is always a fun exercise. 3.5/5

catherine the great & the small, olja knežević (tr. from montenegrin by ellen elias-bursać, paula gordon) coming-of-age-ish novel about katarina from montenegro, who grows up in  titograd/podgorica and belgrad in the 70s/80s, eventually moving to london as an adult. to be honest while there are some interesting aspects in how this portrays yugoslavia and conflicts between the different parts of yugoslavia, i mostly found this a pretty sloggy slog of misery without much to emotionally connect to, which is sad bc i was p excited for it :(. 2/5

the decameron project: 29 new stories from the pandemic, anthology a collection of short stories written during covid lockdown (and mostly about covid/lockdown in some way). they got a bunch of cool authors, including margaret atwood, edwidge danticat, rachel kushner ... it’s an interesting project and the stories are mostly pretty good, but there wasn’t one that really stood out to me as amazing. i also kinda wish more of the stories had diverged more from covid/lockdown thematically bc it got a lil repetitive tbh. 2/5

[grell-writes-stuff]

A Self Indulgent First Chapter

Enjoy...something

Words: 2,549

Genre: Young Adult / Paranormal

---------------------------------------------

Slam!

Gasp!

And then the apathetic yell of “Walk it off, Willow!” from Coach Martin. No stopping the game or running over to make sure I’m not deprived of air or dying or something. Just “Walk it off, Willow!”

I suffer for a second with the wind knocked out of my body. My inhaler finds its way from my pocket to my hand, and while I hold the one breath I force myself into and wait for my crap lungs to jump-start again, I contemplate the most-likely-illegal play that landed me flat on my back in the middle of the field. Quarterback Tom Styles’ outstretched elbow connecting with my neck at full speed in his chase for the checkered ball and high school sports glory, clearly confusing his claim-to-fame varsity moves with a pickup game of soccer since I doubt he has the brain cells to remember the rules to two sports at once. And probably a little bit on purpose. Because he’s a dick.

My chest wheezes a little, but at least it’s something, and the weak inhales finally start to catch as a sun-freckled face appears above me and blocks out the light. Ivy offers me her hand.

“Did th-that look a-as bad as it f-felt?” I sputter.

Ivy tilts her head from side-to-side like it’s the scale measuring how uncool I am. “Worse. Very pathetic. You will die alone.” She yanks me to my feet and acts like a support in spite of the height difference.

“P-Please stop making m-me take gym with y-you.”

“Nah. It’s too funny.” She ignores my scowl. “Come on. Let’s get you some water and wait for those shitty lungs to work again.”

She escorts me – hobbling like some eighty-year-old man with spine problems and not just what will soon be a terrible, ugly bruise – toward the bleachers, empty except for the water bottles of our classmates. I’m happy enough to sit on the sidelines, not just while recovering from having all of the air robbed from my chest, but for the rest of gym class, and also forever. Ivy is equally as happy, but only because it prompts the girls’ teacher, Coach Caruthers, to scream in her booming voice:

“Hammond! Back on the field!”

Without missing a beat, Ivy responds, “In the event of moderate injury, students are allowed to have a friend or fellow student for mental, emotional, or physical support. It’s in the code of conduct.”

I don’t know if that’s actually something in our school’s rule book, but Ivy has read the whole thing cover-to-cover for the sole purpose of seeing how many provisions she can disregard without getting into trouble through malicious acts of over-compliance or sheer dumb luck. So, she’s either following the rules to the letter or lying about them. As I sit, I see that Caruthers does not look impressed when Ivy plops onto the bench next to me. The whole reason our gender-segregated phys. ed classes collaborate so often is because they’re full of athletes – and me, the outlier – so more often than not, it’s just an extra practice for the varsity players. Even though Ivy was born with the “good at physical stuff” gene, and talented enough to be a forward on our girls’ soccer team, she prefers to rely on the natural part of her ability and not the practice part to the vexation of literally everyone.

“Hammond!” Caruthers screams. “On the field, or off the team!”

Ivy squirts a stream of water into her mouth and quickly swallows before passing the bottle on to me. “Cool. Who’s replacing me?” she retorts.

I focus on downing some water and breathing evenly again and not on the vein beginning to pop out of Caruthers’ angry-red neck. She can’t say anything back because, well, Kinross High School isn’t huge. Pretty much everyone who can play sports is already playing sports, and as far as Ivy’s tendency to disrespect anyone of authority can go, she’s also crucial to securing victory over visiting teams. Caruthers just grits her teeth and returns to refereeing the game where Tom Styles has once again stolen the ball that got away from him, this time without incapacitating anybody since the one guy with asthma has left the field. (Asshole.) I watch as Abby Jefferson starts to gain on him, and Tom makes the choice to skillfully send the ball flying across the grass to the next open player, Drew Young, the only person in our gym class who does even less than I do.

That’s not for lack of talent either. I’ve seen Drew actually try on the rare occasion, and he could absolutely score a spot on a boys’ sports team. But most games, like today, he receives the pass and kicks the ball along to the next open player – it’s intercepted by one of the girls – and continues pacing the field leisurely. Coach Martin yells at him to get his head in the game, but Drew doesn’t bother. If the activity doesn’t involve selling the pens that he stole from the cheerleaders to the football team, the little weasel has no interest.

The game continues on.

Ivy reclines until her shoulders are touching the bench behind us, tilting her head back and staring at the sky. I have to wonder how comfortable it is.

“My dear Sid,” she theatrically addresses me. She likes to be dramatic sometimes. She thinks it’s funny. “I have a proposal for you.”

“I told you I’m not training a messenger pigeon with you. We only live three houses apart.”

“I’ll wear you down eventually, but no, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” She looks over at me without breaking her questionable position. “I know what we’re doing tonight. I’ve concocted a perfect plan, you see, for this most All-Hallowed of Eves.”

“You can say ‘Halloween’ like a normal person. It’s okay.”

“Let me bring you back in time,” she continues, ignoring me, “to the Kinross of yore. Just decades after its founding, the Salem Witch Trials came about and our town was no exception to the noose–”

“Salem is two hours away, Ivy,” I interrupt with the fact.

“Shut up. The Salem Witch Trials swept across the state of Massachusetts, migrated into Kinross, and thus the most famous trial of Kinross history was set in motion when one Ann Kelly was accused of being a creature of the occult!”

“Can I get the abridged version of this plan please?” I ask her. “Like, the part that takes place in this century?”

Finally fed up with my interjections, Ivy sighs exaggeratedly and rolls her eyes at me. “Blah, blah, blah, she was hanged, she’s buried in the historical section of Riverview, and we’re going there tonight during the witching hour to see” – she switches to her best spooky voice with elongated, trembling vowels – “her haunted grave.”

“Hard pass.”

That makes her sit upright again with a slouch to her posture. She’s wearing a fabricated pout. “Sid,” she whines.

“Ivy, I’m not sneaking out with you at three in the morning on Halloween to go see a ‘haunted grave.’” She opens her mouth, but I follow up with, “Our parents would kill us. Besides, what’s-her-name probably just angered a bunch of Puritans and got executed because of religious prejudice. That doesn’t mean she was a witch.”

“Well, of course. I think angering Puritans was a mandatory activity back then. But come on, Sid! The legend says she’s a witch, and it’s the perfect Halloween thing! I think we are obligated – if not encouraged by the spirit of Halloween herself – to go see a ghost witch.”

“Does the spirit of Halloween have a gender?”

Ivy pushes past that and waits to catch my eye dead-on. “Bet you a hundred bucks we actually see Ann Kelly’s phantom.”

My lips part to say no just a split second before I register the number. “Wait – a hundred?”

Something cocky has taken up her face, and she recites with inflated confidence, “Ten A-Hams. A Franklin. A thousand Roosevelts.”

“You know what? Fine. I’ll take your money,” I tell her. “You’re on.”

Her grin is smug as we fist-bump on it and close the deal, but I decide that I don’t care so much with the promise of an easy hundred dollars coming my way. Ivy ingests another stream of water, and swallows while her eyes quickly scan the grass to catch up with the game again. Suddenly, a yell flies from her mouth:

“Box him out, Julia! Come on!”

Then she’s up off the bleachers and jogging back out onto the field. As unwilling as Ivy is to make an effort and practice, she’s also equally as competitive, even if this is just a gym class where victory doesn’t really matter. I, on the other hand, take my time on the bench. Struggling to breathe isn’t my idea of fun. I need to stop letting Ivy manipulate me into taking phys. ed. If she keeps it up, she might kill me.

 ***

I can nearly be qualified as a mess by the time Ivy and I reach our lockers after final period, and she’s humming like she’s got live wires for veins despite just spending an hour burning off energy. Meanwhile, I’m still recovering from my last bout of airlessness after I returned to the field and ran for maybe ten minutes. And I feel gross. The benefit of having P.E. last period is that I don’t have to shower here and can wait until I get home or to Ivy’s. The con is the window of time in between. I usually try to keep the gap as short as possible, and therefore, my time at my locker brief. I think Ivy and I took enough time getting changed after gym to avoid most people – at least the non-athletes.

“Hi, Sidney! Hi, Ivy!”

A mixture of feelings suddenly rockets through me and don’t add up in the end. While my chest is beginning to slowly overclock, and the hallway seems a few degrees warmer and rising steadily, I’m ready to play dead as Naomi Park opens the locker right next to mine on the opposite side of Ivy’s. Her shoulder is a fraction of an inch from touching my arm which is probably too close when I’m still drenched in gym sweat. Ivy greets her politely with ease while my brain is trying to catch up with the mundane situation and not think about how she smells like some kind of flowery perfume and I smell like crap.

“Hey, Naomi,” leaves my mouth and sounds too drawn-out and weirdly cheesy, so I just try to smile to make up for it. That feels awkward too, but she thankfully doesn’t seem to react to that, and her glossy pink lips tilt up without much effort into a perfect grin.

She puts some books on the shelf in her locker. “Any exciting Halloween plans?”

“Nope,” Ivy says immediately, likely because our actual idea involves a wager and might not be entirely legal – it’s a misdemeanor at the least. I just take the hint and don’t add anything to refute her answer.

“You? Any plans? For tonight – Halloween?” I wish that had come out differently. It could have at least sounded coherent.

“Nothing tonight,” Naomi responds. “But Heather’s having a ‘Belated Halloween Bash’ on Saturday while her parents are out of town so I’m ‘required’ to be there.”

“Oh, cool. That’s…cool.”

“I guess so. Heather’s parties get a little boring after a while though. I bet your plans for Saturday are much more fun.”

“Yep. Pints of ice cream, horror movies, and making bets on how long it takes Sid to hurl when the blood starts gushing,” Ivy interjects.

“Ivy.” I mutter the snap of her name so it doesn’t sound as harsh as I want it to. The temperature in the hallway rises astronomically.

Naomi giggles, which hurts. Well, it would if her laugh wasn’t so musical and twinkly. It’s like a damn harp quartet. “Sounds like a good time,” she comments. Her locker door shuts. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Yeah, totally – tomorrow. See ya’, Naomi!” She’s nearly out of earshot down the hall, and I wait until I know she definitely can’t hear anything before I say to Ivy without daring a look at her, with the heat of embarrassment and shame boiling me alive from the inside, “Please say nothing.”

I can hear the grin on her face when she speaks. “You realize she’s just another human being, right?”

“Are you kidding? She’s at the right hand of Heather Loch. She’s popular. I’m shocked she still knows my name.”

Ivy shuts her own locker with a characteristic slam. “Dude, you’re ridiculous. She likes you back. If you just talked to her, and told her that you like her, you would have a girlfriend.”

“Ivy, she thinks I’m a loser.”

“I think you’re a loser and I still like you sometimes.”

I roll my eyes and can’t say anything to that. I don’t care if Ivy thinks I’m lame. It’s not the same. We’ve been together for as long as I can remember, so at this point, she’s locked into this friendship, no matter how easy it would be for her to hang out with the people at Kinross High who are actually popular and liked.

I close my locker and we start walking to the main exit of the building and eventually across the school’s student parking lot. Some groups linger, but most people seem to be dispersing and heading home for the day. Ivy and I walk straight through the lot as always, avoiding the cars pulling out.

I want to avoid the Styles’ Ford Everest – which is so bright red that it’s an assault on the eyes – but we have to walk past it and the clump of popular kids loitering next to it: blonde, perfect, popular Heather Loch, Asshole Quarterback Tom and his not-as-terrible twin, Ed, and my locker neighbour and secret crush, Naomi. The girls are under the guys’ arms like they belong there, popular with popular. There’s usually not much interaction between our pair and their group because I’m pretty sure most of the popular kids either don’t know who I am or just hate me for no reason, but today Tom decides to rub in his full-contact plays on the soccer field.

“Nice moves out there, Pussy Willow!” he shouts clear across the lot. It makes me feel the bruise on my back, still fresh, but I’m past the point of being mad about it. Really, Tom’s just an annoying jerk, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

I try to tap into Ivy-like sarcasm and passiveness. “I get it. Because my last name is Willow, and you’re insulting me. That’s really funny. It’s original.”

He yells something back that includes one of Ivy’s favourite swear words, but we disregard it and turn out of the parking lot in the direction of our houses. Ivy states that we’re going to my place because, in her mind, it’s easier to sneak out of a single-parent household. I don’t try to refute it because arguing with Ivy when she has her mind made up is like talking to a brick wall.

[endless-array-of-tom]

Twisted Fate (2/2) [loki x reader]

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Request: Can I request 12 on fluff/general ���how did you get in here?” For Loki and it’s like him coming back to the reader after having left her and it’s been the first tie they’ve seen each other in like 5 years or something. When he gets in the house he sees that she has a child who is his.

Prompt: “How did you get in here?”

Word Count: 3,513

Part 2/2

Click here for Part 1

A/n: I had a lot of trouble trying to make a “read more” break but I finally gave up ‘cause I don’t have a clue on how to do it. If you have idea on how to do it (or make a functioning mobile masterlist & add a link to bio from mobile) PLEASE help me out!! On the other hand I want to apologize for being so late with the next part, but I still hope you all enjoy it!!

“Mommy! Can I have cookie dough?” A young boy, no older than six begged his mother as he yanked his mother’s blouse desperately. His sapphire eyes glowed brightly as they brimmed with fake-tears, completing what was called the “puppy-dog” look.

His mother sighed as she kneeled down, ruffling his raven-black hair mercilessly, grinning widely. “I guess you can, but what about me? What flavor do you think mommy would like today?” The young boy gasped in shock, before staring at the menu in thought.

“How about… (f/f)? You seem to like that one a lot…” he suggested as he somehow managed to climb up his mother and tug her shoulders for support (expectedly).

“I think you’re right, Jay.” His mother smiled as she made her way up to the front, placing her order in…

__

“Here you go, there’s your ice-cream. Now let’s go home, and remember to eat it quickly— it’s going to melt all in your hands if you don’t.” The boy eagerly nodded as he pushed the glass doors wide open, walking down the streets and enjoying his ice-cream in his hands.

The mother laughed as she watched her son pounce around any nearby pigeons, watching them flee made her son laugh happily as he continued his way home. She took a bite out of her own ice-cream as thoughts began to drown her mind, not enough to lose sight of where Jay was going though.

Five years. It had really been five years since he left, without a word nor a trace of where he could possibly be. In the beginning, she was an absolute wreck— crying almost every day and pleading to herself that’ll she’ll see him march right through her doors and apologize to her, accepting both her and their baby. But he didn’t. Not once in five years…

She asked frequently to Thor where his brother would be, but he also had no idea himself where Loki was located. But that didn’t stop her. As she was in her seventh month of pregnancy she gave up on the possibility of Loki ever arriving again, and then the thoughts swelled in: if he wasn’t going be in the picture she would damn make sure she was.

And from there it began; torturous hours of being in labor and delivering a son that became the best (lovable/charitable) person in her life. Thor, accompanying her through most steps of the way had helped name her child…

Jay(lin) Cuyler (L/N).

Jaylin, meaning “the beautiful (blue) jaybird.” Symbolizing that he would grow up to be an intelligent and determined young lad, who’s both fearless and well-protected by the people surrounding him (and vice versa), and full of truthfulness.

Cuyler, was given to him by her family, meaning “strong man.” The dualism was that in Norse it had also meant “archer/bowman,” which could tie into him being incredibly keen and impeccable vision.

Her last name was respectively placed as her son’s last name, due to the fact that she wasn’t too sure how good it would be to have her father’s name there, nor how much he would like it. Besides that, she didn’t think people would be incredibly accepting to know his name was “Lokison,” though to be frank, she couldn’t give a damn about other’s people views of hers, what simply mattered was how Jay was going to have health with it; therefore, she decided to lay it off and not tell him until he was possibly much older.

As they made their way through the cobblestone path, (Y/N) dismissed her thoughts to see her son jump on every big stone in his path, mimicking the god of thunder as he waved his hands through the air, a stick firmly held.

“I am Thor, son of Odin. And I will bring lightning down and scary storms if you don’t listen to me!” He taunted to a squirrel, amazed at how the animal didn’t budge, he pressed on. “You shall then face the mighty wrath of me… don’t say I didn’t warn you…” (Y/N) stifled a laugh as she prepared on what was to happen, seeing her son bang the stick on the ground as he screamed the highest and loudest he’s ever in his entire life.

The squirrel soon reacted, grabbing its acorn and sprinting away deeper into the woods. “Ha! I won, no one is matched for me!” (Y/N) laughed again as she crept closer to her son slowly, careful not to step on a dry twig.

If only Thor could see this… she thought. I would be incredibly insulted, and pleased. Her arms then latched onto the young boy, grabbing him and bringing him up into the air, cautiously swinging him around as she tickled him.

“N-no w-wait-t! M-mom! S-s-to-op it!” Her son cried terribly as a series of giggles echoed through the forest. She soon halted her actions, settling him back down onto the ground. Her son pouted, giving her a very mad look.

“I told you to stop, that wasn’t nice.”

“Well… I did, didn’t I? It just took a tad bit longer than you expected it to be.” She smiled mischievously in response, extending her arm out.

“C’mon, let’s get you back home— we don’t want it to get dark before we arrive now do we?”

The young boy shook his head before springing back into action and running through the path all the way to their home in the woods.

When Jay was born, (Y/N) is certain when she said she had no idea what to do. She mapped out a general idea of how to prepare, read books and articles of becoming a mother, and begged her friends around to help guide her along the way for moral support.

Looking back, she would’ve laughed at the thought of panicking as much as she did— though she couldn’t blame herself for worrying.

Over the years Jay had grown up to become a very handsome young boy. He looked almost an exact replica of Loki, his shimmering personality didn’t help one bit either… In school, all the girls in his class made sure to greet him in the morning and in the afternoon, but Jay didn’t really spare them a glance at that, his primary goal was to get to the LEGOs and play with the other boys before class began.

One thing had started… that (Y/N) had noticed. At night, Jay had begun to get a lot more nightmares— waking up in a cold sweat, but that wasn’t the biggest issue. The truth was, Jay was still half of his father, which meant he was half-frost giant.

Certain times through the night when she checked upon him, his hand would be blue. Next, his arm, sometimes he legs— but never a full-body transformation. (Y/N) wasn’t scared of the fact that he had adopted that gene of being a frost-giant because it wasn’t disgusting at all… really, the ability was remarkable.

But there was a possibility that Jay would one day wake up and see it, and she wasn’t exactly sure how to prepare herself and tell him. Mind the fact, Jay was incredibly scared of monsters, he was… Dinosaurs were neat, but monsters he’d heard of and seen in his books weren’t. And she didn’t want her kid, either to wake up and one day sees it, or someone else. And then they call him a monster.

(Y/N) had grown extremely protective of her son, though she tends to deny it. She wasn’t going to let any punk tell her son he was a monster, because he was far from that.

(Y/N) opened the door as the keys rattled in reply, settling her things down on the counter.

“Jay, why don’t you go run and grab some new clothes for you to change into after you shower? You’re covered with mud,” she suggested, watching as her son eagerly nodded and headed out the kitchen.

What she didn’t expect, was to hear him call out to her.

“Mom?” He asked except she could hear the worry laced in his voice as he called out her name as he called her again…

___ __ A Little Bit Before __ ___

“Jay, why don’t you go run and grab some new clothes for you to change into after you shower? You’re covered with mud,” (Y/N) suggested, the little boy eagerly nodding his head and heading out the door that separated the kitchen from the living room.

As little Jay hummed a tune to himself and skipped across the floor, as he reached the stairs he came to an abrupt stop. His humming died as he whipped his head around, his eyes darting to the figure sitting down on his couch nervously, staring at him; the stranger’s blue eyes staring into his; the man almost looked exactly liked him, except much older.

“Mom?” Jay cried out, scared, as he held onto the stick still in his grasp. His eyes widened as the man seemed to get the hint that he was terrified, and stood up silently, raising his pointer finger to his mouth, and making a small “shush” sound. This, aggravated the little boy more as he scurried near the kitchen door again, calling out for his mother once more. If they hadn’t met on such terms, Jay had a feeling he would’ve really liked the man, but that wasn’t the time.

Jay heard the door swing open and watched his mother rush in, panicked.

“Jay? What’s going on—“ she stopped as she saw the stranger, her eyes widening in surprise. She gulped as she saw the man before them, instinctively grabbing her son’s hand and gently tugging him near her. Crouching down, she ruffled her son’s hair again, seeing his nose crinkle at her actions.

“Honey, I want you to go upstairs and go play with your toys for now, okay? Mommy will be up there, soon.” Jay titled his head to the side in confusion, before gesturing to his dirtied attire.

“But mom, my clothes—“

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Just go and do what I told you to do,” she spoke out, embracing her son. “But make sure, to lock the door.” She whispered to him, his eyes widened as he nodded in response, making his way up the stairs and to his room.

“I love you!” (Y/N) called out, hearing her son soon reply with the same words made her heart swell. As she heard the faint sound of the door closing, her eyes narrowed at the man in front of her.

“How did you get in here?” She questioned quite aggressively as she saw him move from his position, aligning himself across from her as he gazed at her sorrowfully.

“The backdoor was open…”

“Don’t give me that, Loki. I know it wasn’t opened.” She retorted, watching as he brought a hand up to his face, pushing the loose strands of hair back. “Then you already know the answer of how I got in, now I wish to know this… is that my son?”

(Y/N)’s heart dropped at his words, she didn’t know how to reply. Of course, the child was his, but what if he came here for the child? To take him? (Y/N) would certainly lose her sanity, at least the very left she’d been desperately attempting to cling onto, the sanity only being near her son could give her.

“Yes. Why do you wish to know?” She dragged out, watching his every move; as he leaned forward, she stepped back. “He’s a bright young man, clever too.” He complimented, taking another step towards her, watching her reaction.

“I know, no help from you,” she sarcastically remarked, trying to keep her cool in that very moment, afraid what would happen if he found out just how frightened she was on the outside. She took another step back, her hands behind her back in an attempt to hide them from him— her trembling hands.

“I just want to talk, (Y/N). To apologize,” Loki uttered out, taking another giant advance towards her.

“No,” she spoke out. “You had five years to come and talk, to apologize, but you didn’t… what do you really want, Loki? Just what are you doing here?”

Loki gulped, and for the first time… looked stumped. Completely surprised, and guilty. (Y/N) could see it, it was written all over his face, but she wasn’t going to trust it immediately, in case he had other intentions of showing up unexpectedly.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, to see my son and how he was… and to apologize for everything. Truly.” She stopped stepping backward and took a good long look at him; he looked spent.

He was still devilishly handsome, there was no doubt about it, but it looked like his face had slightly sunken in, the bags under his eyes were heavily noticeable, and his hair wasn’t slicked back and taken care of as he usually had it. To be honest, he looked like a hot mess.

“Sit down at the couch, say what you have to say with me, and then leave.” She declared, knowing that some of the words stung him hard. He complied without any complaints, slowly placing himself on the couch with his hands up in the air, before gesturing to the space on the opposite couch across from him.

(Y/N) nodded as she did the same, placing her hands in her lap.

“Now, what do you want to say to me?”

“I apologize,” he said.

“You’ve already said that, what else?”

“I want to say I’m sorry I’ve betrayed you, to the both of you. I really am. Five years ago, I lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and it was all because I was afraid…”

Soon, Loki’s last words (five years ago) echoed through your mind. “I won’t fuck up my child’s life with me being in the picture…”

“At that point in time, I wasn’t ready… and it wasn’t the fact of being scared of what I created, but having to raise it being the person I am. Love,” he croaked out, staring into your bright irises, before turning away to stare at the floor beneath him. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, not even a portion of the terrible crimes I’ve committed… what’s worse, is for some of them… I enjoyed it.”

“The point is… what would happen if he found out who I was? All that I’ve done? And what would everyone else think? He’d be accused of unspeakable things, let alone things he never once dreamt about—“

“So removing yourself from the picture helped?” She mustered out, seeing as his eyes found hers again in a state of panic.

“No—“

“Because it didn’t. Loki, it tore me apart. Jay doesn’t talk about it, but he wants a father, he’s curious, Loki. He needs a father, and I can tell you he couldn’t care who it was! Just someone who’d be there for him through thick-and-thin, and bring him up when he falls! Loki! How long do you think he’ll go on before he realizes and asks who his father is? How mad do you think he’d be if he found out not only who you were, but how you left. Loki. He’s a smart boy, even if I didn’t tell him, he’d piece together it all, and he’d be broken too.”

Loki flinched at her words, hearing the words echo within him.

He’d be broken too. Too.

She was broken too. Much more than she let on… he knew it. But the words dripping from her lips made it much worse, it stung. Badly. So bad he didn’t know what to do— he didn’t know what to say; he couldn’t reassure her, he already overstepped his boundaries by entering her life out of the blue.

Tears filled his vision without him knowing, as he stood up from his seat, ignoring her worried-look.

“I guess in the end… I fucked up my child’s life… even with me not being in the picture.” He said, trying his best to play it off as a joke and chuckle in the end, but all he saw was her vision becoming teary as well. “Not only that, I screwed up the life of the person I love most. No matter what I do, I screw everything up, don’t I?” Loki kneeled down and wiped the tears from his love’s eyes, giving her a small smile.

“(Y/N). I’m sorry, for everything. You don’t have to forgive me, and if you never will, I can accept that. If you don’t want to ever see me again, I can manage it. After all, you’ve gotten along so well without me, both you and Jay will find happiness, whether with or without me. I don’t deserve any of this, anything… really. But I want to tell you all of this before regret eats me alive, and I know it isn’t fair to you… which is why I leave you with the option…”

“Do you want me to leave?”

(Y/N) felt as if her whole world had collapsed again, her heart shattering again. And she didn’t know why.

She shouldn’t be this sad, feel this empty at this moment. She shouldn’t be wanted to grab him and never let go, to desperately feel his embrace again, or to hear him laugh and he smiles brightly.

She was strong, she’s been this strong, for years… she didn’t need a man in her life to make her feel complete, for years…

So why?

Why did she want him to be in the picture?

He left. He deserted her and left her. Her and her son. For years, without a trace, a hint, or even a gesture to say the things unsaid for so long. He loves her. He didn’t say it past tense, he still meant it, he meant every word.

She knew him, his words weren’t empty— they were true. And almost every thought in her mind told her to reject him, to let him rot for the actions he’s done so long ago…

But her heart ached, for so long. And seeing him suddenly appear out of thin air, caused all of her walls to crumble down within a matter of minutes. Maybe even seconds….

She couldn’t believe it after all this time— she still loves him.

Even with all his mistakes, from all of his words, she forgave him so easily, just him returning back— she’d already forgiven him.

Forgiveness is the final form of love.

More tears streamed down her face and she held onto his shirt carelessly, tucking her head into his chest as she shook it furiously.

“N-no,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to leave, even after everything. I should hate you, you know. I shouldn’t even want to see you ever again after what you’ve done…”

Loki’s heartstrings tugged.

“But no matter what you’ve done, I can’t do that. I can’t ever do that to you, Loki. I love you too.” She mustered out, before going limp into his arms as she continued to cry, Loki quickly rubbing soothing circles on her back as he enveloped her fully, muttering all types of “thank you”s to her as she calmed down.

Loki knew it would be a challenge, to confess his apologizes, and see her reaction. He also knew she wouldn’t be open to suddenly returning to the relationship they had five years ago, she needed time to not only forgive him, but he needed time to be able to appreciate all of her, and Jay.

He’d need to earn her love and respect for him again and develop an entirely new one with Jay. But right now, it was unspeakably going to be worth it. Every ounce of energy was going to be dedicated to being devoted to both the loves of his life. Besides, if her words of still loving him were true, then perhaps he still had a fighting chance. Not to restart, but to continue forward…

_____

(Y/N) had disappeared for a bit after their little make-up session, her exact whereabouts unknown to him. All he knew was that she was somewhere upstairs… she could be telling his brother to come and kill him for all he knew.

His thoughts were soon interrupted as he heard her walk down the stairs, and a nervous smile plastered among her face. He watched her peculiarly as she gave him one last promising look, and moving out of the way to reveal their son.

For a second, his breath was gone— sucked out of him. He looked so much like him, like her as well, it was miraculous.

The young boy waddled his way over to him, afraid and holding onto his mother’s hand tightly.

“Jay... I want you to meet— your father.” The boy’s eyes widened at her statement.

“D-dad…?”

Tags:

@jessiejunebug

@hellethil

@atomiczineprofessoroperator

[cetacian]

Muse Bio

Grace Balin (former human form)

Grace in her Orca form

                                       Bio: Under Cut for Length

Grace Balin was born into a large family that struggled with low income. Seeing the poverty of her family and community pushed her to work hard to achieve her dreams of helping others. Her hard work paid off when she received a full academic scholarship to Gotham Gate College. It was during her freshman year that she would see the Northern Atlantic Ocean and fell in love with the sea. She soon earned her Ph. D.s in marine biology (specializing in cetology) and biomedicine (specializing in gene therapy) and took up a position at the Gotham Aquarium.  A chance encounter at a party of mutual friends lead to Grace meeting Terry Capshaw, who she would soon marry. Three years later, Grace and Terry would work together to found an after-school program so that inner-city children could experience the beauty of the sea. Grace would later expand her desire to help the less fortunate by founding a soup kitchen that she worked at in her off-hours. While Grace and Terry planned on having children of their own, a car accident would cause Grace to becoming paraplegic and require the use of a wheelchair. Grace soon became obsessed with regaining her mobility, pouring money in gene therapy studies, concentrating on the possibility of spinal regeneration via the use of orca spinal cord tissues, taken from the aquarium’s resident orca whale Esther.

Grace was eventually able to create a chemical formula that not only temporarily allowed her the mobility she craved, but also gave her the immense strength and swimming prowess of an orca. However, her unauthorized gene studies and numerous human trials resulted in her grants for the aquarium being terminated. As she faced eviction from her place of work and desperately needing funds for both her soup kitchen and other charitable endeavors, Grace created a specialized suit and took on the moniker of Orca in order to act as a Robin Hood-esque vigilante. Her first act of theft was the Flame of Persia, a valuable diamond owned by rich fashion mogul Camille Baden-Smythe. Camille was not a random victim, nor entirely innocent herself, as she had made her money from sweatshop labor and well as being a slumlord for the neighborhood Grace lived and worked in (including owning the aquarium and desiring to see it shut down and the area rezoned for commercial use). Bruce Wayne happened to be on Camille’s yacht when Orca stole the diamond, putting Batman on her trail. He visited the Gotham Aquarium, hoping to learn more information on orcas from Grace, not suspecting her due to her disability. Later that night, Grace sent her friend Salman Jared to try to fence the diamond, which ended with him being fatally shot when the potential clients decided to steal the diamond. While Batman wasn’t able to save Salman, he was able to prevent Orca from murdering the treacherous fencers and learn from the dying Salman that Orca intended to use the fenced funds for charitable causes and that Grace was involved in some way.

Batman then followed Orca back to the aquarium, leading to a confrontation that ended with Batman being thrown into Esther’s tank. Batman managed to escape, finding Grace’s torn clothes, her chemical formula and the eviction notice for the aquarium, mistakenly believing that she had either been murdered by Orca or committed suicide to avoid implication in the former’s crimes. While Batman asked Alfred to look into further information on the evidence he found, he deciding to investigate Grace’s soup kitchen, going undercover as a homeless veteran. At the kitchen, he found that Grace was still alive and, via lip reading, discovered that she planned on extorting Camille personally for the diamond’s safe return, rather than risk anymore of her friends’ lives. Upon leaving the kitchen, Batman left a sizable donation and prevented a young boy from burning down the aquarium, discovering that Camille had threatened him into committing the act under penalty of having his family evicted from their home.

Later on, Batman followed Orca back to Camille’s yacht, but was unable to prevent her from from being attacked by the armed security forces aboard. Once Orca reached Camille and demanded payment for the Flame of Persia, she was devastated to discover that the gem didn’t legally belong to Camille and that she wouldn’t pay for its return. Enraged, Orca leapt at Camille, who shot her twice in the chest. Running on adrenaline, Orca grabbed Camille and leapt into the harbor. Batman chased after them, learning from Alfred the nature of the chemical formula, the fact that Grace’s clothes had been torn from the inside out, Camille’s ownership of the aquarium and the real owner of the Flame of Persia. Batman made a strategic attack, which forced Orca to take notice of the fact that Camille was quickly running out of air. Unfortunately, the gunshot wounds inflicted on Orca turned out to be fatal, forcing Batman to quickly bring both her and Camille to the surface.

As Grace was dying, she changed back to her human form, revealing her identity to Batman and Camille. As her life ebbed, Grace informed Batman that she had more of the chemical formula on her and taking it all would heal her mortal wounds, though at the cost of trapping her permanently in her hybrid form. Batman allowed her to take the formula, which worked as Grace said it would, transforming her into a more monstrous form that no longer required the specialized suit. She then escaped, saying that she would let Batman live and that she intended to continue her criminal career in pursuit of helping others. Batman was able to bring Camille’s crimes to light, give the Flame of Persia back to its real owner and use the gem’s reward money (along with an exceeding donation from Wayne International) to greatly improve the community Grace fought so hard for and was forced to leave behind.

For a time, Grace went to Bludhaven, at first working with the former rogues turned heroes group the Run-Offs, but her self loathing for her new existence lead her to abandon them in favor of a robber group called the Whale’s Enders out of a desperate desire to not be seen as a monster. However, after the group had a violent encounter with the Blockbuster form of Roland Desmond, Grace came to her senses, having realized early on that the group wanted her formula for becoming orca hybrids, something she refused to give them. She would then go on to assist Nightwing and the Run-Offs, helping to cure the city’s population when they were exposed to the Blockbuster serum by Raptor and Pigeon.

Grace would later return to Gotham City, acting as a violent vigilante against pirates, poachers and human traffickers. However, her return became fraught with tragedy as her young nephew Jonah (who she hadn’t yet met in person) was one of many lives lost in a mad scheme by Melmoth The Wanderer. She soon joined the Gotham City Monsters, a group of mutated and supernatural beings, who had all lost someone or otherwise been harmed by Melmoth, in a quest to stop him from potentially destroying the Multiverse. Joining forces with Batwoman, the team was able defeat Melmoth before going their separate ways once more. Since then, Grace has been willing to work with both heroes and villains alike for the greater good and hopes to gain the courage to one day reconnect with her family.

[frehleys-baby]

Resurrection Fic, Part 2!

The sun was shining, pigeons were outside scavenging for crumbs and the bustle of New York City kept on like it always had. The world had, as expected, not stopped for Gene’s death. But Frances had been changed, even if the Earth’s spin hadn’t.

She woke up in bed, still a wrinkled black pantsuit, shoes neatly placed beside the bed-placed by someone else. Someone who clearly didn’t know she put her shoes in her closet.

The blonde reached over to her nightstand, patting around until she felt the smooth edge of her phone.

Looking at the screen, Frances squinted through the sleep in her eyes until the large white numbers became clear.

1:15 PM.

Her eyebrows shot up- she never slept in that late, not even on weekends. “The only time I sleep in like that,” she mumbled to herself as she sat up, “is when I-“

Frances groaned at the migraine she suddenly felt at its full force, leaning back against the wall, back pressed to the headboard. She hadn’t had this strong of a hangover since before she had met Gene, who was never much of a drinker.

What had made her get so drunk the day before? What made her drink like she was 21 again? What had-

Frances groaned again as the memory waded through the migraine and made it to the front of her mind.

Yesterday had been Gene’s funeral, where she likely had made a goddamn fool of herself.

The service was as lovely as the funeral of a 20-something could be; at least as much as she could remember.

As she swung her legs over the bed and tried to start her day, she tried to remember more.

The scent of sympathetic flowers and the thick perfume of distraught great aunts came back to her as she brushed her teeth- the scents that had masked the alcohol on her breath.

If she tried harder, she could remember Paul and Eric dragging her outside- had she been screaming? Fumbling with her zipper clumsily, Frances eventually removed the romper leaving it haphazardly on the ground.

She might have remembered throwing up in the washroom of the funeral home, she decided as she turned the shower faucet.

Fuzzy memories of her best friend holding her hair back and berating her surfaced as she stepped under the hot water, memories pelting her like the droplets. She possibly recalled Kate calling her every name in the book until her voice choked, until they sat on the floor of the handicapped stall and cried until they couldn’t cry anymore.

She didn’t remember getting home. She didn’t remember who took her home. All she remembered was waking up.

As she left the shower, clean and out of her morning fog, the heavy weight of her hangover still pulled on her shoulders, weighing down her body as she put a fresh bandage around her leg. The wound had been stitched shut, and the deep purples and painful blues that bordered the gash had faded into sickly greens and irritated reds. Neat black stitches were wrapped under bandage, covering the evidence of the crash, the same way her desperate mind covered the full events of yesterday. Perhaps one day they’d show her the full story, the same way maybe she’d find the full story of what happened that night. The police had simply written off the crash as a hit-and-run accident, a tragedy but nothing purposeful. They took her statement, called the medical examiner to take Gene away, and that was that. It was a anxiety-caused hallucination, they said, temporary psychosis from seeing her boyfriend’s face hacked to hell and back.

Frances normally would’ve believed that, had she not felt that gun at the base of her neck, that voice telling her she had to die.

The phantom barrel chilled her spine as she shook her short hair dry, and put on fresh clothes.

She realized too late what clothes she’d grabbed- the size of her shirt drew her eye to what clothes she’d haphazardly grabbed.

The cover of Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite For Destruction was emblazoned across the t-shirt- and her heart broke at the realization. It was Gene’s shirt. Tears rolled down her cheeks as Frances tore the shirt off of her body and threw it at the bathroom tile.

It landed in a heap. So did Frances, collapsing in front of her sink. She swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, hiccuping for air after each sob.

Frances sat there for a while, letting her heart fall apart all over again, the pieces falling where they may. By the end of her emotional shattering on that bathroom floor, she was calm again- and the phone in her bedroom was ringing.

She headed out of the bathroom, not daring to think about the offending shirt as she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?!”The voice on the other end spat back.

Frances slapped a palm to her forehead, realizing who it was on the other end of the line. Her work partner, Danalia.

Frances said all she could think to say. “Fuck!”

“I’m at the airport and I’m supposed to be taking off on a flight of a lifetime, researching new hieroglyphs and a potential new Egyptian deity- I’m on the cusp of discovery, and my research assistant is nowhere to be found. And all you have to say is “fuck?!” Are you kidding?!”

To say Danalia was outraged was an understatement- Frances knew she was in for it when she saw her next. She worked with the Egyptian woman on a variety of under-researched topics, and while her and Dani usually got along quite well, right now wasn’t one of those times. Frances had totally forgotten about the work trip they were supposed to take for the museum they worked at.

“Look, I don’t wanna get into my personal life with you right now, but I don’t think I can make it right now- can you call Vinnie?”

“You seriously think he can pack for a month-long trip in 8 hours?”

“He’d jump over the moon for you, Dani. Packing for a month is cake. I’ll even feed his dogs if I have to.”

“I-“

“You know what, Danalia? I’m sure you’ll make the next great discovery about Egypt since King Tut’s tomb was found, and you two will be happily ever after, riding camels into the sunset.”

She heard Dani laugh on the other end of the line, and Frances allowed herself to have a small smile at her friend’s boisterous laugh.

“I have to go, Dani. Make sure you give Vinnie a call.”

And before Danalia could respond, Frances hung up the phone. She put on a t-shirt emblazoned with a foreign soda brand, and some worn-out socks- pink with holes in the top, one of her toes poking out to say hello. She walked out into the living room area of her apartment- a small space, as it’s about all she could afford in New York on the salary of a glorified secretary, to a pile of blankets on both her couch and the floor. She recognized one from the mess of blue hair on the pillow, as that was all she could see on the couch, and the other blanket pile was unrecognizable...mostly.

Frances kicked at Paul on the floor, before stepping over him and shaking Kate awake.

“Why are you two here?”

Kate groaned, rolling over in response, while Paul sat up. He rubbed at his kicked shoulder, still in his crumpled dress pants and shirt from the day before, his jacket and tie thrown on a chair in the dining room.

“You were drunk, wailing about Gene, and you live on a fifth floor building- I didn’t wanna take a chance.”

“Excuse me?”

Kate grumbled from the couch before hopping up with a start, in a black sweater and her underwear, not bothering to keep her clothes on out of politeness or self-decency. Kate had known Frances too long to worry about that kind of thing- avoiding showing your ass was something friends did, not best friends.

“He means he didn’t want you to take a swan dive onto a New York sidewalk. The homeless people would probably loot your corpse.”

Paul cut his eyes at the smaller girl as she used her hand to simulate someone falling and hitting the ground, making a whistling noise- complete with an explosion noise at the end.

“Kate.”

“I’m being honest, Paulie, you know I am. You about jumped out of your skin when you heard her get up to take a piss at 3 am.”

Paul sighed, and stretched his arms while Frances furrowed her eyebrows.

“And...you elected not to tell me this?”

“We did!”

“You were just...ya know. Drunk. Like we said. Drunk as a skunk, bawling your eyes out, I don’t think the snot stains will ever get out of Paul’s jacket-“

”I get it.” Frances shot back. She turned to Paul, who gave a visibly strained smile. He looked like he’d been crying- He and Gene had been best friends longer than she had even known Gene, and he’d never even got a chance to say goodbye. She stole a glance at Kate, who’s puffy red eyes gave away more than she’d say. It was like losing a part of your family, even if some of the people in this pseudo-family viewed Gene like the rabid family dog and treated him as such. Frances sighed and crossed her arms, directly avoiding Paul and Kate’s gaze. She looked at her floor, the threadbare carpeting in desperate need of a deep clean.

“Don’t smile if you don’t wanna, Paulie, we’re all hurting.”

“No, I do wanna smile, Gene would’ve made fun of all of us for crying about him, and you know it. He’s probably laughing at us all right now, wherever he’s at.”

“I’m not sure he’s laughing in Hell.” Kate retorted, and the three laughed- laughed despite how unfunny the joke was, laughing just to keep from crying, laughing to try and feel better. When the laughter stopped it was quiet, and someone began to sniffle- Kate and Frances let our disheartened sighs and gasps as Paul began to cry, despite the smile on his face, scrubbing at the tears on his face.

“Dammit, I-

I’m sorry, Fran, I didn’t wanna cry in front of you, because I know you’re havin’ it rough too, and I-“

Frances simply hugged him, and he stopped- the sniffles didn’t, but he didn’t bother trying to explain it away.

Kate sighed, her eyes watering.

“Now I bet he’s really laughing at us.”

A/N: Hey everyone! This second chapter has been a l o n g time coming, lol. Honestly, I haven’t had any inspiration for this fic until recently, and I figured since I can’t do much because of quarantine, I might as well write! I haven’t introduced all the characters yet, but will do so in the next chapter! Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed it!

Proofread by: @walkingmajority

Taglist!

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@spacefoxy-irl

[theramseyloft]

You go on about how intelligent/emotional pigeons are, but you treat them like objects and that bothers me. You separate bonded pairs of these intelligent, loving animals so frequently as if they don't have any feelings. And then you wonder why these birds afterward do not just take a new mate instantly. You are continually traumatizing these animals and causing them to shut down because they probably begin to realize any new bond they make will only be severed.

I do that because they are.

There is a huge difference between treating a living being like an object and acknowledging that the feelings of a non-human will not often perfectly align with those of a human.

Different species are different.

They have different physical, emotional, and social needs, even if there are a lot of close parallels.

And there are certainly a lot of parallels between humans and pigeons;

They are self aware cooperative social learners.

They form societies.

Those societies have a culture that varies regionally and they have a base line of values...

But their society, culture, and values are different from a human’s because pigeons are not human.

Nothing specializes in preying on humans. We generalize in preying on everything, as a species, as a whole.

We change our environment to suit our needs as much as we are able, and we are more able with every generation.

While things, objectively, can happen to any human at any time, out of nowhere..

On the whole, we generally don’t expect them to.

As such, our monogamous relationships are, ideally, “Until death do us part” meaning “Until we both die of old age, preferably around the same time.”

To the extent that closely bonded humans are emotionally devastated by the loss of that life partner.

To many of us, a life partner is also counted as lost if they engage in sexual infidelity, and if this happens, we are just as devastated (if not even more devastated) as we could have been if that partner had died.

Pigeons are a prey species that evolved in a cheetah-and-thompson’s-gazelle-style arms race with the Peregrine Falcon.

Their monogamous relationships version of “Until Death do us part” can be better translated; “Until one or the other of us gets eaten on a foraging trip.”

And sexual fidelity does not enter into the equation for a pigeon unless their partner is treading or being tread by some one else at the exact moment that bird wants to tread or be tread by their partner.

A cock who wants sex will seek out his wife first, but if she is not interested, he will go asking all the hens away from their nest until one agrees and crouches for him.

If his mate changes her mind and wants him to tread her, she will seek him out and crouch to present herself.

He will tread his wife, and after they do the cute little “I just had sex” dance that’s reserved for mated pairs (side flings get neither this nor courtship. Just sex and separate.) she goes off to do what ever she wanted to do.

If the cock is satisfied, he goes with his wife.

If he still needs or wants more sex, he can tread as many hens as he wants. His wife will not care, because she has had her turn.

If a hen wants sex, she will seek out her husband, generally, but if he’s busy or away, she’ll present for who ever she likes.

Her husband does not care who filled the egg. He only cares that she lays it in his nest and he gets to help set and raise it.

Pigeons divorce partners they consider to be inadequate. Cocks who fail to fill eggs, hens who refuse to set eggs, partners of either sex that don’t spend enough time reaffirming their bond with their spouses...

Unrequited relationships and love triangles are also relationships that pigeons find themselves in.

A pair is considered to have divorced if one partner or the other moves in and spends their nights in the nest of another partner, not for mating with some one else.

Some times, divorces are mutual, and both birds move on to other mates.

Some times, they are not. And the partner left will pine and keep making overtures to reconcile with the partner that left them.

But when a mate just disappears and doesn’t come back, they are assumed by the remaining partner to have been eaten.

If they were closely bonded, the remaining partner may wait a week or so at most, in case they were lost, in hopes the missing bird will make their way back and reunite.

If, after a week, the remaining bird is keeping to them self and not socializing, something is physically wrong, and anthropomorphizing it as “depressed” can get the bird killed.

The veterinary term ‘depression’ describes an animal that is physically ill, be that from a pathogen attacking it to ingesting or absorbing a toxin or simple vitamin or mineral deficiency.

For example;

A week after I became aware that breeding pigeons could become salt deficient and gave the flock a salt and trace mineral brick, birds that had shown no interest in bonding or courting for months are suddenly flirting with everything that moves.

They were not too traumatized to before.

They had a mineral deficiency.

They did not court because they did not feel good.

With the addition of their supplement brick, lo and behold, they all feel better and are courting again.

I have an entire flock to take care of, and I am responsible for the wellbeing of every individual I bring into the world.

To avoid overcrowding, I have a cap of 10 breeding pair.

Because that is the number of adults and their offspring under 6 months old that my loft can comfortably house.

When ever a new breeding bird leaves quarantine or a keeper reaches 6 months, a bird of the same sex has to be retired and made available to avoid overcrowding and the stress and disease that come with it.

Who retires when is not arbitrary.

There are very strict criteria.

1. Physical health.

Regardless of whether or not I have a replacement ready, a bird who may be hurt by the physical process of reproduction or the strain of rearing young, or who may pass on genes that may be harmful to potential offspring is retired on the spot and adopted out with a strict nonbreeding agreement.

Gus is a sweet boy,

But this happens to him every molt, and we have since found out that it runs in both sides of his family, proving it to be genetic and cumulative.

As cute as he and Leela were together, I cannot let him breed.

Because I would have to be a monster to be willing to knowingly pass that painful condition on to another generation.

He has a forever family familiar with his condition to whom he is going on Monday.

2. Undesirable structure

I do not mean anything as stupid as “This animal isn’t pretty enough.”

Cody is not only gorgeous, but an excellent father who has served our program very well.

But his muffs are big enough to make walking uncomfortable, so while I like the rest of his traits, that’s one I want to breed away from.

Now that I have a brother and Sister of his with short muffs that do not cause them discomfort, 

Farthing 

and suki

will continue contributions to the project

and Cody is available.

3. Antisocial behavior that disrupts or disturbs their flock mates.

Indica

And Pookie 

Are the poster children for flock disruption.

They are a gay and bi mated pair of cocks, who are literally turned on by prying other treading pairs off of each other.

If they see another pair treading, Indica will grab the hen by the scruff, Pookie will grab the cock by his, and they will pull in opposite directions, prying the treading pair apart, and marching them in opposite directions towards the wall.

Indica and Pookie will then throw the bird they have at the wall and then run back to meet each other in the center of the floor, smooch-feed each other back and forth, and take turns treading each other.

On top of this, they defend 15 of the 36 total nest boxes in my loft, refusing to pick a specific one or let any other pair settle in a box to lay.

You may or may not have noticed that when I advertised the available birds on Thursday, I made a point of saying that I would prefer these two be adopted together because they are bonded and would be happier that way.

A prospective new family is coming to meet them on Monday.

But they are SUCH a violent disruption to their flock mates that if only one had a home lined up, it would be unkind to the rest of the flock to keep them both on the insistence that they go together.

4. Shitty parenting history

Parents who tend to ignore eggs or peeps, leaving all the work of setting or feeding to their partner.

This is a personality trait, and such a parent puts dangerous strain on their partner and stress on their peeps. 

Their partner will usually divorce them for that, so adopting the bad parent out isn’t “Splitting up a bonded pair”.

Their former spouse is usually looking for or has found some one else with out any interference on my part.

5. Too many offspring/grandchildren

This is to avoid any more inbreeding than necessary.

Betty is one of the best studs here.

He is an outstanding father who sits tight on his eggs, pumps his peeps full, and educates them carefully though weaning.

MANY are his children and grand children, and he has a strong preference for birds with faces like his.

He has already bred with his niece to produce Sherry, and I would like to avoid having him breed to any more of his kin.

Once his peep with Liang is weaned, he will be adopted.

Liang is very skittish, and she liked him right off the bat, so I delayed his retirement to give her more time to feel secure with the flock.

But with her egg hatching, she is allowing herself to be casually flirt with more.

Wukong still likes her. So do Cherub and Ginger, so she’ll have her pick when Betty goes to his new home.

6. Temperament

The Therapy Bird Project is working towards developing a performance breed with a temperament conducive to Therapy work.

All else being equal; The birds are all physically sound with no known detrimental genes, no embellishments too exaggerated, not overly aggressive to flock mates, great parents... Then the bird least interested in human company gets retired.

The ground work of physical and mental base soundness has to be laid first and foremost for that excellent temperament I’m aiming for to shine in their handler’s lives for as long as possible.

You probably have not noticed that when bonded pairs retire at the same time, I make a thing of them being bonded in hopes that they will be adopted together.

Dodger and Alex retired close enough to each other that both are still here, and I would prefer they be adopted together.

But if one of them gets a perfect home lined up where I think that individual will be happy, I will not refuse them that good home for the sake of not splitting up a pair.

You care about the idea of that a LOT more than the pigeons themselves do.