#(if ao3 permits)

[munchkin1156]

Let me show you things from a different angle! Hang on, that’s not what I meant-

. . .

A new fic!! Hooray!! This one is also for the @mcyt-soulmate-sweepstakes event!! Under the extra prompt “Trust”!!

ao3 link

Summary:

Scar was someone you could trust. Definitely, totally, absolutely. The Permit Office had no reason to be suspicious of him!

...Well, ignoring how he didn't have a permit for his magic and potions. But besides that, nothing!

Grian just wanted to get the inspection of this guy's house and permits over with. It was getting annoying how he kept lying, and even worse how smug he seemed about it, thinking he’d gotten away with it. Ugh.

At least nothing had gone horribly wrong yet.

word count: 5,557

. . .

Scar was your totally average, day to day salesman.

He lived in a small apartment, on the west side of the city, overlooking the central park. He did chores, met up with his friends, and made sales that definitely had reasonable prices. In every way you could possibly imagine, he was a perfectly compliant citizen. Perfectly trustworthy. No reason whatsoever for the government to have any sort of suspicion about him. 

Nothing at all.

…Apart from the illegal magic use, that is. 

According to his files, Scar sold boring, useful, everyday things like, for example, vacuum cleaners. Very uninteresting stuff. That was a lie. He didn’t even own a vacuum cleaner! Originally, when he was younger, he’d wanted to be a known wizard, a famous one, but those were the foolish hopes of a child. Child him hadn’t known how ridiculously impossible it was to get a permit for magic use. He was still waiting to hear back from the Permit Office about getting an appointment to discuss the possibility of him using magic, and that was nearing three years now. He had a sneaking suspicion they’d forgotten he’d sent in an application.

Since Scar wasn’t the type of person to give up on his dreams, he’d just… Not told the Permit Office he was using it. He had found a market online, for people just like him, with the same idea. Not evil people, who wanted to practice black magic, but people who simply couldn’t, because the system sucked. And with his natural talent for arcane arts, Scar had gotten quite popular, especially with his potions. Who wouldn’t love something that was slightly cheaper, and yet worked far better than anything store bought?

Because his apartment had been basically turned into a magic lab it was hard to hide an entire room set aside for the business, with magical ingredients and chalk marks left over from spells everywhere, his friends had caught on fairly quickly to what he was doing. They had then made it their mission to help Scar with this side gig, as well as cover things up from the authorities. Absolute legends, they were. Total life savers. Scar couldn’t count how many times they’d saved him after he’d said one too many suspicious things to an officer of the Poe Poe.

It was with their help the Permit Office hadn’t needed to investigate where he lived, because he had no idea where he would hide all his highly illegal stuff. Anyway, he knew he’d get some warning before it happened, if it did ever happen, because the Permit Office loved to send warning notices ahead of time, which was very helpful if you needed to get rid of something they wouldn’t approve of.

But what Scar had forgotten, was that the Permit Office didn’t always do that. They were forgetful over there, workers slacking off all the time, and he’d even heard rumours that they burnt complaints so that they wouldn’t have to do the paperwork for it. Before he’d started up his magic industry, Scar had been in a similar type job, though not for the government, and he understood why they’d do it, even if he didn’t approve. Hey, maybe that’s what happened to his initial request…

Anyway, that was why, when his doorbell rang that morning, and Scar had opened it to find someone in complete Permit Office uniform, standing outside his door expectantly, he had been incredibly surprised, since he hadn’t received any information about this. He was also incredibly relieved when he realised he hadn’t been making any potions at that moment, because it would have been very clear to the Permit Worker in front of him. He was wearing a teal shirt, with a black tie and beige pants. His hair was short, and the colour reminded Scar of sand on a beach, or desert. The nametag pinned to his shirt read “Hello, my name is ___”, with the word Grain scrawled in the empty space.

“Good morning, officer Grain! How can I be of assistance?” Scar asked cheerfully, leaning in the doorframe, effectively blocking the Permit Workers view of his home. The man scowled in response, black eyes narrowing as he glared bitterly at Scar. “My name,” he began, looking offended at the mere prospect of someone getting it wrong, “Is Grian. And I’m a Permit Manager, not an officer.”

Oops. That was his dyslexia's fault. Still, not exactly super polite, in Scar’s opinion. He could’ve been a bit nicer about it. Scar felt a hint of sarcasm make its way into his words as he answered the manager known as Grian. “My sincerest apologies, manager Grian. How can I be of assistance?” Grian raised an eyebrow, as if it was obvious what he was here for, and Scar was the rude one. “You are Scar Goodtimes, yes?”

Scar nodded, tilting his head a little to one side. “That’s me.” He agreed. “What about it?” Grian made a notation on his checklist, before responding. “Then you should be informed of the observation I have to make of your house and permits today.” He hummed, smiling a little. “Shall we begin?”

His heart dropped. Scar’s own smile faltered for a fraction of a second, though he regained his bearings almost immediately. “W-why yes of course, Grian! Just give me a moment, it’s really quite a mess in here… I didn’t actually get any sort of warning about this you see…” And hurriedly shut the door in the manager's face. He shakily sat down on the other side, taking a deep breath in, and out. He could do this. He hadn’t been expecting this, sure, hadn’t known about it, but that was fine.

After all, if he knew anything from the times his friends had been surveyed about their homes and jobs, the person being sent didn’t actually know what their job was. Also, they had very strict work hours, so if Scar managed to use up all of Grian’s time without needing to show him the non-existent permit, he could get away scott free.

Yep. This was possible. Grinning from ear to ear, Scar spoke in his most convincing, salesman type voice as he opened the door again, staring right back at the suspicious manager. “Why don’t you come in?” He offered, eyes sparkling. Grian grumbled a ‘let’s get this over with’ and stepped inside.

Scar was ready for anything the permit office could throw at him. As the door clicked shut, he felt confident he had the upper hand here. It was his own home. His own ground. He was totally ready. The manager would be none the wiser, because he was one hundred percent trustworthy.

. . .

Grian wasn’t sure what Scar’s deal was, but whatever it was, he didn’t trust it in the slightest.

First of all, he seemed to have no idea about the inspection that was schedueled today despite the weeks notice. That was already very strange. The Permit Office (almost) always made sure people were well notified ahead of time. He must have just not been paying attention. Secondly, he kept switching between being charismatic and nervous. He was probably hiding his terror, deep down. And thirdly, he’d gotten Grian’s name and job title wrong! He had to have done it in order to annoy Grian. He must dislike the Permit Office. Therefore, there had to be something off about one of his permits. Maybe he didn’t even have one.

That was an appalling prospect. Imagine not having a permit. Grian had no idea what the world would look like where people didn’t use permits for everything and didn’t follow the rules. It would definitely lead to total destruction and anarchy. No doubt about it.

If only he had access to his documents. Then he’d at least know if this so-called “wizard” was telling the truth. Now, Grian was just in for an hour of awkward chatter as Scar led him around his apartment, showing him all his magic supplies. At least he got to make notes about how things looked. The safety measures, and what rules he crossed.

The apartment in itself wasn’t too shabby. Rather spacious for one person, enough to have both a general living space as well as a separate room for his work. After a general tour, Scar sat him down in an armchair while he went to make some drinks. It was rather strange how hospitable he was being. Most people would just show their home and their permits and be done with it, not needing the full hour unless they had some sort of mansion. You’d think the man was stretching time out. Almost like Scar enjoyed talking to him.

Grian nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought. Wanting to talk to him? That certainly couldn’t be it. So then, why couldn’t he just show him his permits? Unless he had a reason to hide them, something he’d get in trouble for…

Hmmm…

Oh. Ohhh. That made much more sense. Scar must have a permit in his possession that he wasn’t using! Well, that just wouldn’t do. Once he returned, he’d immediately get down to business. And it wouldn’t be too bad if Scar immediately confessed. He’d only have to pay a small fine. No, it was if he lied about not having a permit. Then he’d be in serious trouble. For his sake, Grian hoped he wouldn’t try and be clever about things, though he knew he probably would.

Adjusting his position, Grian added his suspicions to the checklist. Everything of importance had to be written down. It was the only way things would get done. Not that he particularly cared if things got done or not, as long as they weren’t his problem.

With annoyance, Grian’s eyes landed on the shelves and shelves of potions that were literally everywhere. Hardly any of them were labelled, and none of the shelves looked properly nailed to the wall. Honestly, it felt like something would tip over any second. Ugh. Potion stains were horrible to get out, and potion effects were even harder. Grian almost pitied Scar in advance for when those fell, but he reminded himself that he was probably lying to the Permit Office, which was unacceptable behaviour.

Scar, from Grian’s observations, seemed to be a reasonably pleasant chap, at least to look at, besides his problems with the government. Green eyes, brown hair, a sane sense for fashion. Really, the only off-putting thing about him (personality not included) were the scars that covered his arms and face. A fitting name for the man, he supposed, if a bit of a cruel joke.

In a few minutes, Scar returned, bringing two cups of tea with him. He set them both down on the small coffee table in front of Grian, before sitting down in the armchair opposite him. Clasping his hands together, he smiled warmly at Grian. Grian scoffed internally. Who did this man think he was, to try and get away from using a Permit he requested without consequences? He cleared his throat. “So, Mister Goodtimes-“ he started, trying to hurry this up, but was rudely interrupted.

“Oh, you can just call me Scar!” Scar told him pleasantly, much to Grian’s annoyance. He rolled his eyes and continued. “Alright, Scar, could you please bring me your permits for inspection?” 

Grian watched with an odd sense of satisfaction when Scar’s face paled, and his chatter faltered. He noticed how quickly he regained his confidence, even though it was probably false confidence, same as earlier, when Grian had initially arrived. What an interesting individual, who had just opened his mouth, presumably to speak lies.

“Right, of course! Just- erm, give me a moment while I search for them?” Scar spoke with a nervous tick, a tug at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t usually keep them out on display, so they could be anywhere…”

What an original excuse, the ‘I can’t find them’. Grian had had that trick pulled on him many a time. He figured he’d play along with him a little, give him some false hope. If this took up enough of his time, he wouldn’t have to do the paperwork he knew was waiting for him once he returned to the office. The best way to procrastinate was having a reason for it, after all.

Smoothly, he responded. “But of course, Scar. We have all the time in the world.” He smiled, but it wasn’t his genuine smile. It was the one he used specifically to make people uncomfortable. Look, being a Permit Worker was boring, okay? He had to find some way to entertain himself while doing his job. Scar nodded, turning his back on him quickly as he stood up yet again, going into a different room. Grian could hear the sound of a chest being opened, and someone rummaging through it. All for show, of course, but he noted that it was a better show than most.

Grian sipped his tea as he waited. Scar’s voice was heard from the other room every now and again, apologising for the inconvenience and offering to get Grian something from his kitchen, which he politely declined. Eventually, after checking his watch, he decided he’d had enough. 

Time to get this over with.

“You know, I don’t actually have all day,” he called, and heard a loud thud followed by a muttered curse, as Scar presumably hit his head on something, probably having tried to turn in Grian’s direction. “If you could perchance come back to the living room?” A few grumbles, and Scar emerged again, looking sheepish. “Why of course, of course! What would you like to discuss?” He asked, sinking gratefully back into his seat.

He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, Scar, and I might be wrong here,” Grian carefully got up, walking over to stand on the far side of the room, where the higher up potions stood, on higher up shelves. “I think that you may be lying to the Permit Office about owning a permit.” Seeing Scar stiffen only confirmed his suspicions. He was certain about what this man had done wrong.

Taking a glance at the time on his watch, he determined he probably had more than enough time to get his point across. “Now, the Permit Office isn’t generally fond of these types of things. And, rule breakers generally ought to be punished, ey?” Grian watched as Scar fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt, the anxiety pooling in his light green eyes. Unlike Grian’s, with eyes the colour of black ink, where emotion could hide.

“So, I feel the best way to go about this is if you, without fuss, hand over your unused permit, pay a small fine, and we can all be on our way. Sounds good?” His emotions could be a bit on the impatient side, and he found that he had in fact lost most of the patience he had.

Scar started nodding, to Grian’s relief, before a frown appeared on his face. “Wait, but I don’t have an unused permi-“

“Quiet!” Grian hissed, slamming his hand against the wall as a way to get Scar to stop talking, stop lying. He didn’t have time to deal with it. He also didn’t have time to notice how a potion shelf, the one above him and just a little to the left to be exact (and he liked to be) tilted in his direction when he did this. If he had, this might not have happened. Scar wasn’t paying attention to it either, feeling generally hurt that Grian had gotten it wrong, too annoyed to see how he could’ve gotten out of the situation with ease. “Look, don’t bother lying. It’s rather obvious that you’re purposefully stretching out time to avoid showing me your permits.”

“Well… Yes, but-“

“And the evidence is clear that, besides your rather successful magic industry, you have an extra permit that you’d been planning on setting up, but never had time to use.” The sound of glass sliding against wood was a sound too quiet for either person to pick up, as a potion slowly slipped towards the edge. Grian was staring Scar down, unblinking, as he glared defiantly back. If he was going to fail for honour, he was going to fail for the right honour, gosh darn it!

“Well, kind of, but you see- “

“And therefore, it would be better for all of us if you just hand over your permit, so it can go back in the system, and you’ll get only a slap on the wrist. Sounds fair?” Grian tilted his head, not understanding why Scar was so against this. It wasn’t like he was even going to get in a lot of trouble for this. What on earth could possibly be the matter, he couldn’t tell, which was annoying, since he’d spent a lot of time learning to read people and their intentions, which had saved him from a lot of problems in the long run.

“Would you just listen!?” Scar exclaimed, standing up in such a rush that his feet hit the floor with a very loud thud. And then three things happened in very fast succession, and it’s  very important we know all of them slowly, otherwise things would be incredibly confusing.

First, Grian backed against the wall, hitting it, and held his arms up, looking like he was about to say something about not being allowed to threaten or interrupt workers of the Permit Office whilst doing their job. There was probably a form about it somewhere, which Grian probably knew by heart.

Second, the potion closest to the edge, the one that had started to slide, fell. Scar noticed it then, but not Grian. He made a move towards him, in panic, like he wanted to push Grian out of the way. He didn’t know what exactly the potion was off the top of his head, but it might’ve been something dangerous. And anyway, glass smashing against your head still hurts like hell. But he was too late.

Third, the potion hit Grian, and there was a loud crash followed by a bang and a flash. Scar threw his hands over his ears at the noise, and squeezed his eyes shut. Usually, if a potion fell while he was working on one, he had earplugs in, so the sound was never so bad. He also always had potion proof clothing, which the Permit Office did not, except on special occasions.

After a few moments, Scar looked up, praying that he hadn’t injured, or worse, killed, someone. A Permit Office Manager no less. They’d have his head if they caught wind of that. But he didn’t look dead. In fact, he didn’t look like anything at all, since Scar couldn’t actually see Grian, and for a split second hoped that maybe it had been an invisibility potion, and that was it. Yet no curses came from what seemed to be empty air, no complaints or angry remarks. He looked down at the mess below, the shattered glass and the colourful liquid that was staining the carpet, and his eyes landed on something small.

Oh.

So it was that kind of potion.

Shoot.

. . .

Grian woke up with a horrible throbbing pain in the side of his head. It was not a great way to wake up, and he was missing a pillow and his bed felt strange. Muttering something incomprehensible, he tried turning over to get into a more comfortable position. Why it felt so much like everyday cloth instead of bedsheets, he couldn’t say.

As he lay there, calmly waiting for his alarm to go off as it always did, and relishing in the feeling of extra sleep, his brain slowly recapped what had happened yesterday. A boring day at the office to begin with, then he’d been assigned to go to some guy, Scar Goodtimes, and review his house and permits.

Then what?

His memory was blurry, of the end of the visit, and he could not for the life of him remember what he did next. Frowning in his sleep, or in his half-asleep state, it didn’t matter which it was,  Grian slowly turned over each and every encounter he’d had for breakfast that morning, to how he’d walked to the apartment, not knowing it was a good hours walk, despite what his phone had said, to shouting at Scar about his permits (which was allowed under special circumstances, check form MOTL6511 in the Permit Office rule book), to… to… something hitting his head. And he remembered a strange feeling, and a loud noise, and a bright light. Like a potion effect.

With a sudden sense of foreboding, Grian opened his eyes, sitting bolt upright on whatever he was lying on. His surroundings hit him like a train. He knew immediately that he’d been right about a potion, and he knew exactly what potion had fell on him.

He was lying, on a piece of cloth, on a desk, in a room that was a million times too large for him. From what he could see, the room was Scar’s office, which meant the man hadn’t had the intelligence to bring him to a hospital to get him treated for this. He probably didn’t want to get in trouble. Grian could understand that, but he didn’t have to like it. Hopefully he could bargain with Scar once he turned up.

It was honestly overwhelming, being this small. Everything looked so much more dangerous, and he felt so out of place. He’d managed to mistake a piece of cloth for his bed, albeit with some suspicions. Standing up shakily, he put a hand to his head, feeling bandages. He vaguely noted how textures also felt different to him, yet he could still tell what it was. On a scientific level, that was interesting, since his senses had adjusted to his size somehow, and at the moment, he could only think on scientific levels, because if he thought on personal levels relevant to him, Grian was afraid he’d start screaming.

Footsteps could be heard in the distance, loud for Grian, and far away for him too. He could also hear them coming closer by the second, accompanied by Scar’s voice, who seemed to be singing, but what exactly it was he was singing, Grian couldn’t say. Luckily, that gave him plenty of warning. Enough warning to, in a moment of panic, bolt to the nearest hiding place. In this case, that was behind a plant pot. Grian ducked out of sight just in time, as he heard the creak of the door opening ever so clearly.

“-She seems to have an invisible tou-ch! She takes- Wait, um…” The footsteps paused, and Scar’s voice faltered. “Where on earth…” He heard Scar mutter to himself. “Grian? Are you here?” He called, and Grian, though he didn’t look, could feel Scar’s presence at the desk. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have known he was there.

Grian winced. The volume was way too loud for his now incredibly sensitive ears. He curled up on himself, praying Scar wouldn’t find him, or that he’d at least shut up. Scar did not find him, not immediately anyway, and Grian was getting the feeling that he wasn’t very observant. But he didn’t shut up, instead choosing to pace about the room, talking half to Grian and half to himself, since he didn’t seem entirely certain if Grian was actually there or not.

“You aren’t actually gone, right? There’s no way you could’ve disappeared from there in such little time… unless… but that’s probably not the case…” He spoke in a slightly mumbled tone, but the worry Grian could hear in it was surprising. Maybe since he was injured. He almost felt bad, but the terror and his initial reaction of annoyance to the man back when he was his normal height stopped him from feeling guilty enough to let himself be seen.

Scar sighed. “I guess you must be freaking out right now. I mean, I would too, if I was in your situation. But I really do need to talk to you.” Grian raised an eyebrow, though he knew it was pointless and that it didn’t matter, since literally no one could see him. It was for the principle, or something. He kept listening.

“Look, uh, see, the problem at hand, is that I’m not sure about turning you back to normal.”

That certainly got Grian’s attention. An “excuse me!?” Escaped his mouth before he could stop it, the sheer horror and offence that that sentence had dealt him resulted in himself accidentally giving away his hiding place. Grian curled up on himself, stiff and suddenly as quiet as a mouse. He heard Scar turn his direction, slowly making his way closer and closer to him, like he was afraid Grian would bolt at any sign of sudden movement. To be fair, Grian wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.

Scar’s voice rang out from above again. He sputtered indignantly. “W-well, not exactly! More like a- a- well, um, why don’t you come out so we can discuss it?” When he received no response from Grian, he added hopefully: “I’ll stay on the other side of the room?”

With reluctance, Grian nodded. Then he remembered Scar couldn’t see him, and grumbled (for he wasn’t sure if he spoke in his normal voice it wouldn’t falter) yes. Once he was positive that Grian was in fact on the other side of the room from Scar, not within reachable distance of Scar’s hands, and definitely not within killable distance of Scar’s anything, Grian got up shakily. He hesitantly stepped out into the open, his heart racing, hands clammy, feeling ever so slightly sick to his stomach.

It was even more terrifying now that he could actually view just how big Scar was compared to him. He’d made some rough calculation when he’d first woken up, which was why he’d avoided Scar to begin with, but now, looking up at him, Grian could see that no calculation would ever have prepared him for this. A dizziness overtook him for a moment, and Grian swayed, just a little bit, where he stood. Scar, standing too far away to see him properly, didn’t notice. If Scar standing so far away already gave him this sort of feeling, Grian couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would feel when he came across his coworkers in this state, or his friends. He also didn’t trust that Scar wouldn’t just walk over here, not caring if Grian had or hadn’t given his consent.

He had every right not to trust the man.

To the untrained eye, one would say he looked at ease with the situation, like he’d experienced similar ones on the job before. A trained eye would point out how he wasn’t looking directly at Scar, how his nails were digging into the palms of his hands, and he stood like he was made of stone. The only eyes upon him though, were the ones of Scar, and they, again, couldn’t tell. Taking a deep breath in, Grian started talking with relative calmness, a sharp difference compared to how he actually felt. Years of practicing his voice, since a lot of the time he spent talking over speaker when speaking to people who wanted an argument with the Permit Office. Those people were always Dealt With.

“Mister Scar Goodtimes, are you aware of the problems you have brought upon yourself?” He asked. Grian always tried to bring himself to a sense of authority, it was a habit he had a hard time breaking. Even in a situation like this, he still searched for any bit of leverage he could use to hold over the person he was speaking to. Scar responded with hesitance. “I think so, yes. That would be accidentally harming a Permit Manager and accidentally using a potion effect against them?”

Grian was about to agree, but remembered to add the rest. “And also lying about your permits to the Permit Office.” Scar nodded, looking a little guilty as he did so. “Erm, yes. About what my job is.” Frowning, Grian looked right up at the towering figure, immediately regretting it as he was washed over with another wave of nausea. He found he was also unable to look away. “No, it- it was about an unused permit, wasn’t-“

A thought struck him. You could see the realisation sneakily creep its way onto Grian’s face as he stared up in complete shock and, if he was being with himself, also with some form of respect for what had to be an absolute madman. “You… you’re not telling me…” He began, trying to doubt what he had just deduced. The madman in question averted his eyes, looking horribly embarrassed.

“I converted my whole apartment, I run a successful business, and I don’t even have the permit for it.” Scar confirmed.

Wow.

Grian nearly facepalmed at the sheer stupidity of that. But he didn’t, because his fear overtook his want to scoff at idiocy in its finest form, which was apparently this man. “Right, so that adds gaslighting to the table”, he muttered, and much to his surprise, because he’d been completely genuine about that, Scar laughed. “Right, right, obviously.” And then his face turned serious, and Grian felt a horrible sense of nervousness and dread. “See, I don’t actually want these charges to be put on me…”

Scar kept talking, saying things like “just until I know it’s safe”, “I’m truly really sorry about this but”, and “I promise this situation won’t be bad for you”. He sounded rather horrified at the words coming out of his mouth, and on some level, Grian understood. Scar had just been doing, and was doing, what he needed to to survive. During his time at the Permit Office, there had been plenty of moments as he sent people off to goodness knows where, questioning his own morals and sanity as he did so. But the answer had sadly always been obvious. His life or theirs, in some shape or form.

It was also the moment that, deep down, Grian realised he was going to be like this for some time. That he wasn’t going to see his friends or family for a while. It didn’t actually register, because his brain didn’t want it to register, until much, much, later.

. . .

Scar thought that conversation had gone rather well. Sure, the contents of the conversation weren’t pleasant, but at least Grian hadn’t started screaming, or tried to jump off the table, or threaten him or something.

Look, he’d had a lot of worries about what could’ve gone wrong, okay? But instead, the Permit Manager Grian had been very complacent. Almost too complacent. It was kind of unnerving. It might’ve been a Permit Office thing, but he had a suspicion it was how the poor guy dealt with it.

It was technically keeping someone else imprisoned. He’d basically kidnapped someone. That was not a fun thought to think, but Scar was doing it for himself. He’d heard horror stories about people getting into trouble with the Permit Office, never to return. Or worse, return with a personality that wasn’t theirs. Scar didn’t want that happening to him, obviously.

Even if that meant hiding a tiny Permit Worker for long enough to convince him not to report him to the authorities. It sounded like it could work in theory? Probably? But Scar didn’t have time to test it, he’d been thrown straight into field work.

Grian had been left alone on the desk. Scar had promised to come back with food, but he wasn’t sure Grian would let him anywhere near him. Understandable, yes, because he had every right not to trust him, but they were going to have to make an agreement about it sometime soon. After all, they were living together now

Speaking of which, what did Grian eat? Did he have allergies? Medical issues? Scar was ashamed he hadn’t thought about it sooner, he had this problem all the time when he went to visit people. They never asked, and then never had the potions he used to be able to stand without pain. Then he’d either need a cane or a chair, or he’d have to dig into his emergency supply. Scar made a mental note to ask Grian the next time he saw him. Hopefully that would also prove that he cared. Hopefully.

Cutting up carrots, because you could never go wrong there, Scar pondered how tiny portions would look. He’d seen some videos with them online, but those were more for look and style than taste and texture. And he wasn’t even a professional chef. Sure, he could bake real well, and sometimes sold pastries at the market (which didn’t need a permit, all of the stalls fell under the market permit which belonged to the person hosting the market, just to be completely clear) but he wasn’t sure he could bake that delicately. He’d have to follow some tutorials, probably.

Either way, Scar was determined to make this situation the best it could be, despite the circumstances. He’d get Grian to trust him. And he’d start small. 

With carrots.

. . .

taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @faeiyn-cant-write, @boiled-ginger-ale, @local-squshmallow, @akatthatwants2sleep, @vocal-nyx-cords (if you want to be tagged, lmk for what!)

[rebellionmoon]

anon: ur oc is ugly and boring

me: ugly you say? hmm...*squints at OC* My god!!!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE!? SHE'S.....BEAUTIFUL!!!

This is my HXH OC, Psyche Moiraio. She's an unorthodox vigilante sweet baby psycho who kills people for a living, believes death leaves no problem big or small irreconcilable, is an avid reader of many genres (tho pirate erotica has her in a choke hold), advocates for eating the rich (duh? how else will we pass the time?) and engaging in community service to give back to underserved communities that desperately need help and resources and that they are the greatest victims to socioeconomic and health disparities (she's particularly working to better her home city, NEW BLEDEL CITY, which also happens to be the murder capital of the Mimbo Republic, adjacent to The Republic of Padokea. She has her work definitely cut out for her!)

Oh, and she's married to this freaky, cryptid lover (Ewww! jk) This is Illumi Zoldyck and he takes her HOT TO GO!!

I write an Illumixoc fic, Where Shadows Touch!

AO3 LINK: Where Shadows Touch

Side note, I live in awful chronic pain that affects every aspect of my life. No day is an exception, I've been in constant pain (it never ends, there are no breaks, only fluctuations) everyday for 2 years. Although I can manage activities of daily living, it is a constant struggle and I hate hate hate living as I am now. So naturally, I can't do things as easily as I could have done before, and drawing is one of them. I don't get to draw as much as I used to or as I like. Art was my passion, it defined me, and it was my dream. Now, it's heartbreaking. But I don't want to stop drawing and when I do have the opportunity to draw and feel well enough to do so, well that is a fucking accomplishment for me and I am proud of myself even if it I drew only a little bit. I am proud of these two pieces that I've made!

I also had a really bad flare up today (when the pain gets really bad I dip into despair.) And then an anon came to, uh, defend their hisoillu ship because anything other than that is treason? XD Dude, ship what you want, but don't try to tear others down because you can't handle other people liking different things than you. Okay? Good!

In conclusion....

Illumi loves his wife and his wife loves him

<3

[damienthemortician]

Art dump of two (2) finished pieces and some wips that I probably won't finish, plus a little fella

Brain movements detailed below

1st piece: A character from my story I'm writing, Ghoul, he hasn't popped up just yet but essentially he's a vampire that died in the 1880s and dresses in fashion from the 1980s in the 2020-30s, the figure behind him is a self portrait of his alive self in the 1880s, I dropped that one for now because perspective on objects and rendering legs get tiring to draw.

2nd piece: A goddess from the same story, she just goes by the Maiden, she's the one who allowed vampires to happen after resurrecting a dead child who was sacrificed to another god and was rejected, the black figure is her unrestrained divine form, while the more human one is her disguise to hide amongst humans.

3rd piece: Ghoul's semi girlfriend, Hisako, she's a former wrestler and a licensed nurse, she and Ghoul aren't on the same page on how they feel about each other even though it's plain and simple they're meant for each other and by all means should be dating and having a spring wedding, but alas.

4th piece: smal nik, one of the two main characters in the story

5th piece: My chemist from Potion Permit, a game my brother bought me for my birthday that I was briefly obsessed with.

6th piece: An older drawing that I had sitting around that I went and rendered, it's supposed to be Snow White if the evil queen's hired man actually did kill her, but she then came back to life as a vampire, the implication being Snow actually was a threat and she wasn't entirely innocent.

[sunwarmed-ash]

Send me prompts

I got no dopamine for one of my wips tonight but if the prompt is good ebough yall might get a sinful sunday post after all

[bitegore]

Hey! If you’re doing the Spotify flash fiction: Whirl, with 8 ✨

Whirl - Waiting on the Sky to Change by STARSET and Breaking Benjamin

Whirl was kinda mad that it was working, but he'd been wasting his time with Rung in those stupid mandatory therapy sessions for a while now after they'd booted him unceremoniously from the Wreckers and... Objectively, this was probably proof it was working. That was what made it all the more fragging annoying. He was just glitched in the head forever, that was his thing. They screwed him up and now he was all screwed up and everyone knew it. Yeah? But Whirl was sitting in his fragging hab kicking his fragging heels in the middle of the night and it was all just getting boring. Like he could just wash his hands (ha!) of who he was and move on because he was sick and tired of being the biggest fragging mess this side of Cybertron. That wasn't how it was supposed to work. But Whirl was getting tired of this. And that was proof something was changing.

[lycoryspreachin]

guys i can't BELIEVE what i just fell upon, a 7,5k words fic i wrote when i was fifteen ( and never finished ), it was all from regulus's pov, and overall really not that bad ?? here's an extract :

We feel a longing for the tragic, and it's beyond us, truly. We can neither stop it nor satiate it. The broken, the traumatised, those who have seen everything at a time too early, the weird, the monstrous. Some are born with tragedy in their souls, a forgotten twin never meant to be born. Sirius Black, Sirius Orion Black, the blood traitor, the disgrace of the most ancient and noble house of Black. Older brother of the youngest son of Walburga and Orion Black, could his younger brother have been the unwanted tragedy? Where Sirius shined bright in the sky, true and bold, a sincere light emanating from deep within him, Regulus Arcturus Black was made a constellation, a complex alignment of stars, too close to be their own and yet too far to be one, a fragmented star, its edges sharp and hard, hardened by the hardships of life. Each star utterly alone in the void of the universe, all different and still you cannot see one and not look at the others.

Naturally, when one exists in the vicinity of a light as blinding as Sirius, one can only survive within the shadows. The forgotten child, one born from pain and hatred, surrounded by malice and viciousness, with thick black ink intoxicating his veins, mixing with his blood, poison infecting the core of his being, running through his already decaying body and soul. He was vowed to a life of suffering doomed from the very beginning. When you grow as a member of the noblest of houses, you quickly understand you get a very limited amount of choice. In a world in which one lives in the illusion of control, Regulus had to learn how to embrace it and set rules of his own. He can't escape his blood, but he can certainly hide from it. Their cruel and depraved claws could not shred what they could not see and Regulus was determined to make himself undetectable. It was a flawed plan, one in which you lose yourself the longer you follow it, but it was the best one Regulus could think of when way too young he realised it wasn't a family he was born into, but rather a nest of vipers. 

Growing up, loneliness was the only company the youngest son could afford, amidst loud voices and bitterness, a thick presence would be felt. Despair and agony would shape themselves into long dark figures of shadows and smoke. They were scary, their presence haunting. They would set an eerie atmosphere which seemed to sink under Regulus's skin, leaving behind slim scratches beneath his pale carcass. Loneliness was frightening, but nothing was more terrifying than his mother and the shadows only lingered when she was elsewhere. Solitude to him was a reminder, one engraved in his bones, every letter carefully carved, each time an inch deeper, hollowing his bones. A reminder of his tarnished soul. He knew he would beg if he could, drop both knees to the ground and cry in a desperate hope to be seen. But his mother hated tears and after a few hard-learned lessons Regulus understood that childish hopes and tears were activities of the night, to be practised behind closed bedroom doors and after stony good nights.

CHAPTER I

Most nights in the manor went on the same way, Regulus would be dismissed from his family duties and told to leave for his room, he would then calmly get up and exit the main hall while his older cousins and his brother remained seated. Sirius generally stayed around an hour longer, usually so he could be reminded of his heir obligations or to receive thorough criticism of his overall behaviour. During that time Regulus would cross the long and silent hallway leading to his chambers. He would choose a book to read and then get sheathed under the heavy covers of his bed. That night, however, anyone who paid close enough attention would have been able to notice the slightly hurried way Regulus behaved himself, his hands needing to be neatly crossed on his lap to hide the small trembling that would be observable otherwise. His day had been long and exhausting, filled with unpleasant tutoring and the excessive mannerisms required from a member of his house, but that was not the cause for his ever-growing excitement, in fact, he would normally be quite content with the situation, he was sitting at the table in the main dining room, his family surrounding him, everyone eating in a satisfying silence. In those rare moments, one could almost see a regular family, sharing a warm meal, all together, no one was arguing, no looks of hatred exchanged, just a normal afternoon meal. And at these thoughts, Regulus would let himself drown in the feeling of normality, of commonness and ordinariness, let himself believe that in those specific moments, they could all pretend they were capable of being a loving and caring family. However, the real reason for his eagerness was a simple one, a book and evidently, not a regular one, Regulus read those every day, instead, it was a gifted book, further still, an unlabeled one. All of Regulus’s books were labelled, each and every one given a designated title and had an identified author, they were all well known too, books his tutors had demanded he study or books his mother had given him as compulsory reads. The anonymity of this book had clearly picked his interest, never before had he been gifted a book in this manner, it was a book he was free to read or not, one he could write inside of, draw on its marges, not that he wished to butcher any of his belongings that way, but he enjoyed the freedom it allowed him, it was his. At least, that’s what Narcissa, his older cousin, had told him two days ago when she came to his chambers hours after he was dismissed to give it to him. 

Narcissa was his favourite cousin, and probably his favourite person too, he admired her in more ways than he could name. He liked how different she was from her sisters. Where Bellatrix was proud and confident, arrogant and mesmerising, a bit frightening too, her eyes dark and scrutinising, her voice loud and clear, calling to the dreadful parts resting within everyone, Andromeda was all smiles and charm, her mind constantly focused elsewhere and yet always able without fail to know what to say and when. She could almost be seen as rebellious were she not so good at playing with the limits, never respecting them but never crossing them either. Narcissa, on the other hand, had never quite seemed to fit, as if instead of being portrayed in a painting she could be seen in the reflection in the eyes of the sitter, she would stand out amidst her sisters in an almost disturbing way, they all shared the same features and still, she had always been othered, constantly ahead of everyone, as though she was given a script containing the ongoing of everything in details. Sometimes she would even appear practically disinterested with her surroundings, looking like she was forced to attend a ball she had no intent to dance in. The night she came to him he had asked her a question as she was leaving. 

“How did you know I was going to be awake ?” He had said it quietly but when she stopped in her tracks he gained confidence and continued more surely “The lights in my room are always turned off and you surely know Mother has servants overseeing this corridor, considering your room is in the south wing you walked for at least 8 minutes to arrive here, if I had been asleep you would have risked a lot in vain.”

She let her right hand gracefully fall from where it was clenched around the knob before swiftly turning around in the dark, the moonlight making her black hair bluish.

“And you think I wouldn’t risk that for my lovely cousin ?”

“It would have been inconvenient, and you don’t like inconveniences. You could have come during the day, you clearly came tonight knowing I would be awake, how come ?”

A gentle smile overtook her face, as though the situation was amusing to her.

“Well, how come indeed. How about you write me a list of all the reasons you think would have enabled me to know, make it structured and clear, it needs to be logical too, don’t disappoint me. I doubt you have much more to do during your long and sleepless nights.”

After that she elegantly faced the door once more, turning the knob and exposing the dark wood of the hallway floor. As she was leaving, she stopped for a second, before adding without turning around 

“Rest well Regulus, goodnight.”

And just like that she was gone, abandoning the room to a haunting silence, Regulus stayed in place a couple of minutes more, unmoving, still reviewing what had happened, the book Narcissa had given him sitting on his lap, looking like it intruded on an intimate moment, like it witnessed one of the rare family like acts you can observe within a family such as this one, and frankly it did.

Regulus doesn’t remember much after that, but he recalls pushing the book away from him and onto the heavy nightstand on his right, covering his frail boyish shoulders with his white and navy blue embroidered covers, then waiting in the silent night, looking at the moon’s light resting gently on every surface in his room until sleep came and he let himself get lost in it. 

       While he was reminiscing about the events of a few nights ago, more people had gathered and were already talking in the great hall, he was possibly the only one who remained seated, all the family he knew had headed elsewhere. Tonight is a Friday and Fridays are for reunions, as bothersome as such events had proved themselves to be, Regulus had learned to enjoy them, learned to allow himself to sink into the little freedom that was permitted to him, once enough people were present, to keep his parents disapproving eyes and unwanted attention away from him. On nights like these, he would not be expected to do anything other than behave himself, and that, he could do fairly well. Everyone around him was either discussing political matters or exchanging scandalous gossip about the 70s high society, neither of those activities was particularly appealing to him, the former might have interested him did he not have such a limited amount of knowledge on it, he would have to look if he can find any book of relevance about it in the manor's library. But for now, he wanted to be out of here, so he went around the house to look for his brother, or Narcissa, or anyone really, even Bellatrix was better than staying among that suffocating crowd of people. He found Sirius first.

“Sirius ?” 

“Reg ?” 

Upon hearing his voice, Sirius turned around stiffly, surprise transparent in his grey eyes, he quickly recovered and rested gracefully on the counter behind him before adding carefully

“What are you doing here ?” At that, Regulus’s face remains blank, unimpressed by his brother’s question, his gaze focussed on him for a few seconds more before saying 

 “What do you mean what am I doing here, I live here.”

“You live in the kitchens ?” Sirius smirks a bit, seemingly satisfied with his joke.

“Of course not” he rolled his eyes “Now tell me what are you doing here ? Aren’t you supposed to be alongside mother and father ?”

“I got bored so I came here, aren’t you supposed to be in the great hall ?” he said with an accusatory tone in his voice

Regulus ignored him, “ You got bored so you came to the kitchens ?” he raised an eyebrow 

“Yes��

“I don’t believe you” said Regulus haughtily, which looked a bit silly considering he was shorter than his brother by several centimetres

“Okay”

“Okay ?” 

“Yeah, okay you don’t have to believe me” Sirius shrugged then turned around, giving his back to his brother

Regulus furrowed his brows at that, he had never thought about brushing it off as a possible answer when faced with a raised challenge like this one, so he added in a last attempt to corner his brother

“Why is there no one in here”

“I send them away”

“You can do that ?”

“Of course I can, I’m the heir after all”

That didn't make sense, the maids are not supposed to leave their positions, especially on meeting days.

“What are you plotting again ? Mother and father will be furious if they see you here. There are other things to do around here that don’t involve scheming, you know that right ?”

Regulus couldn’t see his face but he was sure that if he could he would see his brother rolling his eyes

“I am well aware thank you very much, but plotting is the only fun thing to do around here” 

“Is it”

“Yes, you would know if you left that room of yours more often”

“Your argument is completely unrelated but whatever, I don’t think plotting is something I should aspire to do at 10 years old”

“Plotting is something everyone should aspire to do regardless of age”

“Of course, you would say that”

“I’ll take that as a compliment”

“It isn’t”

“I choose to take it as a compliment”

“You are delusional then”

“Reality is relative, dear brother, didn’t you know that ? What do you even learn in all those books you read” 

“I learn about things that actually serve a purpose, in other words, things more important than that”

Sirius turned around to look at him, amusement sparkling in his eyes, a smirk plastered on his face, why was he smiling ? This isn’t funny.

“Sure, but they don’t teach you how to have fun” he said turning his back to him once more

“Then teach me” He didn’t think about the words as they left his mouth, which isn’t something he usually does, but he wanted to have his brother's attention, and that was the first thing that had come to his mind.

At that Sirius turned around fully, looking stunned for a bit, his eyebrows started furrowing but he seemed to think better since he quickly changed his expression and smiled brightly “Alright, I’ll teach you”.

[anna-scribbles]

was about to read chap 2 of call it even but ao3 decided to self destruct anna how will i go on

that is so tragic that i will just have to post a whole sneak peek of ch 2 for you here!!!!

Adrien loved Ladybug.

He loved the smooth timbre of her voice and the firm set of her eyes, the way her mouth would dig its way deeper into a scowl the more she tried not to laugh at one of the rare jokes he managed to pry beneath her red-and-black spotted armor. He loved the way she spoke of justice with such reverence, of peace with such passion. Adrien loved the idea of Ladybug, at least—the thought that there could be a person who embodied so much of what he cherished, the grace and goodness and compassion of his childhood. He loved what Ladybug stood for. What she pretended to stand for.

Sometimes, Adrien thought that he could have loved Ladybug if he didn’t hate her so much.

There were times, though—like now, her red fist redder with his blood, cold disdain smeared across her face—when Adrien thought that he’d have hated her regardless, this nameless thief who masqueraded around his city as a hero. There were times when Adrien was certain he could never have ended up anywhere but at the other end of her fist, if only so that no one else would have to bear the brunt of her brutality.

“Get up,” his father’s voice hissed into his earpiece. “Don’t just lie there like an invalid. Take her miraculous!”

“Me-ouch,” Adrien wiped some of the blood off his face and grimaced, rising to his feet. “I guess your pledge to protect the citizens of Paris from danger doesn’t extend to animal cruelty.”

Fury lit up across her face, instant and red. Of all her buttons he’d learned to press, none ever worked quite as well as calling her out on the hero facade. And today, now that he was getting a good look at her, she was more agitated than usual, all her movements impatient and sharp.

“Don’t you talk about danger and cruelty,” Ladybug spat, setting her yo-yo spinning in a razor-sharp circle of light. “That misunderstood-tragic-kitty act is as fake as your stupid smile. We all know you could put an end to the danger anytime you felt like it.”

“Then you have misunderstood me, my lady,” He watched the time-worn nickname worm its way beneath her skin, upheaving a vulnerable, messy sort of frustration. Adrien lengthened his baton and lowered his stance. “This can’t end until I have your miraculous.”

Ladybug let out a yell and swung her yo-yo in a blinding arc at his torso. Adrien intercepted it mid-air with his baton, pulling the staff loose from the wire and scampering past her to the other end of the rooftop. He would do almost anything to avoid getting entangled in that thing; it was near indestructible and Ladybug wasn’t usually very keen on treating her captives kindly. His father, also, was not very keen on his cataclysm being used outside of their specific battle strategies. Adrien, in general, was not very keen on making either of these people any more angry at him than they usually were.

“Eat up, my angels!” M. Pigeon yelled up from the sky, riding atop a massive cloud of pigeons. “Taste the delicious cuisine you were always meant to have! No longer will the pigeons of Paris be resigned to breadcrumbs and cat food!”

“Hey!” Adrien yelled indignantly. “Nothing wrong with cat food!”

Ladybug made a sound that could almost be taken as a snort, but when he looked back, her expression had schooled itself back into righteous anger. She lifted an eyebrow, challenging him, but pulled herself into more of a defensive stance. She always liked to take everything in before she made a move.

“It’s okay to laugh, you know,” Adrien grinned wide and assumed a jovial stance, taking stock of the angle of her feet, the aim of her gaze. She was smarter and stronger than him; he’d always known that. But he was quicker with words and knew where to aim them. “It must be an incredible drain on your energy to keep pretending you don’t find me funny.”

“You sure think a lot of yourself for someone who just admitted to eating kibble,” Ladybug scoffed, eyes trailing the flock of birds passing over their heads.

“Don’t knock it until you try it, my lady,” Adrien said. “For a hero, you’re incredibly quick to judge.”

“For a villain, you sure do love stupid small talk.”

“Well,” Adrien mused, “Maybe there’s more to both of us than meets the eye.”

“Doubt it,” Ladybug said lightly, and she spun out her yo-yo, knocking Adrien’s feet out from under him and leaping to the roof of a neighboring building.

Just then, a fleet of pigeons swooped down from the sky and descended onto a nearby outdoor restaurant, littering the rooftop with feathers in their wake. Pulling himself up, Adrien watched with a measure of horrified wonder as the pigeons devoured all the food on the tables in a matter of seconds like a pack of feathered piranhas.

“Are they supposed to be, like, carnivores?” Adrien yelled, the image of a pigeon tearing through a sausage burned into his mind. Ladybug, predictably, didn’t answer.

He vaulted after her, trailing her from rooftop to rooftop as they both dodged the swarms of pigeons terrorizing tourists and stealing every bit of food in sight. Sometimes, the akumas remembered that they were on Adrien’s side and actually tried to help him take Ladybug’s miraculous. But just as often, it seemed, they were more interested in general destruction and chaos, causing as many problems for Adrien as they did for Ladybug. The pigeons, Adrien tended to think, were more of a personal handicap than anything.

“ACHOO!” Adrien sneezed, his still-broken nose sending an unexpected jolt of pain through his system. “Ow,” he groaned.

“Ha!” Ladybug spun around and kicked him in the chest, flinging him several meters back and over the edge of the rooftop. Slamming into the side of the building, Adrien dug his claws into the brick to slow his fall, pulling himself back up. When he finally made it over the ledge, Ladybug had her feet planted firmly and was throwing her yo-yo into the sky.

“Lucky charm!” she yelled.

In a shower of luminescent pink and white light, a polka-dotted Easy-Bake Oven landed primly in Ladybug’s hands. The way the hope sort of died on her face was almost enough to make Adrien burst into laughter, and it was really only years of media training that kept his expression schooled.

“Happy… ninth birthday?” Adrien offered, and the glare that Ladybug shot him honestly made the whole thing worth it.

“Shut up,” Ladybug snarled, and then she turned her gaze back to the battery-powered confectionery oven as if it might start speaking to her. “How the—”

“On your right!” Adrien yelled, and Ladybug glanced in his direction as a swarm of pigeons slammed into her from the left, knocking the lucky charm out of her hands. Adrien quickly scooped it up and vaulted to the next building.

“You menace!” Ladybug growled, swinging behind him in swift pursuit.

“Name-calling!” Adrien tutted over his shoulder. “Not very heroic of you, I have to say.”

“I’ll show you heroic,” Ladybug muttered, and then Adrien felt a sharp tug on his left ankle. He’d only just looked down to see her yo-yo line wrapped around his leg when she sent him flying backward through the air, the toy oven flung from his hands as he braced for impact.

Adrien slammed into the pavement, pain rocketing through his shoulder. His baton clattered down next to him, and he blinked the black away enough to see Ladybug standing up on the roof again, staring at her lucky charm like it was a math problem she was trying to solve.

“I, for one, am loving this game of kitty-in-the-middle we’ve got going,” Adrien called up at her. He extended his baton and vaulted back up to the roof where she stood, ignoring the splintering pain in his muscles. “My turn next?”

Ladybug groaned, shoving the oven under one arm and setting her yo-yo spinning with the other. She swung it out at him and he jumped, almost stumbling when he landed on his throbbing ankle. He could try using his cataclysm to disintegrate the roof and make her lose her balance, but he wasn’t supposed to activate it until she had three minutes or less left on her timer.

“Get it?” Adrien asked, swiping his baton at her legs. Ladybug jumped deftly away. “Because we’re throwing the lucky charm back and forth? Like, monkey-in-the—”

“I get it!” Ladybug snarled, wrapping her yo-yo line around a nearby balcony and tugging, hard. Adrien had only seconds to lift his baton up in a makeshift shield when the bricks all came clattering down on him, along with a few tables and chairs and plates of food.

Suddenly a swarm of pigeons separated from the huge flock in the sky and descended upon them, devouring the sandwiches and chips at alarming speeds. Adrien’s stomach panged with hunger—while the rest of him panged with pain—as he remembered that he hadn’t actually gotten to eat lunch.

��Hm,” Ladybug said decisively, like the feeding pigeons had imparted some sort of divine wisdom upon her. “Yeah, okay.”

She was gone before Adrien could dig himself out of the rubble, swinging away with her magic Easy-Bake in tow and leaving him to deal with her mess.

“What are you doing?” Father yelled into his ear. “Follow her! Don’t let her out of your sight!”

“Of course,” Adrien muttered, unearthing an arm from the mess of rubble and feathers. “Resident bug-catcher, on it.”

Loud-mouthed and brightly colored as she was, Ladybug could disappear when she wanted to. And, though he’d spent the better part of his teenage years committing her habits to memory, Adrien could swear that tracking her never got easier.

Sometimes, when she’d do this—try and shake him off while she figured out her lucky charm—Adrien would spend the whole five minutes looking for her, tearing through the city until a wave of light flooded the world and let him know that he’d lost without even putting up a fight. Those were the times he’d be punished the worst for losing. The punishments had only gotten worse as he’d gotten older; Adrien had a lot more to lose these days.

After the seventh or eighth building or alleyway Adrien had ducked into, he started to feel the familiar tug of dread in his gut, mud in his veins. There couldn’t be that much time left, now—he’d been stupid, and reckless, and now it would all have been for nothing. His father’s silence in his earpiece was deafening, ice-cold and heavy. He was doing it again. And especially now, especially today, he couldn’t—he swallowed down his panic.

On a whim, Adrien landed on the roof of a pavilion near the park, circled with concrete pillars and backed up to the brick wall of a building. He ducked his head in and bit down a gasp when he saw a flash of red inside. She was—she was here.

He waited, breath frozen in his lungs, but the attack didn’t come. Ladybug was murmuring to herself, fussing over what he presumed to be the lucky charm. Ladybug was here. And she hadn’t seen him yet.

“Cataclysm,” Adrien whispered, setting his palm alight with inky destruction. And then he charged.

In one swift motion, Adrien used his baton to knock both the yo-yo and the lucky charm from Ladybug’s hands, sending them clattering across the pavement as he slammed her body into the wall. She growled and pummeled her fists into his face and gut, sending stars of pain shooting through his vision.

Adrien extended his baton and smashed one end into the pavement at their feet and the other diagonally into a concrete pillar of the pavilion. He shoved the length of it as hard as he could acoss Ladybug’s torso, pinning her against the wall. She coughed and spluttered, ripping at the baton and hurling expletives his way.

It wouldn’t hold her for long, but maybe for long enough that he could—

Adrien lunged for the lucky charm—that stupid, polka-dotted Easy Bake oven—and scooped it up with his left hand, hovering his right palm in the air just centimeters above it.

“Careful,” Adrien warned, and Ladybug’s eyes widened.

“You evil, idiotic, worthless waste of breath—”

“Yes, fine.” Adrien waved her off. “I’m not interested in that. I don’t want to fight. I think we should talk.”

“What are you doing?” Father snarled in his ear, and Adrien winced. “End this and take her miraculous!”

Ladybug looked like she agreed; the glare she leveled at him sent ice down his spine.

“Talk,” Ladybug laughed humorlessly, fists still tight around the baton. “Right. You always want to talk.”

“I want to talk,” Adrien agreed, keeping his composure level despite the anxiety in his bloodstream and Father’s voice in his ear. He even threw in a smile for good measure. “Obviously we both know how this”—Adrien gestured to Ladybug and himself, and then to the greater generally-in-shambles city—“goes. And I imagine that it involves many more people than we’d both prefer.”

Ladybug looked at him with some intense combination of anger and bewilderment.

“Are you… trying to apologize right now?” Ladybug asked. “For being a terrorist? The thing you’re currently doing?”

“No,” Adrien said, taking a great deal of effort to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I’m not apologizing. I’m just recognizing that you seem to care about the safety of civilians, and so do I, and so I think we should be able to find some common ground and settle this in some way that doesn’t involve them.”

“The only reason they’re involved at all is because you keep attacking their city!” Ladybug shouted, her voice a lit flame. Her earrings beeped—two out of five. “What are you talking about?”

“Adrien,” Father growled dangerously in his ear, “stop this immediately.”

“Don’t play dumb, Ladybug. We both know you’re smarter than that,” Adrien pressed on. “There’s no one here to fool. If you give back what you stole, this can all end—”

“Adrien, stop!” Father yelled.

“You’re insane!” Ladybug shouted. “I never stole anything, and—and the very last person I’d ever trust to talk things through with is you.”

Adrien’s temper rose hot beneath his skin, his ears flat against his head. A rumbling began to shake the ground beneath their feet.

“And this is what you want instead?” Adrien shouted. “The whole city in danger? Us fighting like this, forever?

“Adrien!” Father seethed.

Something shifted in Ladybug’s gaze, her eyes set with an infuriating self-righteous zeal that dropped a rock in Adrien’s gut.

“I think forever is a gross overestimation,” she said. “In fact, I believe you’re already out of time.”

Ladybug smirked, and a high-pitched ding sounded in Adrien’s arms.

The Easy-Bake Oven exploded with popcorn all over the pavilion, and a torrent of pigeons descended on the microwaved feast, choking the air in beaks and feathers until cracks splintered through the pillars. Ladybug wrenched the baton from the pavement and jousted it into Adrien’s stomach, sending him gasping to the floor, but not before he kicked at her legs and took her down with him.

They tousled for a few seconds before a feather sauntered down through the air to brush right up against Adrien’s nose—he could swear his nose was like a magnet to the godforsaken things or something, seriously—and Adrien, with all his might, could not stop the earth-shattering, full-body sneeze that followed.

The sneeze—understandably—loosened his grip on Ladybug, who—also understandably—used the opportunity to pull her knee up to her chest and kick him in the stomach, sending him flying several meters into a pile of pigeons.

Adrien blinked, Ladybug’s red form hazy in his watery eyes. Why did the allergies have to happen, like, instantly? Why did it always have to be M. Pigeon?

“A ‘bless you’ would’ve been fine,” Adrien remarked, feeling around for his baton with his non-actively-cataclysming hand.

“Hmm. I’m not really in the mood to bless you, I think,” Ladybug said. Adrien blinked again, and she was closer than before, yo-yo spinning triumphantly at her side. “I’m thinking you could bless me instead.”

In a swift motion, she lassoed him by the waist and hurled him through the air, several seconds of freefall before he made contact with something warm and firm. He felt the moment his cataclysm was released and panicked for a second, thinking that he might have accidentally touched a person. But, no, when Adrien opened his eyes, he only found the ashy remnants of M. Ramier’s pigeon-feed bag in his palm. Despite himself, Adrien sighed with relief. Awful as she was, Ladybug was reliable. She’d never manipulated his cataclysm to hurt another person, only to deakumatize people. Though he knew Ladybug wasn’t above hurting innocents, she’d always seemed to care about her public image.

“Chat Noir!” M. Ramier screeched, now that all the black bubbles were gone. “What are you doing here?! Help! Ladybug!”

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you!” Adrien put his hands up, placating. M. Ramier’s eyes were still wide with fear. “Let’s get you down from here, okay?”

“You’re safe now, M. Ramier,” Ladybug landed firmly on the rooftop, polka-dotted Easy-Bake in tow. She snapped her yo-yo around the black butterfly and gave Adrien a pointed look. “He won’t hurt you anymore. Stray cats know when to scram.”

“I’m harmless as a declawed kitten,” Adrien told M. Ramier, pointedly ignoring Ladybug. “I wish you well.”

read the rest on ao3 (when it comes back up)

[huldrabitch]

I've read through all the chemist/matheo fics on ao3. Wtf am I gonna have to write??

[godofgrapes]

So I kinda went, uh, insane this morning and hammered out 2200 words on my phone during work for a Star Wars/Assassin’s Creed fanfic about Leia and Luke being raised in the Brotherhood.

So. That’s how my morning went.

[faebriel]

and you caused it: chapter 1

(click for more detail!)

In which Niki has a terrible secret, Puffy just wants to move on, Tommy sneaks into casino parties and Wilbur learns to deal with anger being justified. Or - the one thing they don't warn you of, when dropping nuclear warheads on old friends, is fallout.

in chapter one: wilbur does his very best to be a good friend. niki continues to have issues with making apologies. a casino opening party is attended, and a few well-kept secrets find their way into the light.

wc: 9.8k (this part's the longest! you can tell i start writing out fics from their opening scenes lol)

so before getting into things, i'd like to lay out a few warnings and additional comments.

cws include: implied/referenced suicide, implied/referenced self-destructive behaviour, implied/referenced child abuse, and discussed food restriction. this is very much a fic about trying to deal with the fact that you haven't done great things and having trouble coming to terms with your mistakes and wrongdoings, and not always approaching that in a healthy way. do i still need to clarify all my fics are extremely entrenched in unreliable narrators? the viewpoint(s) of this fic most definitely are.

this fic should be considered canon-divergent from early season 3, as a direct sequel to cause most of us are bitter over someone.

apologies for some of the broken up snippet boxes. did you know tumblr has a character limit per text block? i didn't, until today.

and yes, this fic is also named after youth by daughter. i mean, come on.

with that in mind, onto the story proper.

prologue

The crater is so, so much bigger than she thought it would be. Crumbling rock stretches onward, a chasm fields larger than the pit that once was L’Manberg - easily bigger than L’Manberg ever was. Even now it yawns itself larger, stone crumbling at the edges and tumbling downward, ever downward. The crashing is muffled, the ground under her feet unsteady and yet floating, frozen, caught and crystallised in the stray second that Niki is trapped in. Every stone a diamond, the hulking and twisted mass of metal below glittering in the late afternoon sun. It sinks into her brain, thick and heavy, as she struggles to wrap her mind around what her eyes tell her she sees. This isn’t a burning tree, this isn’t dynamite - this shouldn’t even be possible. And yet somehow, somehow, they failed. She edges closer to the lip of the cliff, letting the sound of tumbling rock fade from her earshot, and stares. Just - stares. What else can she do? Bedrock peers up at her, threaded with smoking silver-grey. The air is clear up here, sky a fading blue, but the longer she looks - her eyes burn, and when she takes a breath she coughs on what tastes like gunpowder, but it burns down the rungs of her throat like it’s somehow been lit behind her tongue. Gunpowder is dry, cold - it doesn’t do that. She would know. The burning feeling raking its way into her lungs pulls her back from her vigil, and somewhere behind her she can hear Tubbo pulling Tommy back from the edge. His voice rambles on about - about radiation. Poison leeching its way into her lungs, her skin, every thread of muscle and sinew holding her together, her brain. (She’s either dizzy, or the height is giving her vertigo. She steels herself, clenches her hands into shaking fists, and tries not to drift.) And they’re all standing in the thick of it, air hot and heavy with poison. Because Tommy’s still here. She tears her eyes away from the wreckage, watches - watches him, still here, still alive, still fire-bright and bold enough to start kicking rocks around. When a cliff crumbles he bounces back, has the audacity to laugh. Jack’s eyes bore holes into the side of her head. Her stomach hurts, pulling itself apart, lining loose - oh, fuck, she’s going to be sick. She can - she can’t feel it, she shouldn’t be able to feel it, but she does. That poison seeping into her bones, settling there like silt. It reaches out with sticky hands, tearing open her stomach and burning everything it touches leaving nothing but the wet and wrong feeling of gristle inside and she takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut and clamps a hand over her mouth because she’s all too aware of every toxic shift in her chest. Takes a shaky breath, feels that burn down her throat too. Her gut is twisting like something’s grabbed it, shot it through with shards of ice, but it’s just her, Jack, Tubbo and Tommy. And the pit that stretches out beneath them. There’s a hand on her shoulder, and Tubbo’s words swim past her ears like she’s been held underwater. We need to go, his voice murmurs quietly. It washes over her like rainwater, like what’s left of the stream that weaves its way into the crater and drips down like rain on the edge of a roof. We need to go, or we’ll die. Isn’t that the point? she wants to ask. It all blurs together when she blinks the water out of her eyes - the shitty canopy over their van, a tree that goes up like firewood, smoke in the back of her throat. Dynamite under her hands, dug deep into a podium. Radiation sinking into her bones. She staggers over - Tubbo is wearing something heavy and yellow, encrusted in shimmering black dust, pressing something similar into Tommy’s hands. She’s wearing - Wilbur’s coat, thin and flapping in the breeze, still smudged with ash. She can feel a draft through the tears in the back. Tommy steps away from the cliff’s edge, and her hands twitch. Hasn’t that always been the point?

☢ ☢ ☢

chapter 1

the first two scenes of this fic are actually written out, so they have been linked in their entirety below:

scene 1 - wilbur and niki, hanging out again - comfortable, reunited - as niki brews potions that she (reluctantly) reveals are to treat radiation sickness from a mishap with one of tubbo's nuclear experiments.

scene 2 - niki walks to snowchester to drop off a few potions, a peace offering. unfortunately, tommy and michael are the only ones home. it's a bit awkward. niki struggles to navigate the historically-turbulent relationship between herself and tommy.

---

after snowchester comes the afternoon syndicate meeting - insert the meeting notes, penned by the deeply-experienced ranboo_beloved.

items of note: technoblade's absence, as he is due to return from his hibernation tomorrow. phil advises ranboo and niki that techno seems to have some big ideas in mind for the syndicate upon his return, but there's no time to speculate - wilbur has advised them that las nevadas is throwing an opening party for its casino in a few nights' time, and the syndicate does not trust like that! ranboo will be representing paradise burgers and phil is pulling the "you've all called me old for too long, and i am now using it as an excuse to get out of this party i don't want to go to" card. niki, you would love to go, wouldn't you?

---

well, niki is a bit so-so on las nevadas, but to be honest - a night at a fancy party with a few friends doesn't sound so bad. so niki makes her way to the sparkling city in her glitziest red dress, and wilbur is just a little bit too excited to meet her on its front steps.

The place is bustling, fashioned for pleasure instead of business tonight - strings of lights wrap their way around slender pillars of stone on every corner, each housing sea lanterns that send shifting shades of blue and purple across the obsidian paving. The water flowing from the fountains is bright and blue, the music coming from the casino is booming, and the space needle is lit up like a lighthouse that throws the spotlight onto every partygoer who enters the city. It is sparkling, dazzling, and probably shockingly expensive. In other words, just as tacky as Niki had expected. Although maybe even sparklier. There is something about this place that is stale, artificial. There is a chill to the air despite the sand stuck in her heels, and Niki finds herself shivering as night settles over the desert - and wishing she had a shawl or something. She's wearing the same red dress as she did for the banquet months ago, knife tucked by her back, right in arm’s reach. Though even in her glitziest gown, she feels underdressed. "Wonderful, isn't it?" Wilbur, at least, seems unbothered - he’s still donning his torn trenchcoat and canary-yellow sweater, but moves through the city as if the bright lights and tall buildings fit him like a glove. “Wonderful is one word for it,” Niki murmurs. She’s never visited Las Nevadas, and tonight with its flashing nights and thrumming music seems determined to leave… an impression. A good one, or a bad one, she can’t say - although she’s certainly leaning towards the latter over the former. She thinks she can feel a headache coming on. “Oh, come on, Niki. Try to have a little fun, won’t you?” He grins, a little crooked. “A beautiful night in a beautiful city - a lot of potential, for a night like that..." Wilbur is acting strange. it’s not the locale, because he looks the same as usual and moves through the city in the same way as usual - but he is clearly planning something, and Niki hates to say it but it’s putting her on edge. Bless him, but Wilbur planning things doesn’t end well. Especially when she doesn’t see it coming.

"Alright, get over here," he interrupts her rapidly-derailing train of thought. "Your eyeliner is smudged.” Niki wrinkles her nose as Wilbur licks his thumb, and dodges an attempt to swipe it past her temple. “I’ll decline you rubbing your spit on my face,” she says, taking a step back. Wilbur pouts. “I don’t have anyone to impress here, Wil.” Certainly not. Not in the brightest, most wasteful city in the server. Wilbur presses his lips together, but he doesn’t say anything - just huffs, taking a step back with a roll of his eyes. Niki resists the urge to roll her own. He’s wired, and she’d like to pretend she’s not at least mildly suspicious, but she is. She keeps her mouth shut, though. She trusts Wilbur - despite and because of everything in equal measures. “Don’t blame me later,” is all he says. “This place is so... gaudy. I don't know how much fun you expect me to have,” Niki points out, and reaches out to fix the pins on his collar - glinting gold under the lights, one’s come detached from the point of his collar and dangles helplessly from the chain. He huffs slightly as she winds the pin out from the wool of his sweater, and fiddles with the point of his collar until it stays. “You really are starting to sound like Techno now, you know.” “He’s your brother,” Niki says, flattening out his collar. “i think that should be a compliment.” “Maybe,” Wilbur laughs, and offers her his arm. “Just - try to have fun, yeah? Don’t be stressed. It’s a party.” “It’s a reconnaissance mission.” “It's a reconnaissance mission at a party,” he says flippantly, although there’s something hiding beneath his tone. Niki trusts Wilbur, she reminds herself. “I know you’re putting some plan together again,” she says, despite herself. she just can’t piece together what he’s planning, and that worries her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hums. “You clearly do.” Wilbur drops the act a moment - not long enough to fill her in on whatever scheme's caught his eye, but just enough for him to shoot her an encouraging smile. “You'll have a good time, Niki,” he assures her, confident. "Promise."

but oh, the party seems fine. she runs into a few friends - quackity, tubbo, ranboo (they got a babysitter for tonight), actually meets slime. tommy is there too, and they share a bit of awkward conversation, but even they are getting along finely tonight.

Tommy nods out towards the mostly-empty space in the middle of the room, some glitzy imitation of a ballroom - Ranboo and Tubbo, hand in hand, twirl around the space in a clumsy but cheerful attempt at a waltz. As they pass the bar Ranboo spins Tubbo under his outstretched arm, smiling at Quackity - the man grins back, and lets the vodka glug into his glass for a few seconds too long before tossing it back with a grimace.

niki eventually takes a small breather from the party, lingering on the sidelines to catch her breath between all of this talking - this is where wilbur finds her, the most keyed up he's been all night and insisting that niki follow him. it'll be worth her while, of course (he's done something to make things up with her, to make things properly right between them, to do something just for niki). and so niki follows to the faux-ballroom, eyes cast downward to avoid stepping on anyone's feet as wilbur eagerly ushers her through the crowd, until she almost runs into his back as he steps away and finally -

locks eyes with puffy.

who is not happy to see her.

(oh, it would be so kind of wilbur - who has noticed how lonely the niki-who-is-now is compared to the niki-who-once-was, who once had perhaps not a country but friends and a girlfriend who she could rely on. and someone as sweet and good as niki would never do something to cause a horrible, drawn-out, justified breakup.

the point is, wilbur puts niki on a pedestal. he means well. they don't even notice that he does, half the time - he thinks she is good and clever and rational and deserving of the world, and some of the time, she really is those things. she's just also an attempted murderer. and finally, it is coming back to bite both of them in the ass.)

puffy, who has been led to believe that this is some get-her-back scheme orchestrated by niki, is mildly annoyed at best. we broke up for a reason, she insists, and niki knows that.

"I can’t believe you," Puffy scowls, the expression a brash, red rose across her face. "Really, Niki?” “This wasn’t my idea!” she cries. "Guilty as charged," Wilbur mumbles - suitably abashed, he slinks over to Niki's side. She is still too shell-shocked to shoo him away. Puffy is transfixing, like that. A thousand thoughts tumble through her head, chaos - and yet, she can't bring a single other one stammering to her lips. “Well, god knows what you’re telling everyone, then!" Puffy snaps. "I don't know what kind of dumb get back together plan you're trying to pull - I don't care, Niki. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but - you're a fucking mess." The words land like a blow to the chest - Niki sucks a breath in past her teeth, bracing for the hit, before she thinks better of it. "I told you. I can't fix you, I couldn't - I couldn't just stand around and keep my eyes closed when you hurt people, Niki, I'm done with it. I told you, I'm done."

but niki has been trying. and fuck, trying has been hard. she's not going to beg that puffy takes her back - that ship has sailed - but she's not going to stand there and let herself be slandered, either.

“...I’m getting better," Niki retorts, voice small. Puffy lets go of an angry breath. “Don’t start. Don’t start.” “I have the Syndicate now!" she exclaims. "I have friends - good friends - and I started baking again, I started caring again, I started trying again, and it's - it's none of your business, either way. It's not your business!" “This started being my business when you tried to kill someone under my care - I don't know if you remember that - and then you just, just disappeared off into the wilderness about it! Fuck, have you even apologised to Tommy for all that?” And Niki goes quiet. It's more of an answer than anything she could have said in words. Puffy's glare goes thunderous, voice a loud, rumbling crash in Niki's head. “You haven’t? After exile, after all of that shit - you were in the vault with us, Niki, you heard everything that fucker said, you were there - and you haven't even fucking apologised to him?” A cold rush of - of shame, it sweeps over her, making her painfully aware of the scuffs on her dress and the acne on her chin and the abject, open anger on Puffy’s face. Puffy is no angel but she is righteous, powered by something burning bright and so scathingly good at her core, nigh-divine in her knightly fury - and despite her namesake, Niki is so very far from godhood. “It’s difficult," Niki tries. "It’s - it’s complicated.” “No, it’s fucking not!" Puffy shouts, incredulous. "You tried to kill the kid!” “Niki," Wilbur cuts in, voice quiet. Niki freezes, ice fanning down the length of her spine - she had forgotten, she had somehow forgotten, that the world existed outside of the small bubble encasing herself and Puffy. It all comes rushing back to her now, an assault on the senses - the coloured lights, the fabric of her dress settling across her neck, the uncanny sensation of a person standing at her back, the low sound of Wilbur's voice over her shoulder. "You, did you - you tried to hurt Tommy?” She is experiencing that sense of paralysis again, she dimly notices, silent - voicebox giving up the ghost. Oh, there's nothing she can say to fix this one. So the cords of her throat make no noise at all. “Yeah, go on, brag about it." Puffy waves a half-hearted hand in her direction, dismissive. "You seemed real proud of yourself this time last January.” “She’s - she’s lying, right. What the fuck." She can't see his face. She can't see him, and for some delirious moment her mind parrots if you can't see him then he can't see you, then it's not real then this never happened, he never came back you never tried to kill anyone you never he never - "Niki - Niki, she’s lying, isn’t she?” She turns, strangling the delirium silent. Niki has seen Wilbur heartbroken, desperate, dead - and yet there is another expression in his face that Niki simply cannot recognise, can't put a name to, an expression she has never seen turned onto her. “...I told you," she says weakly. "I said - I said I’d done things I wasn’t proud of - “ "Yeah, what - property damage or something, some shitty fights, I don't - I don't know," he exclaims, voice climbing in volume and incredulity. “You tried to kill him?” “I - I..." “...can you even admit it?” "Let me finish," she snaps, and he falls silent. “I - I did, I did.” Ah, there's the name for that expression. Horrified.

a crowd is forming. and it is listening.

from the crowd bursts tommy and ranboo, both in a state of panic - and as soon as tommy enters the scene, all eyes land on him.

did niki try to kill you, wilbur demands.

and tommy, he backpedals - no, we're over it, we're getting over it - it's none of your fucking business, wilbur, we sorted it out! and the lack of denial amidst it all is damning.

the argument could continue between the four of them for days, but tommy is already frantic - he cuts wilbur off, tells him ranboo is in a state of panic and can barely speak, and was using his few words to beg tommy to take him to wilbur. wilbur's not keen to drop this line of conversation at all, until ranboo babbles out the words casino, and TNT, and wilbur goes white.

you didn't, tommy says. no way you did, no fucking way -

you promised, niki chokes out, and wilbur snaps that now is not the time for her of all people to be rattling on about lies -

and the horrible story forces its way out of ranboo: yes, wilbur asked him to place a bit of TNT in the casino. a small amount! small enough that wilbur had practically forgotten. but ranboo, anxiety-ridden, felt strangely something was out of place - and discovered that somehow, they don't know how, they don't (they do know: it's the same reason excess TNT seems to appear around ranboo and prisons in droves) a few stray pieces of TNT have become an entire network, hundreds of pieces as far as they could see when they checked just now. enough to blow the casino sky-high, and easily kill every player inside.

all hell breaks loose.

tommy is furious with wilbur. wilbur is demanding why tommy didn't tell him about niki. niki is panicking. the crowd has given up on staring for now, instead focused on their escapade stampde. quackity is furious with everyone, barely keeping control of the crowd as they flood outside, as far from the building as they can get.

“Where is Tubbo?” Quackity shouts. “Tommy said he left earlier,” Niki offers quietly, and the man whips around to face her - his gaze settles on Niki, and Niki is not afraid of Quackity by any means (not in Manberg, not now), but the fire in his glare makes her stand a little straighter. “You’d better fucking hope you heard him right, Niki,” he snarls, and turns back to the crowd. “I need - “ And then, the bombs go off. It feels as if someone has taken a sword to the night that falls over Las Nevadas, splitting it open - day spills over them, a bright light that burns its way into her eyes even as she hides her face in the crook of her elbow. The ground shakes…

they make it out, but las nevadas is a wreck. fire falls from the sky, the sands glowing alight with flame, slick with melting glass. niki falls into step with the flood of evacuees, surrounded by whispers, by stares, by a crowd of nosiness and judgement that shifts awkwardly away from her when she walks beside them, pulled into puffy's tumultuous wake.

as the blast settles, the truth dawns on niki - wilbur has heard what she's done. everyone has heard what she's done. puffy has (yet again) rejected her, her peers have rejected her, even wilbur, whose friendship she fought so fucking hard to get back, has rejected her. all her work to heal - all her work, dragging her feet as she just couldn't quite spit out an apology to tommy, not a proper one - has gone up in fire and smoke. it's over.

With her arms wrapped tightly around herself, curled-up and pitiful, Niki walks away from the flaming crater that was once the city of Las Nevadas.

[cypresscoffin]

Hmmmmmm

Writing.........

I should do that more.....

[mantisgodsdomain]

"oh wow [REDACTED] i see a lot of sex-related titles in there does your portfolio have nsfw in it-" NO it doesn't. We failed sexuality class. If we were capable of writing anything NSFW then we would use that ability to write character studies examining a character's relation to their body and how the reproductive strategies and adaptations their species uses may impact it. We're, like, physically incapable of producing A Sex in any form besides doing academic speculation like we're a scholar theorizing about t-rex mating strategies and we don't think that our 3k word essay on potential cultural attitudes and pressures regarding sex & reproduction as they relate to insects in a world where their biology has adapted to a point where they live for far longer than a few days or months at the cost of an excess rate of mutation meaning that the majority of resulting grubs are likely to be both nonsapient and likely to kill or maul their siblings upon emerging from the egg or cocoon is, like... the kind of stuff that our followers or random Ao3 users would want to read.

[jercythesiscrying]

until the day we can leave kudos per chapter, please leave your kudos in the form of comments!

some examples that don't even need a braincell to leave:

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

chapter kudos!

bonus kudos!

[insert keysmash here]

if you wanna put in a lil more effort, these kudos images by @bizarrelittlemew are lovely to receive!

i wish ao3 allowed people to give kudos per each chapter. These 100k word NOVELS need more love than 200 tiny digital hearts ☹️

[sunwarmed-ash]

Sinful Sunday Post

Im burnt out and exhusted. Im taking tomorrow as a personal day 💜

[aeyumicore]

caleb body worshipping you—a short drabble.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, body-worshipping, some female descriptors but tried to keep it as gender neutral as possible, stretch marks/thigh/tummy/etc worshipping, unprotected sex, petnames, no use of y/n, NOT proofread

━ ✧.˖ A/N: different from my usual plot-fic style. just a little smutty blurb. not proofread, i churned this out in like an hour. had a sudden hit of wanting to write :) enjoy! let's all have fun with the 4.0 update soon or tmw depending on what server you are!

good luck with your pulls guys. love you.

caleb body worships like no other.

caleb will use the rough pad of his thumb to trace the delicate lines of your stretch marks and scars. he commits each one to memory, mapping them like different flight paths—each one he was determined to explore and revere. why? for no other reason than that they mesmerize him and he finds them beautiful against your skin—especially when he’s buried balls deep inside of you.

“never seen anyone or anything so damn beautiful. i’ll never get used to it. never want to. never will.”

caleb sucks at your nipples quite literally like he’s hoping he might find some of your unbearably sweet essence. his tongue strokes at every pebbled groove of your hardened skin, reveling in how something could taste so perfectly sweet, salty, and perfectly you. 

“addicted to you baby, fuck. can’t live without you anymore, without tasting these perfect tits, every morning, every night. every goddamn day. you’ll let me, right?”

caleb has your ass and hips in the air, your feet dangling over his shoulders, and kisses your ankles so tenderly, even as he quite literally jackhammers into you so desperately it’s almost pathetic. his breath is hot and heated against them as he groans, his fingers firm as they massage into your calves

“god, you’re perfect. every fucking inch of you. fucking made for me.”

caleb uses his own hands to clench your thighs tighter around his head when he’s in between them. thick, slim, soft, rough, it doesn’t matter. they’re fucking perfect and he needs to suffocate in them. that’s how he wants to go. smothered by your heavenly, arousal-slicked, trembling thighs.

“tighter princess. juuust like that. good girl. don’t be ridiculous, they’re perfect. give them to me.”

caleb grabs the plush loose skin around your abdomen when he’s close, and it only turns him on more. sometimes, he squeezes a little too hard and leaves behind pretty little bruises in the shape of his fingers, the color of his eyes. and when he does, his lips will always find them pressing gentle reverent kisses into the achy skin, apologizing sincerely.

“fuck, sorry princess. you’re just so soft—feel so good—got carried away. let me make it up to you, let me make you feel good.”

caleb cums explosively inside of you. not because he wants to, which he absolutely did, but because you begged for it. because he knew you needed to feel him inside of you—hot, thick, and deep—in order to really feel how desperately he needs you. feel how precious your body was to him. 

“fuuuck—feel that, sweets? feel how dry you milk me? going to live inside of this perfect fucking body. taking me so damn well, princess.”

caleb has dedicated his entire life to you. everything he’s ever done, every decision he’s ever made, has been with you in the forefront of his mind. he’d worship you, mind, body, and soul, for as long as you’d let him. as long as the heavens would allow him. and even then. 

your body truly is a temple. his temple.

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

[ksspectacles]

i’m alive btw. just haven’t been on social media too much. btw i do have an account on the website formally known as twitter under the same name (link). i’m not more active there or anything but it’s there if you want to follow me there.

edit: this was apparently my hundredth post lmao