#CW: mild angst

[kawareo]

Bhaalist Unholy Communion

This post has been living in my brain rent free and then it hit me in just the right headspace to turn into a vent thing and made me write poetry for the first time since eight grade anyway enjoy my ramblings under cut

because isn't it fucked up that Durge has no bodily autonomy? That he's nothing (using he/him because im looking at my Durge specifically) without Bhaal because not even his own body is his own but still a part of Bhaal?

And sure it is an honor to be Bhaal's Chosen, but is it really if you never got the chance to choose yourself? Strike, my Durge, was born a Bhaalspawn and grew up in the cult since he was eight. It's all he's ever known, he's worshiped for being a demi-god, he's powerful and on top, and in the end, literally everything he has is only because his Father lets him have it.

The Communion especially shows that, with Strike being still worshiped, but it hurts him, the Bhaalists rip his body apart, use it, consume it, and he needs to think of it as a blessing because how lucky is he, to be the soul that was loaned piece of a god to guard? He'd think of his own body like that.

And it hurts Bhaalists, too! It works both ways! His blood is poisonous and his flesh aches in their throats, but it's a blessing! God of Murder loves his son and his love hurts, and if you love him back, you must let yourself be hurt and know how lucky you are to be allowed to be hurt by Bhaal or his mortal flesh itself!

I'm just very into the whole 'no bodily autonomy' thing that we have going on with Durge, like his father not only can take control of his body via the Urge, but he has Sceleritas to guide him away from anything that could be not by Bhaal's books, Orin and Saverok to be a (although messed up as hell) family to him so he'll never look for another, and to some degree, Bhaal can control Durge's mind...

No wonder he'd run to Gortash in the end. The first one who sees more than a Bhaalspawn when he looks at Strike, more than Bhaal's scion, he sees a person and ngl it's totally Bhaal's fault that Strike ended up like that

[clickety-clacker]

RED STRING OF FATE // CUT YOUR HEART OUT

bonus/alt version under cut

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[sleep-deprived-mf]

"𝙽𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎…"

reblogs > likes

[viiluen]

With a bright future.

[blue-unifox]

What happened to you, Oralech?

[ballinkittymeowmeow45]

Hi funger community.. this took about so long to make and I hate jt, anyway it’s angst

The tag is my user on TikTok, you should follow me there🔥

[olrinarts]

Day 16: Confess Your Sins

Narinder attempts to hide in the Lamb's tent. The Lamb tries to help. Narinder benefits from this. The Lamb? Not so much. (7k, hurt/comfort, can be read as romance or QPR)

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control - 3x14 Long Distance Call

“I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”

Dean’s admission echoes in Sam’s aching head as they sit beside each other, on their respective motel beds, drinking beer and nursing their bruises, while the TV flickers ominously in the darkening room. Dean’s found an old horror movie that he must’ve watched so often he knows it by heart, mouthing some of the lines in sync with the characters, his swollen face lighting up in childlike joy at the outdated, involuntarily comical jump scares.

Sam could never get behind his brother’s enthusiasm for horror flicks. In his opinion, they’re dealing with enough horror in real life as it is. Why Dean would find relaxation - even joy - in watching people getting terrorized and torn apart by monsters, aliens or (worst of all) other humans is beyond him. Why he would fill what little downtime they have with even more fear and blood and pain is something Sam will never understand.

He also can’t get behind the sudden insouciance that Dean is showing, sitting rapt in front of the TV, their earlier conversation about Dean dying in three weeks seemingly forgotten. Very possibly, it’s just a front - a mask he’s put on to disguise the very emotions he admitted to only twenty minutes ago. Up to anyone’s guess whether he’s protecting himself or Sam by sliding back into the brave act he’s put on for months now. Pressed, Sam would guess the latter. In the end, it’s his modus operandi, and as much as Sam rebels against needing protection - he’s twenty-five now, for god’s sake - he believes that, by correlation, it’s what keeps Dean together. Taking care of Sam means he can’t fall apart. Not even three weeks from going to Hell.

Sam shudders.

“Ohhhh– that was nasty, wa’n’t it?” Dean grins at him, pointing at a slashed-up body on the TV screen, the insane killer silently walking out of the frame, machete dripping blood.

Sam shakes his head, albeit carefully, his brain still sloshy from getting knocked out earlier. How can Dean find gory murder amusing when he’s about to get ripped apart himself? He suppresses the ‘A little too close to home, don’t you think’ he’s got on the tip of his tongue.

Dean slaps Sam’s leg. “Oh come on, Sammy! Admit it - it’s funny!”

Sam doesn’t laugh. “Haha.”

“Wuss.” 

A knock on their door pulls Sam out of his thoughts and Dean away from the screen. 

“Papa John’s Pizza!” someone announces cheerlessly outside and knocks again, impatient. “Your order’s here!”

Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Dean gets up and, after checking through the window, he opens the door to a weary-looking twenty-something in a red-and-white uniform holding a family-sized pizza box out to him. Dean pays and tips him generously. That, too, is his modus operandi: they may be near-broke most of the time, but Dean never lets a person with a shit, low-paying job go without a tip. He’d rather not order at all. Sam can’t remember if that’s something Dad taught him, but he doesn’t think so. 

Door shut and locked, Dean returns to his bed with the steaming box and opens it, his eyes already swinging back to the TV where the crazed machete murderer is stalking his next victim.

“He’s in for a surprise with that one,” he comments cheerfully before he maneuvers a slice of pizza out of the box and bites off, sauce dripping down his chin and onto the bed. Sam wants to say something about the sheets and using napkins, but he doesn’t have it in him. As much as he complains all the time about Dean’s messy eating, he knows he’s going to miss it when–

No. He’s not gonna go there.. They’ll find a way to save Dean. It’s not gonna-

“Dude! You’re not even looking!” Dean admonishes, chewing. “This is the best part! The Final Girl!” 

There’s screaming on the screen, blood splattering all over the place, and the killer growls and snarls like some rabid dog. It sounds way too much like a Hell Hound. Sam swallows.

“Dude, you okay? Lord of the Flies leave you with a concussion after all?” 

Dean’s eyes are on him now, giving him the full Winchester-X-ray scrutiny, pizza and movie momentarily forgotten.

While it’s true that the Crocotta knocked him out, Sam doesn’t think he has a concussion. His head hurts, and he’s a little dizzy, but he can see straight and he doesn’t feel like throwing up the two beers he just drank. No, the lump in his throat is nothing but dread, pushing up through the bravado he, too, has been putting on for Dean. 

“D’you want a poem?” he’d joked earlier, to kill the tension and knock Dean out of his panic. It had worked. Humor sometimes was the only thing that worked when his older brother was spiraling. Humor or pure, physical force. And Dean needs him. No matter the show he’s putting on, Sam sees it in the taut line of his shoulders and hears it in his exaggerated laughter. Behind the pretend mirth, despair still glimmers in the green of his eyes. 

For once, Sam’s got to be the one to lean on. He can’t waver now.

“I’m fine,” he says, waving at the TV. “Just that Pizza Face over there is not exactly making my mouth water.” More blood sprays on the screen as the triumphant Final Girl takes an ice pick to the killer’s ugly face. Sam pointedly wrinkles his nose. “Yuck.”

Mollified, Dean chuckles. “Lightweight.” He takes another hearty pizza bite and licks a string of cheese from his split lip. “Wait till you see what happens with the teacher in part two! Guy knows how to handle a chainsaw, I’m not kiddin’!”

“There’s a part two?” Sam asks, horrified. Why anyone would want to watch a sequel to this ludicrous garbage eludes him.

Dean grins devilishly, although it must be hurting his badly bruised cheek. “Yeah, and it’s on right after. A marathon, in fact. Parts one through four back-to-back.”

Sam has to keep himself from sagging in dismay, and he stops the agonized groan that wants to slip out of him. A whole night of battling insomnia and the monsters waiting for Dean in Hell with badly made-up, fictional monsters prowling over a scratched TV screen - it’s not his idea of conquering fear. But, apparently, it’s Dean’s, and if this is what his brother needs, if this is what helps him face the nightmare waiting ahead, Sam will be by his side. In this dismal motel room and in the three weeks to come.

“Alright then. Pass me a slice,” he says, gesturing at the pizza, to a crescendo of screaming coming from the TV. “And another beer.”

Dean’s grin widens, and if he’s still scared underneath the twinkle in his eyes and the bright flash of his teeth, it’s hard even for Sam to detect. “That’s my boy!” 

He balances a slice from Sam’s veggie half of the pizza onto a napkin and hands it to him, followed by a fresh beer that he pops open with his ring.“Get comfortable, dude,” Dean instructs joyfully, rearranging the pillows between his back and the headboard. Then he lifts his beer bottle to toast to Sam. ��It’s gonna be a looong night.”

Sam toasts back, a twinge in his chest. Twenty-one nights left. It’s time they start making them count.

The Damage Control Series Masterlist

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

[desultory-novice]

Hi! I really love all your content! I'm super excited to see where you take the apologies AU. Anyways, but were the three dark matters in Kirby 64 (Dark Rimuru, Rimura and Rimuro) all like noir at some point? In terms of being something else before being assimilated into the hivemind?

Good question, Anon!

In totally unrelated news... ...meet Raquelle, Adeleine's old babysitter!

-

"Freeze"

Adeleine started out life... a bit trapped in her shell, given the early loss of her parents and also because angsty teen Noir is not the best guardian for a sensitive, budding future artist.

Raquelle is one of those unique people who was able to make an instant connection with her and help bring her out of herself! She was almost entirely a net positive in Adeleine's life.

Her relationship with Noir is more ...complex....

[image behind the jump]

-

...This is not a happy story.

[Apologies AU Masterpost]

[gemini-forest]

Prequal to "Sorry I'm late". Au referring to this post here.

I love this so much! I'll do more when I can and do proper intro but for now have occasional feels and sillies

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 3

Dew feels guilty, Rain screws up.

Rating: M now, to be safe Content: side character death, minor descriptions of violence, flashbacks, peril Words: 2253

Link to all chapters with associated tags: Tumblr | AO3

hi hi @revengeghoulette here's your alert! and @everybodyshusband you seemed very keen haha!

Read below, or on AO3!

Dew stomped along the path surrounding their fields. The warm sun overhead taunted him, it's rays full of promise and life while he felt only cold and empty inside. He knew he'd been too harsh on Rain, deep down, but he'd have to be threatened with banishment to the pit to admit that. Dewdrop refused to allow himself to feel guilty; that was a slippery slope of self-hatred he knew he wouldn't be able to crawl back up from. He knew he could be short-tempered, and he harboured enough resentment of his own that it was bound to overflow into his actions.

Rain seemed to have had things so much easier than him though, it wasn't fair. From the day he arrived he had bonded with the others in a way Dew had struggled to. They would chitter and purr at Rain for the slightest thing, whereas they had remained suspicious of him for ages. Dew was self-aware enough however to realize that he hadn't helped his case by hissing and growling at his packmates for the smallest thing.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. Rain got a lot of leeway for being young, the others quick to write off his transgressions as ignorance rather than malice, but they forgot Dew was young too. Despite presenting himself as world-wise and experienced, he was closer in age to Rain than he was to any of the rest of his packmates. He'd worked hard to rewrite his time before Aether and Mountain found him, both the most difficult and most sheltered parts, but he couldn't erase their impact.

He continued his mission uphill, to the base of a large oak tree that overlooked their whole farm and surrounding area. Smoke curled from the chimneys of houses in the village in the distance, and a multicoloured patchwork of fields spread out around them. Following the path in the opposite direction, Dew could just make out the dark speck of Rain walking to Farmer Wilkins’. He was stubborn, not taking Dew's constant snipes to heart, Dew had to grudgingly respect that. He watched until Rain turned a corner and was lost from sight.

~~~~~~~

On the walk over, Rain was also enjoying the warm weather as he followed the stream. There was barely a cloud in the sky, the open blue expanse painted with faint white wisps reached as far as the eye could see. Rain could see why his help was needed: the summer had stretched on for several glorious months, and the ground beneath his feet was showing signs of cracking from lack of rainfall. A gentle breeze worked to sweep the cobwebs that still clung tightly to his dream and Dew's comments from his mind.

Arriving at the farm with sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from the heat, Rain was greeted by Farmer Wilkins, sat out on his porch. He was a jovial man, round and ruddy faced, with a vigour for life that defied his advancing age. Rain didn't know him well, but he was a regular down at the village tavern and always had a spare word or smile for Swiss when he passed by.

“Good mornin’, Rain! I didn’t expect to see you so soon, please, sit down. My daughter Marina’s preparing some elderflower cordial against this hot weather. We can wait ‘til you’re rested to begin!”

Rain awkwardly accepted the proffered seat on the porch bench, glad for the shaded spot after the heat of his walk. He heard light footsteps approaching, and looked up to see a young woman emerge from the cottage holding a tray of glasses and a jug of pale liquid.

Her dark hair fluttered around her pretty face in the breeze, and Rain gasped feeling as though he’d been shot in the chest: she was the spitting image of his childhood sweetheart. From the gentle wave in her ebony hair to the asymmetric dimples in her cheeks as she smiled at him in greeting, they could have been twins if not for her obvious humanity.

Noticing Rain’s slack-jawed stare, the farmer chuckled good-naturedly.

“Quite a looker, ain’t she Son! Don’t be getting any funny ideas, she’s engaged to the lad down the road. Childhood sweethearts, they were!”

Rain was struck by the similarities to his own previous life. In another world, his water ghoulette’s father could have spoken of him like that. Instead, Rain had the distinct impression that he had been glad to see Rain leave.

Feeling as though he was watching himself behind glass, Rain accepted a drink with shaky hands. Marina rolled her eyes at his stuttered thanks, but smiled kindly at him as she headed back inside. Luckily, the farmer seemed happy to keep the conversation moving all by himself, leaving Rain to nod in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He sipped his drink in an attempt to replace the moisture in his mouth, which was now as dry as sand. Moving his limbs to raise the glass, Rain felt like he was pulling at the strings of a marionette puppet.

Once Farmer Wilkins had exhausted his supply of one-sided small talk, the pair headed out to the fields, beginning with the one closest behind the house. Here, the corn grew luscious and tall: Mountain did a stellar job encouraging the crop earlier in the season. Rain had tagged along that day, watching as Mountain pressed his palms to the ground to imbue it with his own magical energy.

Now Rain stood in the field without the earth ghoul by his shoulder, feeling alone and detached. He sensed the eager eyes of the farmer watching him, the intense interest making Rain’s knees begin to tremble anxiously. He took a deep breath, and copied what he had done before with Mountain, what he had seen and heard Aether do a hundred times.

Raising his arms out in front of him, palms to the sky, Rain closed his eyes and called out,

“Ancient Spirits! Bless this land, that it be free from drought and pestilence.” he swept his arms around a bit, then turned his palms to the ground. “Gracious Earth, protect these bountiful crops so they may feed us another year.”

Rain winced at how fake it all felt, like he was just going through the motions, and the flowery language rang false in his ears. He cracked his eyes open and saw the farmer – along with half a dozen or so curious farmhands who had downed tools to stare – watching in barely concealed fascination. He squeezed his eyes shut again, waved his arms around a final time in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and went silent as he tried to connect with his element. Rain knew the others could control their power while talking and moving, but he still struggled without devoting his complete concentration to it.

He felt the motion of the water in the stream at the foot of the field, the weight of the droplets in the few scraps of cloud overhead. Flexing his fingers, Rain imagined drawing them in, encouraging them towards the field. He sensed the flowing rivulets of water from the creek begin to channel through the ground, moistening the dry soil around the roots of the crops. The clouds above thickened imperceptibly with the promise of future raindrops.

As Rain felt the water begin to do his bidding, he opened his eyes again to ensure that none of his changes were visible to the small audience of humans. From day one, Aether had instilled the value of plausible deniability into Rain. He insisted it was the most important part of using their elemental connections outside of ghoulish colonies, that they should never give the humans too much evidence of their power and should always leave them with a rational explanation.

As the light flooded his retinas, he saw her standing there: Marina was hovering behind her father's shoulder, watching Rain work with a curious smile and her uncannily familiar dimples. Rain choked on his breath as the sharp stab of longing for his lost future caused him to double over. The pain coursed through his veins and as it did so, Rain felt it cross over with his call to the water. Unbidden, he felt the shock and subsequent rush of emotions transfer into the water he was drawing in, reacting to the ache he had taught himself to supress.

The wisps of feathery clouds he had been coaxing to coalesce now slammed into each other as though pulled by a magnetic force. More water joined from seemingly nowhere, until the clouds hung dark grey and pregnant above the field. Unable to stop the flow of emotionally charged elemental power, Rain watched in horror as the water from the creek rose up, bursting its banks and rushing uphill in an unstoppable tidal wave of water. It reached higher than the stalks of corn, barrelling towards the assembled crowd and flattening the crops indiscriminately. He tried frantically to cut the connection and stop the flow, but with no success.

Rain's panic began to grow, only adding to the ferocity of the water, and the clouds took this as their sign to drop their contents onto those gathered below. The deluge of raindrops hit at the same time as the towering wall of water did, knocking Rain to his feet as he screamed out for the flood of both water and emotions to stop assaulting his body and mind. As the water covered his face, he felt his gills burst free and his glamour dissolve. Rain fought against the water as it dragged him further up the field and back towards the cottage.

To his horror, he saw a flash of dark hair dragged past him. The currents of his own creation slammed the girl against the stone wall of the farmhouse and pinned her there, suspended in a grotesque position, until eventually releasing her to crumple limply into the churning water below. Rain barely had time to process what he was seeing, before he heard a shattering of glass as another farmhand, a boy from the village who could barely have been fifteen, was thrown through the glass roof of a greenhouse. The rain that was still pouring down on them did nothing to dilute the obvious red of the blood spreading through the water.

The tidal wave finally retreated down the field, revealing the destruction left in its wake as it did so. The body of another farmhand emerged from the frothing stream, lifeless without the swirling of the water to animate it. Those remaining staggered to their feet, screaming out in terror. At seeing the carnage and bodies scattered across the field, they turned their anger on Rain. Feeling all the eyes on him, Rain took off running with no heed for where he was heading. Farmer Wilkins let out a howl of anguish as he cradled his daughter's mangled corpse, turning into a roar of anger directed at Rain. The farmhands left alive scrabbled for their abandoned tools scattered by the currents and gave chase, baying for Rain's blood.

As Rain hurled himself down the road, he realised too late that he was heading straight for the centre of town. The noise of the men chasing him attracted the attention of the occupants of the houses he fled past until a small mob was following him, figurative and literal pitchforks raised. Half-crazed, with fear threatening to paralyse him if he paused, Rain kept on running. Lungs burning, he kept pumping his legs as fast as they would go. His feet were now fully unglamoured and the excess webbing between his toes made his shoes feel too small. Every step was agony and yet he knew if he stopped, he was as good as dead.

Rain's mind started to swim, his actions and their consequences catching up with him making him feel dizzy and nauseous. With his tail now caught in his trousers, his balance was almost entirely gone. He felt his foot catch on a loose stone and as he went flying, he knew it was all over. Rain hit the sandy ground hard, all the breath knocked out of him. His eyes frantically swivelled left and right as he scrabbled backwards. Seeing double, Rain stared through the cloud of dust he had kicked up at the crowd bearing down on him. He registered the approaching shovel only as it slammed into the side of his head, stars flashing across his vision before everything went black.

~~~~~~~

From his seat under the tree, Dew was close to dozing off when something caught his attention. He watched in confusion as dark clouds appeared and raced across the sky, before combining together over one field. The air underneath them rippled with falling waves of the torriential rain falling from them. Dewdrop realised a few things simultaneously: firstly, those clouds weren't natural. Dew knew enough about elemental magic to recognise it when he saw it. Secondly, that amount of rain was dangerous and sure to catch the attention of the townsfolk, especially given the recent stretch of warm weather. Lastly, he realised in horror that the clouds were centred directly over the very field Rain had gone to that morning.

Dew leapt to his feet and took off running back to the farmhouse. This was it; all of their worst fears come to life. Their cover was well and truly blown and Dew had to get to the others.

[wisteriasymphony]

"ALYA! ALYA! You'll never guess what just happened!"

"What— Was there another akuma alert? Do you need my help?"

"No!" Marinette giggled, clutching onto her flip phone. "My favorite author. On AgresteAdventures. Posted again!"

Alya set down her pendant, feeling like an idiot for immediately scrambling to action. She could already picture Marinette lying on her bed with her laptop—the one covered in cute strawberry stickers and photographs of Adrien. Resigning herself, Alya sat back down at her desk.

"Okay," she muttered. "What's it about?"

Marinette let out a few more mischievous giggles, pressing the phone up close to her face to whisper into Alya's ear. "It's by AdriDaddyLovesYou... so it's a little, uhm.. on the dirty side~"

"...Yeah," Alya grumbled back. "I figured."

Marinette could barely contain her glee, kicking her feet as she scrolled through the webpage, looking over the explosion of comments. "You read the Potterfic I shared with you from AdriDaddy, right? The one where Adrien's Draco Malfoy?"

Alya remembered seeing in the description of that fic that it was written back when Adrien was 16. "You know, I read it and I don't think it was for me," she lied—Alya hadn't read it at all past the posting date. "Have you ever considered..."

"Gosh, you're right, I should ask him what he thinks!" Marinette squealed. "I bet I could read all of them to him, and he'd be like 'That's so hot, Marinette', and then I'd be like 'I know, right', and then he'd be like 'We should do that, babygirl', and then I'd be like—" She let out another long high-pitched squeal, kicking her feet as she rolled across her bed. "And it'd be perfect!"

Alya considered hanging up. But that wasn't what friends did to each other, unfortunately. Nor employees to their buggy employer.

---

"Well, well, well, would you look at that," Plagg drawled, "Someone posted again on your little fic forum."

Adrien's heart sank. He went over to his computer, where Plagg was juggling using the mouse with his hands and keyboard with his feet. "Why are you even searching that up, Plagg? You know how I feel about that."

"Uh, cause it's funny?" the cat smirked. "They get so much stuff wrong about you. Did you know half of them think you're 6'3"? They get into flame wars over that shit."

"Look, I don't- I don't want to give attention to it. My dad already enables it enough." Adrien swatted his kwami off the keyboard, taking control of the computer to click off the forum. "I just need to forget it exis—"

18-01-09 18:27

AdriDaddyLovesYou Posted: My Little Morning Star

Hello birdies~ AdriDaddy here ;) I was watching old clips of Emilie interviews and this really cute nickname stuck out to me! I thought about what it'd be like if our sexy little Prince Charming ever kept that name with him... Get your pitchers and sugar, cause we got lotsa lemon!!!

That was what his mom used when... He'd... How did they find that? Why would they look for that?

Adrien turned off his computer entirely. Trembling hands went over his mouth, for fear that the growing nausea would soon leak out between his teeth and spill over his desk.

"I... I don't care if you.. I-if you look up that shit about me, Plagg," he said. "Just please... don't let me know."

[conkers-thecosy]

Bagginshield-tober / Day 4 / Company

Hey folks! Here's my offering for day four of the lovely @smolestboop's "Bagginshield-tober" prompt list 💛

You can also find these little snippets compiled into one fic on AO3

*Warnings for nightmares and light trauma symptoms.*

~*~*~

It took a lot to break the will of Thorin Oakenshield.

The madness of his grandfather had not broken him. The dragon and destruction of his home had not broken him. The years of wandering and starvation, and leading a grieving and desolate people had not broken him. Not even the death of his younger brother, nor the loss of his father had broken him. 

Immovable. Headstrong. Unyielding.

His mother had often called him pig-headed, though with the love and fondness that came from one who knew it would be the source of great strength for him over the years. His sister had called him muleish, though with more exasperation than their mother ever had. Strong-willed, Balin had told him, kindly, and with great sadness before he had left to head back West with Bilbo.

Bilbo.

Nothing had ever swayed Thorin from a decision he had made, no one could talk him out of a course of action that he had become set upon. He would always plant his feet and stand firm, determined and unwavering in the face of all things… save for one small Hobbit.

“No… no, please… don’t…”

Sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and hands in his hair, Thorin could only listen to the quiet cries of his dearest friend and greatest love from the room next door. It was agony to feel so useless, to be so close, and yet unable to do anything. He had promised himself he would give Bilbo the space he needed to deal with his trauma, knowing full well it had come at Thorin’s own hands in the first place. He shook with the silent desperation of wanting to make this right, of needing to offer comfort, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

It might even make things worse, he tried to reason with himself, as another small whimper sliced through his already broken heart. For Bilbo to dream so fearfully of what had passed between them on top of the ramparts, Thorin deep in his madness, twisted by the lure of the Arkenstone. It would be cruel for him to awaken to the face of his aggressor, who so haunted his nights. He would wake soon, anyway. He always woke himself, then settled fairly quickly afterwards. All Thorin had to do was wait…

“Thorin!”

At the terrified cry of his own name, he could not help himself. He was on his feet and through Bilbo’s door before he even registered what he had done, and the Hobbit was awake, his eyes wide and fearful and hurt, and Thorin knew he had made a mistake, but he had been seen now, he was here, and what was he to do…? 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said again, looking right at him with the fear melting away to be replaced by something akin to relief. His hair was a mess, sticking out wildly in all directions, his sheets rucked up, and one of his pillows had fallen to the floor beside his bed from where he had been shifting about so restlessly. Thorin saw all this, but it was eclipsed by Bilbo reaching out a small, shaking hand to him, and speaking with a tremor in his voice. “Please?”

Again, Thorin moved on impulse, unable to ignore such a plea. He walked quickly to Bilbo’s bedside and took the outstretched hand as gently as he could. Bilbo grasped him with both hands then, and pressed his knuckles to his forehead in an oddly reverent manner. 

“You’re real,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re alive, and you’re here.”

“You… you feared me dead?”

Bilbo didn’t look at him, didn’t move even a muscle save from the trembling of his small frame. “I dream of it all the time. That I was too late to warn you on Ravenhill, that I stayed to argue with Gandalf instead of immediately coming to find you. I dream that… that Fili and Kili… that they died horrifically and senselessly, and that you… you were… on the ice, bleeding to death, and I could do nothing but hold your hand and watch. It… it feels so real, Thorin. I am so afraid that I will wake and it will all be real, and you won’t be here.”

Thorin could hardly believe what he was hearing, even as the words came tumbling out of the still shaking Hobbit like a shameful confession. He knelt, very slowly so as not to startle Bilbo, clasping his other, much larger hand over the two small ones still holding onto him tightly, as if afraid he would vanish otherwise. 

He wanted to ask if Bilbo truly meant what he said, if it was not Thorin’s rage and threats at the gates that caused him to cry out in the darkness with fear, but he already knew the answer. Bilbo was not a liar, and even if he stretched the truth occasionally, there was no way even his quick tongue could have fabricated such sorrow and heartbreak in such a manner. It was so earnest and true, there could be no questioning the sincerity of his words.

All this time Thorin had stayed away, thinking his presence would only make things worse, when in fact proof of his life and continued existence was what would bring the Hobbit comfort most. He felt like a prize fool for not asking, simply asking, too stuck in his own guilt to offer what aid he could. 

“I could stay, if you would like?” he offered quietly, then shrank back a little as Bilbo looked up in surprise. “Only if you would like me to. I could fetch a chair and sit by the bed until you fall asleep?”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, still wide eyed, though his face a little darker from the blush that would be staining his cheeks. “Well, I would feel terrible making you sit up so that I might rest…”

“We both know I’m not sleeping, anyway,” Thorin brushed this concern aside with a wry smile, immediately feeling better for acknowledging their shared troubles. “If you would like my company, I would be more than willing to stay.” 

Bilbo fidgeted a little, then released Thorin’s hands slowly. For a moment the dwarf thought he was about to be told no, that he had misread the situation after all, and was perhaps over-stepping some kind of personal boundaries, until Bilbo scooted across the bed and patted the mattress beside himself in invitation. 

“I’ll not have you in a chair all night, but perhaps we might both sleep a little better for some company?”

It took a lot to break the will of Thorin Oakenshield, but in this instance, he found no will to be broken - only a relieved acceptance, as he passed the night beside the one he loved, and they both found a little peace.

[simstraffikcone]

I'm a simple person, I see @evignonita do a painting style piece. I want to as well.

I don't have a painting reference, I'm afraid. I just had a clear vision of how this scene goes in my little writing piece. I've been struggling to get it out of my system for an age, but evignonita's piece finally made me realise the style was off.

Version with mild blood underneath the cut

[green-fifteen]

Day 4: Harry Du Bois Gets a Clue

Prompt: Learn Fandom: Disco Elysium Pairing: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi Word count: 796 Summary: YOU - Wait, you have a boyfriend? read on AO3 instead

for @fluffyfebruary

DESK OF HARRIER DU BOIS - Spilled coffee streams down the side of your desk, drips from paperwork that is due to be processed in only a few hours. The papers are fully soaked now, however. Along with your badge and the end of your tie.

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] - There is someone standing behind you, watching the coffee spread over the floor.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Oh, nice. I was thinking your workstation was getting too neat. Only right that a fucking mess gets to wallow in his own disaster."

YOU - "You know what? This is the end for me."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Don't be an idiot. If you were going to die, you would have done it already."

YOU - "No, I really think this time is the one. Each day only brings new torment."

VOLITION - It does feel bad, but you might be exaggerating. You're already thinking about where you're going to find a mop and a cloth to clean this mess.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "No, absolutely. You're right. Just end it, Dick Mullen! It's not like your boyfriend would have anything to say about it-- then again I wouldn't put it past you to forget that when you take the shot."

LOGIC [Easy: Failure] - Boyfriend?

YOU - "Boyfriend?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I am not doing this with you, you prick. Fuck off." He strides away.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - Since you've been back from Martinaise in one piece (minus some core memories), you might have laid it on kind of thick one or two times. Things like 'Jean, help me file these reports, I don't know where anything is because I have amnesia.' and 'Jules, can you call Requisitions for me, I don't know the number because I have amnesia." You suspect, no-- you know your amnesia is getting on everyone's nerves.

EMPATHY - He's a little worried about you, anyway. That's probably why he mentioned your boyfriend.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Failure]- Wait a damn minute. Back to the boyfriend thing. Did you forget about him? Was he swept away in the flood of booze and amphetamines, along with everything else? You're getting a sick feeling in your stomach.

PERCEPTION - At that very moment, you see your partner. He just walked in from the snow, his hat peppered with snowflakes. He makes eye contact.

ELECTRO-CHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] - Your stupid heart beats a little off tempo.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success]- Kim always knows what to do. Ask Kim about this.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant comes closer, unwinding his long scarf and removing his hat. He gives you a small smile as he sits down across from you.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Good morning, detective."

YOU - "Good morning."

INLAND EMPIRE - You shouldn't rush into questioning him. Just be friendly, first.

YOU - "So, Jean said I have a boyfriend."

KIM KITSURAGI - "He did?" One eyebrow is lifted high on his face.

YOU - "I spilled my coffee all over my desk, that's why he brought it up."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Okay," he says, sounding unsure but still smiling at you. "I don't mind. I know we haven't talked about it precisely and 'boyfriend' is perhaps a tad puéril… but it's good enough for most people in relationships."

YOU - You have no idea what he's talking about.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Don't you? Don't you feel that, champ?

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] - Kim is looking at you with humor, seeming to expect you to take your time. Suddenly, it's very clear: Kim Kitsuragi is your boyfriend.

ELECTRO-CHEMISTRY [Medium: Success]- YEAH! YES! Holy shit, do you know what this means? Boyfriends make out, big dog! They do more than that. They touch each other, Harry. Tell Kim you want to touch him, right now. Maybe you can convince him to do it on your desk.

VOLITION - Do not do that. You're at work, don't embarrass yourself.

LOGIC - Your desk is covered in coffee.

DRAMA - But what if he said yes, my lord? Think of the spectacle-- the other officers would know then, wouldn't they? They would all know that Kim Kitsuragi belongs to you.

YOU - "Gah."

KIM KITSURAGI - He looks on the verge of laughter. His eyes are folded up in mirth behind his glasses.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Come over again tonight. I'm cooking."

ELECTRO-CHEMISTRY [Godly: Success]- Ask if you should bring your pajamas.

YOU - "Should I bring my pajamas?"

KIM KITSURAGI - He can't resist chuckling softly at the look on your face.

ENCYCLOPEDIA - You're certain you know the face you're making. It's a terribly fond one, with a heavy flavor of awe. You look like someone just handed you a warm puppy.

KIM KITSURAGI - "I would like that."