#Child of God WIP

[childrenofcain-if]

That one scenario where C and MC have a kid has my heart completely 😭 Can we get a follow up for that? How are things going on in the joint household? I'm also very curious to see what C would name their kid 🤭

the hershey’s kisses glinted in the late afternoon sun, crinkled foil catching the golden light that streamed in through the window. aster sat cross-legged on the sofa, a small island of contentment in the messy sprawl of school bags and discarded socks she’d left in her wake.

she was humming under her breath as she unwrapped another piece of chocolate, oblivious to the way her shoes lay in two opposite corners of the room and how her lunchbox sat precariously balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

you leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching her with the detached amusement of a parent who knows they’ll have to clean up the mess but hasn’t yet summoned the energy to do so.

C was in the armchair, one foot propped on the edge of the ottoman, clicking through their macbook with half an eye on aster. it was domesticity in its sweetest form, the kind you don’t think about when you’re young and idealistic, imagining love and family like perfect polaroids on a wall.

“did you give her those?” C asked suddenly, their voice louder than the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen.

you blinked and set your coffee down, moving closer to inspect the crumpled foil wrappers littered around aster.

“nope,” you said after a beat. “not exactly either of our flavor. that’s… what is that, cherry? we don’t have those in the house.”

C arched a brow, and without missing a beat, turned their full attention to your daughter.

“aster,” they said, voice soft but with a worried edge, “where did you get the chocolates?”

aster’s head snapped up, her chalcedony green eyes lighting up with excitement.

“felix gave them to me!” she said, her grin wide enough to show the little gap where her front tooth had fallen out last week.

C froze, their hand tightening slightly on the edge of their macbook. you, on the other hand, were far more amused.

“felix, huh?” you said, crouching slightly to meet aster’s eye level. “and who’s felix again?”

her grin grew impossibly wider as she happily declared: “my boyfriend!”

you chuckled, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “oh, really? you have a boyfriend now, kleine ster? when did this happen?”

“this morning actually!” aster exclaimed, bouncing a little on the cushions. “he gave me the chocolates at recess and said he liked me, and i said i liked him too, and now we’re boyfriend and girlfriend!”

C’s eye twitched, a muscle jumping just beneath the surface. they sat up straighter, their attention now fully honed on your seven-year-old’s revelation.

“did he now?” they said, their voice tight. “and what else did this... felix boy say?”

aster frowned, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “uh… he said i could have the last red crayon in art class.”

“generous of him,” they muttered darkly, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“C,” you said warningly, but they ignored you, leaning forward with the intense focus of someone about to conduct an interrogation.

“and does this felix… hold your hand?” they asked, their tone too casual to be actually genuine.

“sometimes,” aster admitted, her brows knitting together.

C’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “does he share his lunch with you?”

“yeah, today he gave me his oreos!”

C’s jaw twitched. you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“C,” you said again, a little louder this time. “let it go, darling. they’re just kids.”

but they were too far gone now, leaning forward as though proximity might grant them any sort of control over the situation.

“aster,” they said with all the solemnity of someone at a funeral, “you can’t have a boyfriend. you’re too young. your brain isn’t fully developed. you’ll... you’ll explode! you’ll leave your parents all alone then and it’ll make us very sad.”

aster blinked at them, unwrapping another hershey’s kiss with deliberate slowness.

“i will explode?” she asked, clearly confused by this turn of events.

you rolled your eyes. “no, you wo—”

“yes, you will,” C insisted, cutting you off. “and anyway, you’re not allowed to date anyone until you’re like 30 and paying taxes. it’s a rule.”

“that’s not a rule,” aster said with the stubborn certainty of someone who knew she was right. she really was her parents’ daughter. “and felix is a good boy.”

“‘good,’” C muttered under their breath, glaring at the imaginary felix as though he was lurking in the shadows, waiting to hand their precious little star another chocolate. “i’m going to fight this seven-year-old.”

“C!” you snapped, stepping between them and placing a hand on C’s shoulder. “calm down, my love. it’s harmless.”

C leaned back reluctantly, their gaze flicking between you and aster, who was now watching them like they’d sprouted a second head.

“fine,” they grumbled, crossing their arms over their chest.

***

after dinner, aster sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room, her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined a tiny instruction manual for building LEGOs with the intensity of someone decoding the human genome. her fingers, small but deft, picked up pieces and slotted them into place, her movements sure and deliberate.

C sat beside her, their long legs folded awkwardly beneath them, one hand bracing their bad knee. their fingers worked slower than hers, more hesitantly. the gap between them—her bright enthusiasm, their cautious quiet—was almost laughable. but C didn’t laugh.

they watched her instead.

aster had inherited their stubbornness, the precision of their thoughts, the way they spoke with certainty even when they were wrong, the hard-headed refusal to back down in the face of a challenge. but she’d also inherited your warmth, your easy charisma, the way people seemed to orbit around you like you were some kind of gravitational force.

she was both of you, but neither of you. something wholly her own. and she shone so brilliantly.

“non,” aster said suddenly, shaking her head. she spoke in a tone that was equal parts exasperated and amused, the way one might speak to a child who couldn’t quite grasp a simple concept. “that piece goes here. look.” she leaned over, plucking a flat blue brick from the pile and snapping it into place on the half-constructed spaceship.

“ah,” C said, their lips quirking into a faint smile. “of course, petite étoile. how foolish of me.”

she beamed proudly, her confidence growing with each small victory.

“it’s okay. you’re still learning,” she said magnanimously, patting their arm. honestly, it amused C greatly to see her reflect you back when you both argued everyday like your life depended on it.

C snorted, shaking their head. “merci, mademoiselle.”

“pas de problème,” she replied breezily, her accent and pronunciation impeccably like a parisian native.

C felt a pang of pride so sharp it was almost painful. french had been one of their gifts to her, a piece of their heritage they had handed down like an heirloom. and she had taken to it effortlessly, as if it had always been hers.

she slipped between languages with a grace that left C in awe, her young mind absorbing everything like a sponge.

“wat is dit?” she asked suddenly, holding up a strange piece they hadn’t encountered yet.

“hmm,” you said from where you were sprawled on the couch, your legs stretched out and a book resting on your chest. you barely looked up as you answered her in dutch, explaining what the piece was and where it might fit.

aster nodded thoughtfully, her small fingers turning the piece over as she considered its possibilities. C watched her, their heart swelling with a mixture of love and disbelief.

how could someone so small hold so much brilliance? how could she be so much more than they had ever dared to imagine for themself?

“do you think felix likes LEGOs?” aster asked suddenly, breaking their reverie. she was staring at them now, her eyes—C’s eyes, pale green and perceptive—narrowed in thought.

C felt their jaw tighten at the mention of the boy, the ghost of their earlier irritation flickering to life.

“i have no idea,” they said evenly, focusing on the spaceship.

aster tilted her head, clearly unconvinced by their tone.

“he’s nice,” she said firmly, as though this simple fact should erase all of C’s doubts.

“i’m sure he is,” C said, their tone carefully neutral.

you glanced up from your book, smirking slightly as you watched the exchange. let it go, your eyes seemed to say.

but it wasn’t that simple.

it wasn’t about this felix boy, not really. it was about aster, about the inexorable passage of time, about the impossibility of holding on to something as fragile and fleeting as childhood. she was growing up, and there was nothing C could do to stop it.

C reached for another LEGO brick, their fingers brushing against aster’s. she looked up at them, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“tu vas bien?” she asked, her voice soft and earnest.

the question caught them off guard. for a moment, they didn’t know how to respond. how could they explain the tangled mess of emotions that had been simmering inside them all day? how could they tell her that the thought of her growing up terrified them in a way they couldn’t quite articulate?

“i’m fine, petite étoile,” they said eventually, forcing a smile. “just tired.”

she seemed to accept this, turning her attention back to the spaceship. but C couldn’t help noticing the small furrow in her brow, the way her hands moved more slowly now, as if she was trying to puzzle something out.

they watched her in silence, their heart aching with a strange, bittersweet kind of love.

***

later, when the spaceship was complete and aster had been tucked into bed, C found themself sitting on the edge of your shared bed, their head in their hands.

“okay,” you said, sitting beside them. “do you want to talk about what exactly is bothering you, my love?”

they sighed, looking up at you now.

“it’s just… strange,” they said, their voice low and tired. “she’s growing up so fast. too fast. i feel like i blinked, and suddenly she’s not my little girl anymore.”

you stayed quiet, letting them find the words.

“i still remember holding her in my arms for the first time,” they continued, their voice thick with emotion. “i remember her first steps, her first word, the first time she looked at me and called out for me. and now… now she’s talking about boyfriends and whatnot.”

they let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through their hair. “i didn’t have this. a proper childhood. a father who cared. i don’t know what i’m doing half the time. i just… i look at her, and i love her so much it terrifies me. so much so that i still don’t understand how my father could—”

“hey,” you interrupted gently, placing a hand on their arm. “you’re nothing like him. you’re such a wonderful parent, C. she loves you so much. you can see it every time she looks at you. and yeah, it’s hard watching her grow up. but that’s the deal. you love them, and you let them go, little by little, so they can become who they’re meant to be.”

C nodded slowly, their eyes softening as they looked at you. “i know you’re right.”

you leaned in, pressing a kiss to their temple. “of course i’m right, i always am.”

they rolled their eyes, but a small, tired smile tugged at the corners of their mouth.

“do you think…” they hesitated, the tips of their ears turning adorably red. “do you think we should have another one?”

“another what?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

they scowled, burying their face in your neck.

“you know what i mean,” they mumbled, their voice muffled. “don’t make me say it out loud.”

you laughed, stroking their hair. “we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

but you already knew the answer.

[visceravalentines]

a different kind of hang-up

Randy's mom calls while they're in the middle of something, again. Benson tries his best to get Randy off the phone.

2.6k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. blowjobs. smoking. Benson being a menace lol he can't handle not being the center of Randy's attention. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

Benson just can't keep his hands off him, even when his mom calls.

The phone rings for so long, so long, before Randy can get to it. The second it starts up Benson recognizes the ringtone and tightens his grip on Randy's hips, sags on top of him with his full weight. He pushes his tongue into his mouth with intentional fervor because he likes fucking around with fire and Mrs. Bradley is a five-alarm inferno.

Randy makes a panicked sound and tries to wriggle free to no avail. He taps Benson's chest, but Benson takes the hint and throws it away unopened, snags Randy’s wrist and pins it to the bed.

Randy twists his arm out of his grip and gives him a shove, leans his head away. "Benson–please–I gotta get this." He makes a grab for the phone on the nightstand.

"You really don't," Benson murmurs, taking hold of his jaw with one big hand and pulling his lips back into range.

Randy lets out a frustrated grunt that gets lost in Benson's mouth and shoves him again, harder, with both hands and a knee for good measure. Benson relents, topples lazily to the side and gives him this goofy, satisfied smirk that makes Randy’s stomach do a flip and he just can't deal with that right now.

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he complains as he sits up and snatches the phone.

"Aw." Benson stretches like a cat, folds his arms behind his head, all ribs and armpit hair and lean lines of muscle. "Now wouldn't that be a shame."

"Hi Mom," Randy says, hoping he sounds perfectly even-keeled and normal and not like he's been rolling around with another man in a motel bed. He remembers his erection at that moment, the worst possible moment, and blushes so hard he can feel the blood trading places. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his lap like she can see through the phone.

"Randy, I don't like this." His mom starts every conversation like this these days. 

Randy bites back a sigh. "I know, Mom."

"This isn't a normal thing. Friends don't ask friends to help them move across the country last-minute without a plan."

They've been through this so many times he's lost count. At least his story gets more solid every time he repeats it. "I told you, Brian doesn't have a support system. I'm just trying to do a good deed." Brian is Benson, because Benson can't be Benson, because Benson is wanted for murder. 

Randy feels the mattress shift behind him and stiffens when calloused fingers brush against his skin. His mother's list of grievances fades in his ears as Benson worries at the waistband of his jeans. 

"Randy," Benson sing-songs softly at his hip. "Tell her you're in the middle of something."

Randy waves him away, tries to ignore the scratch of his beard and his lips on his skin and tune back into the conversation at hand. "You’re a kind and responsible boy, honey, people will take advantage of that." 

"I understand, Mom, but I'm–"

He feels the pinch of teeth on his waist, jerks and bites back a yelp. 

His mother is alarmed. "Randy? Are you okay? What happened?"

Randy scoots down the bed away from Benson, shoots him a dirty look. Benson rolls onto his back, runs a hand through his hair and flashes Randy an upside-down grin. 

"I'm fine, Mom. Stubbed my toe."

"Sorry," Benson says innocently. "You look fucking delicious, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Are you walking around barefoot? I raised you better than that, Randy. Where are you even walking, aren't you still driving?"

"Yeah, we just–we stopped to grab some food and…stretch our legs a little bit." 

Benson sits up suddenly and Randy flinches in anticipatory distress before he even speaks. "We can stretch something else if you want," Benson offers with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Randy grits his teeth and ignores him, picks frantically at the seam of the pillow in his lap. 

"I bet you're eating like absolute garbage. All that fast food isn't good for your long-term health, you know. God knows you had plenty of that at–well. God knows you've had plenty of that." 

She clears her throat, recovers from the near-miss of mentioning the incident. The new incident. She’s had years of practice at sidestepping the elephant in the room, but nobody’s perfect, and this is a much bigger elephant. Randy has to admit that it's convenient, not having to dodge questions because they aren't being asked. 

"Where are you now?" she says by way of a subject change.

Benson crawls across the mattress on his knees and winds his arms around Randy’s waist, leans heavy against his back and sets his chin on his shoulder. He smells like sweat and nicotine. Randy grips the pillow like a lifeline. 

"We're, um…well, I think we're–"

He knows where they are. He knows exactly where they are. Eighteen miles outside of Glasgow, Kentucky. He knows where they're supposed to be, too, according to the fake route he mapped to sate his mother's anxious curiosity. He just can't quite remember what he told her last time, because his brain's still sloshing around in oxytocin and Benson’s kissing his neck, rubbing his chest, thumb catching on his nipple again and again. 

"I-I think we're about 40 miles from Benson," he says loudly, as though the volume adds certainty. 

"Benson?" his mom repeats, sounding alarmed, and Benson chuckles in his ear. 

"Careful," he mutters. 

"Branson!" Randy elbows Benson off of him and stands up, stumbles away from the bed. "I meant Branson. Sorry, I fuc–I messed up." He cringes.

Benson laughs, delighted. "Randy Bradley," he says in a mockery of Mrs. Bradley’s disapproving tone. 

"Randy Bradley," his mom says like an echo. "Watch your language." 

"Sorry. I’m sorry." Randy stalks away, pacing the length of the tiny room, shooting Benson a look of combined irritation and desperation that ultimately reads as pain. "It’s been–I didn’t sleep well last night." 

"You gonna tell her why?" Benson asks slyly.  

Randy flushes red hot, throws the pillow in his direction and misses by a mile. 

Benson winces. "Yikes, babe." 

He flops on his stomach and reaches for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. His back is crosshatched with pink scratches, a familiar set of eight nail marks etched into his love handles. Randy feels a detached sense of something like pride in spite of himself. 

"We gotta work on your aim. Tone up those arms." Benson makes a jerk-off motion to help paint the picture. 

Randy drags a hand across his face. His brain is fraying at the seams. "You can’t smoke in here," he mouths at Benson, who looks him dead in the eye as he lights up and smiles around the cigarette. 

His mother is waxing vitriolic about the dangers of sleep aids. Randy heaves a harried sigh. "No, Mom, that’s–I don’t even know where to get benzos." 

"I do," Benson says helpfully. Randy shakes his head. Benson apparently takes this as an expression of doubt rather than exasperation. "I do," he insists. 

"So how many more days until you get to San Diego, hmm?" his mom says. "You’re not making very good time, honey. Just because you don’t have a job to come back to doesn’t mean you can just roam the countryside like some deadbeat hippie." 

"I know, Mom. It–it’s about the journey." 

"Fuck yeah it is," Benson agrees. 

"Brian’s never been out of Louisiana and neither have I, so we’re…we’re just seeing the sights together." 

"And how long will you be seeing the sights?" 

Randy leans against the wall, knocks his head back against the plaster. "I guess…I don't know. I’ll keep you posted, but…we’re not really on a schedule." 

Benson gets up from the bed and pads over. He invites himself into Randy’s space, boxes him in against the wall, touches his face, touches his ribs. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he looks him up and down. 

Randy can feel his own heart thudding in his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his body and its proximity to Benson’s. It’s Pavlovian, almost, the way he draws him in like that. Derails his thought process like a punch to the gut.

"So what, this road trip just goes on forever?" 

"No, Mom." Benson hooks his fingers into Randy’s waistband. Randy meets his gaze, kind of forgets what he was saying. "Just, uh…just until we get to California, and then…and then back again." 

Benson takes another drag and exhales slow, opens his mouth and lets the smoke curl up and out. Randy breathes it in on reflex. His mouth waters. 

"Hang up the phone," Benson murmurs. His dark eyes are on fire. 

"It–I–I’ll be home before you know it," Randy says. 

Benson leans in and sideswipes Randy’s jaw with his chin, worries at his earlobe with teeth and tongue. "Randy." His voice is gravel and satin. The cigarette glows between his fingers in Randy’s periphery. He reaches further into his pants. "Hang up the phone," he whispers. 

"I hate to say it, but I just don’t believe you, Randy," his mom says. Her voice drips with disapproval, cold around a core of genuine concern. He knows she’s biting back so much more that she’d like to say, and he loves her for that. For trying to give him an inch even though he’s taking miles and miles. 

"I promise I’m okay, Mom," he says, tilting his hips towards Benson, who puts the cigarette between his lips and starts unbuttoning Randy’s jeans. "I would tell you if I wasn’t. I just…this is just something I need to do. Something I–I want to do." 

Benson catches his eye, winks at him. "Hang up," he mouths as he sinks to his knees. 

"Randy," his mom sighs. He closes his eyes and can picture her shaking her head. "I just worry about you, sweetheart." 

Benson’s pushing his shirt up and tugging his pants down and dragging his tongue up the ridge of his hip. Randy can feel the heat on his waist from the cherry between his fingers. In another life, that would scare him so bad it'd make him sick, the chance of getting burned. He feels differently about it now. Knows Benson won't hurt him, not without cause. Knows he could take it if he did. There’s something seductive about that, the power of that. The trust.

Of course, Benson’s hand on his ass and spit on his skin count for something too.

"Randy? Are you there?"

"Yeah…yeah. Sorry. I know that, Mom, I know you worry," he says. "And I’m sorry about that." 

It sounds hollow, even to himself, but he means it. He wishes it was different. That he didn’t have to lie. But that’s not an option, not for Benson, and he can’t be without him. They’re a package deal now and he likes it that way. Wants it that way. Wants him.

"Please, baby," Benson mumbles against Randy’s stomach. He sounds as desperate as Randy feels.

He bites his lip, combs his fingers through Benson’s greasy hair. "I gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you at the next stop." 

"Promise me." 

Benson takes one last drag on his cigarette before he holds it up for Randy to take. He blows soft and slow along the length of Randy’s dick, runs his hand down the back of his leg. 

The smoke wafts up to his nose and Randy white-knuckles the phone. He’s so hard he can’t think, can’t possibly wring one more coherent sentence out of his lust-addled brain. "Yeah, I–I promise, Mom. I love you." 

"I love you, honey." 

Randy ends the call and throws the phone in the direction of the bed. He misses again, dimly registers the thunk as it hits the wall. 

"Fuck, Benson," he breathes at the same time Benson says, "Fucking finally," and wraps his mouth around him. Randy groans and slumps against the wall, lets Benson pull his hips closer. He likes being put where he wants him. 

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he says again, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He needs it bad after all that. He thinks he can taste Benson’s spit in the filter and he closes his eyes, lets his brain go blank. 

Benson comes off his cock with a pop and looks up at him. "But I always get you back out, right?" His tongue slides in circles. 

It's miraculous every time he does this, puts his mouth on him like this. Randy's wished for a miracle for a long time. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but who is he to turn it down, with its long lashes and bad language and hands all over him all the time?

"S-so far so good." 

Randy takes another drag, feels the high sweep up and over him. It makes him dizzy, makes him giddy. Erases any guilt about lying to his mother and makes him feel good, better than ever, or maybe that’s the man on his knees in front of him. 

Benson tilts his head, takes him in. "You’re hot when you smoke, by the way." 

Randy chuckles weakly. "Yeah?" He doesn’t do it, not often, usually can’t let go of the voice in his head screaming cancer. But Benson showed him how and he doesn’t cough anymore and in fact, he likes it more every time he tries it. "My mom would lose her mind." 

Benson pulls a wry face. "About the smoking, huh? Just the smoking?"

Randy smiles shyly. "Maybe some other stuff too."

"What can she say, she raised a fucking degenerate. And I, for one, am glad she did." 

With that, Benson decides the conversation is over and puts his mouth to better use. Randy gasps and moans as he takes him slow, inch by inch, hot and wet and relentless. 

He braces himself against the wall. He can barely stand, legs already shaking. Benson’s always telling him he’s easy, and he can’t tell if that’s supposed to be good or bad, but either way, he likes being the way he is. Benson’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass and hit a bruise, sending a sharp thrum of that off-key pleasure straight to his dick. Benson might be right. He might be a degenerate.

He flicks the cigarette butt into the nearby sink and makes it, which is lucky. Maybe his aim isn't that bad after all. Benson has him down his throat to the hilt, which is also lucky. He knows that someday their luck might run out, like gas, like cigarettes, like his mother’s patience, but it sure doesn’t feel like it, not now.

Randy puts his hands on him carefully, the way he showed him, cups his skull and scrunches his hair gently like he's precious, because he is. Benson makes a sound that strikes at his core and he almost loses it right then, but he doesn’t. Not yet. For a second he thinks about miracles, and then he can’t think about much of anything anymore. 

The list of things he can't mention when his mother calls gets a little bit longer. 

[pearlywritings]

To all the Childe kissers, I need your help

If you remember my Sometimes the name doesn't matter fic (part 1 and part 2 here), I am now writing the third part with the characters who won this poll in March.

I am already done with Wrio, Neuvi and Pantalone, but can't come up with the fitting idea for Childe (my imagination said bye-bye and made me feel like I exploited all the possible concepts and I don't really want to use the same one twice).

So, if you have any ideas for the gingerhead, his wife and how it's cooler that she is not 'Name' but specifically his 'wife' kind of scenario... I'd love to hear those.

[blackknight-100]

Finally got around to writing the Apollo fic I'd planned on. The lore is long and convoluted, but I'm in too deep, and this is probably about to become a series.

Anyway, here's an excerpt:

“Oh dear,” the voice coos, resonant and girlishly gentle. “Hera will not touch you here.” It is a pitiful reassurance. There are few who can truly stop her, and none who would do so, not even Zeus. Especially not Zeus. Not when he is father and infidel all at once, a lover to a titan and a traitor to his wife. “You do not need Zeus. I am here.” “He sent Boreas to help me,” Leto says, outraged and defensive, still in love. The island laughs. It is a bitter thing, born of sorrow and hysteria. Leto puts her hand over her swelling belly, frightened at the change. “Oh sister,” it croons again, “do you not know?” Know what? Leto knows nothing, has known nothing save rejection and pain, and miles and miles of land passing beneath her weary feet, none of it a place to rest. The wrongness itches in her head, harder to ignore. The air congeals, choking her; a face emerges – as familiar as her own. The woman bends towards her, titaness and island all at once. Her skin, dark as Nyx’s dread night, is dotted with stars, her eyes glow bright and cold. Leto gapes, horrified. “Asteria…?” “She comes.” Asteria touches her chest and Leto wakes up gasping.

[karamellisokeri]

Dislyte dump (August 24)

Basically everything i did this month excluding some that already have their own post. Im grinding alot more for merch its so 💀💀😭😭 ion like doing chibi LOL anyway more characters coming soon, i just need finish those to print some sample

Also i was like, damn i need to draw more chu yao, but i realized now i draw him alot

[zepskies]

About Dark Angel...

Not me already falling for Alec's smart-dumbass. 😭

Like because of his training and genetics he's highly intelligent, but he's also reckless and cocky and ughhhh I just wanna smush his face. 🤣❤️‍🔥

And kinda want to write something for him now...

(fuq!! Yet another WIP in my brain. 🤪)

[m--rtyr]

Now all I can think of is Aaron x laurance

y'know what's funny about that....

i finished the tats on the drawing (+gave aar more piercings)

i love your laur design btw

[yusupunk]

face reveal

[inquisimer]

Mer please tell me about your Isseya fix-it wip 🥺👉👈 (if someone already asked about that one though, I am also intrigued by "A shadow across the window"👀)

Ask me about my WIPs!

Your ask caught me right in the middle of rambling about the Isseya wip, it was just taking me a hot second to answer because I'm insane about her and those characters, as you know 😭 rambling about that wip in this post here (beware spoilers for Davrin's Veilguard arc, ofc)

"A shadow across the window..." is the start of a oneshot I'm writing about Arlow's recruitment into the Crows >:] aka, how one (1) paranoid poison freak thought a gremlin child was sent to assassinate him, then thought he was going to use her to become a Talon, and accidentally adopted her instead

Undoing the latch, he pushed the glass outward, immediately followed by the mirror. It caught the sunlight, first, and then as he tilted it, something more useful. A child? Offense washed through him. Newly named Grandmaster, and the best his rivals spared to take him out was a child? Her brown feet were bare and badly scraped under the layer of grime and dust. An ill-fitting tunic, full of holes and fraying threads, hung past her knees. As he tilted the mirror up to her face, he saw her knuckles in a death grip on the roof’s edge, red-brown hair in knotted braids around her pointed ears, and a throwing dagger clamped in her teeth. He almost relaxed. Even the more conniving of his rivals would not send a child in such a state, with a single throwing dagger, to assassinate a man on track to become a Talon. If she was a Crow, she had been sent here to die.

[childrenofcain-if]

As amazing C and MC's rivalry is, I can't stop thinking about how competitive Elias would be during events where parents had to attend, say something swimming related. I can imagine him yelling and being the biggest supporter while beefing with C's mom 🤣🤣😂

the natatorium’s air was sticky with chlorine and nervous energy, the sound of splashing water punctuated by the muffled echo of parents yelling over each other.

it smelled like bleach and snack bar nachos, a sensory combination that left you feeling vaguely ill. parents packed the bleachers, cramming into rows with territorial elbows and passive-aggressive blanket spreads, while the kids—most of them wiry and shivering—fidgeted in clusters by the pool, nervously adjusting their swim caps.

you sat on the bleachers, clutching the strap of your goggles, trying to tune out the background noise of overzealous parents and the faint, taut laughter of kids waiting for their turns. beside you, C was idly tapping their foot against the concrete, exuding the kind of nonchalant cool that set your teeth on edge.

“don’t think too hard about it,” C said, not looking at you. “overthinking leads to choking. you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of all these people.”

“thanks for the pep talk,” you shot back, trying to ignore the way your stomach was twisting itself into knots.

“anytime,” C replied, smug and effortless.

it wasn’t fair how calm they were right now. even with their dark brown hair clinging to their forehead and a bruise-like shadow of exhaustion under their eyes, they looked quite nonchalant and uncaring. like they belonged here in a way you didn’t, even if you were the one with better times in practice.

a sharp voice cut through the din, rising above the clash of sound.

“let’s go, kiddo!”

your father. of course.

everyone else was sitting politely in their spots, clapping politely at the polite intervals. elias stood at the edge of the bleachers, one hand gripping the metal railing like he might vault over it at any second, the other cupped around his mouth to amplify his already too-loud voice.

“that’s my little shark!” he bellowed, even though you weren’t even in the water yet. you were still waiting for your event, seated with your teammates and trying to disappear into the bench. “you show them how it’s done! this pool’s your kingdom!”

“he looks like he’s going to start swimming himself,” C said, tilting their head toward the commotion.

“at least he cares,” you muttered, though you could feel your face heating up.

C opened their mouth to retort, but another voice joined the fray—low and scornful, with a faint french accent curling around the edges.

“perhaps if you let the professionals handle it, monsieur, your child wouldn’t be embarrassed before the race has even begun.”

your head snapped around in time to see her: louise lecomte, her presence as cutting as her cheekbones, arms crossed and expression caught between disdain and amusement. she stood out even in the chaotic crowd, her elegance unruffled despite the humid air and cacophony of shouting parents.

elias straightened immediately, his face twisting into a theatrical scowl. “my kid’s going to wipe the floor with the competition. don’t worry about us, ms. lecomte. maybe worry about yours keeping up.”

louise’s smile was razor-thin. “ah, yes. because nothing says good parenting like living vicariously through your child’s achievements.”

“better than showing up just to critique everyone else,” elias shot back, his voice rising enough to turn heads.

“i am here to support my child, not treat this event as a proxy war,��� louise said smoothly, though her chalcedony green eyes flashed.

you sank lower on the bleachers, wishing you could evaporate into the chlorine-soaked air. beside you, C snorted. “your dad’s really going for it, huh?”

“shut up,” you hissed, yanking your goggles over your head.

“he’s not wrong, though,” C continued, their voice maddeningly even. “i’m probably not going to place. swimming has never really been my thing.”

“then why are you even here?”

they shrugged, leaning back and stretching their arms over the bench. “extra credits.”

you could barely suppress your eye roll. honestly, you weren’t even surprised at their answer.

still, they weren’t the one with their father breathing down their neck like some vicarious olympian, shouting encouragement loud enough to drown out the starter’s whistle.

“first heat up!” the announcer called, and you rose to your feet, every muscle in your body taut with tension.

***

the water was a sanctuary and a battlefield. the moment you dove in, the noise from the stands dissolved into a muffled roar, your world narrowing to the lane lines and the rhythm of your strokes.

kick, pull, breathe. over and over, until the rest of it fell away—the pressure, the crowd, the looming figure of your father yelling incoherently.

you swam like something primal, something desperate. when you hit the wall at the end, your lungs burning, you looked up at the scoreboard and saw your name in gold.

***

elias’s cheer was deafening, his voice cutting through the applause. he was practically leaping over the railings, shouting your name like it was a victory chant. you wanted to be proud—you were proud—but mostly you just wanted him to sit down.

C finished a few heats later, their time decent but not medal-worthy. they climbed out of the pool without much ceremony, shrugging a towel over their shoulders like they hadn’t just faced a crowd of hundreds.

“congrats,” they said to you, their voice light but edged with something unreadable.

“thanks,” you replied, unsure if you were being mocked or not.

***

by the time you were leaving the building, the crowd thinning as families trickled out into the cold evening, louise intercepted you and your father. she was still impeccably put together, her scarf draped artfully around her neck, her balenciaga coat fitting her completely.

“congratulations,” she said, her tone warm but her eyes fixed on elias. “you must be so proud, monsieur. though i suppose modesty was never your strong suit.”

elias bristled immediately. “some of us don’t need to be modest when our kids win gold, ms. lecomte.”

you wanted to sink into the floor.

louise laughed lightly, the kind of laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “oh, elias. always a little too loud. it’s a good thing that your kid clearly inherited their good traits from their mother.”

she turned to you then, her gaze softening slightly. “well done,” she said, and for a moment, her smile felt real.

“thank you,” you mumbled, glancing at C, who was leaning against the wall, watching the exchange with visible annoyance.

“come on, C,” louise said, tossing her scarf over her shoulder. “we’ve had enough of this circus.”

“yeah, yeah, maman,” C replied, sauntering past you with an infuriatingly smug expression. they stuck their tongue out at you as they passed.

before you could react, they were gone, trailing behind louise like a shadow.

elias huffed beside you, crossing his arms. “unbelievable woman.”

“you’re both ridiculous,” you muttered, already walking ahead. “i was beginning to wonder who were the middle schoolers and who were the adults.”

while elias huffed playfully, there was a flicker of warmth in your chest that you couldn’t ignore. as mortifying as he was, as obnoxious as his volume and his competitive streak could be, there was no denying it: your father loved you loudly, shamelessly, with his whole being.

and maybe, as you let him ruffle your hair despite your indignant protests, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

[cheezyhamster]

Mmmmmmagazine

I was thinking about @yumiiyummech’s fic for WENDY and I doodled what I kind of imagine the media was like around WENDY (idk if I’m explaining right 😢)

totally non-canon I just had a vision

ignore how bad the quality is uhh I had a big canvas and drew in a tiny corner of it

If the clothing is weird idk I don’t know anything about fashion or fashion magazines (I had to look up references for half an hour)

I’d imagine that the “secret to captivating smiles” would just be a segment where WENDY yaps about thinking about her loving parents making her happy or something and everyone’s like “aww what a sweet innocent girl”

[asapostapocalypseif]

I'd rather starve myself than let my kid go hungry. Thank you for adding the option to have a little sibling, I'm so soft when it comes to children in games 🤧

There's two types of people:

• Anon, who takes care of the sibling

•My friends, who have the poor child on starving constantly,,,psksossk

[til-further-notices]

🥺🥺🥺............😫🤧

[megarywrites]

from The Silent Shore, the first book of the Seafoam trilogy

↳ Part II — Split | Ch14 — In Broad Daylight [excerpt below] [Part I] [Part III]

All was still—the air itself was taut in anticipation of…well, I wasn’t sure quite what. His mouth fell open, and from it spilled a lilting, strung-together chant of what I could only assume was the Old Tongue. The very same that he had spoken over Ma and Sosta’s consecrated union. His chanting flowed like the Smara beneath him, rapid and ever-changing. Faster and faster until all at once, his voice severed and he staggered back as if he had been struck.  At the very same instant, daylight poured into the auditorium, his robes gleaming in the light.  A chill slithered up my back and down my limbs as gasps peppered the air.  The Diamo’s eyes flew open, his mouth still parted with the prayer or platitude that he never finished as he stepped forward, reaching for the light with an awed smile. “He’s here,” he breathed out, blinking slowly as he tore his enraptured attention away from the sunlight to survey the excited crowd.  A sharply cut-off hiss wrenched my gaze away from the spectacle and brought it back to Solera, who had stepped up, solemnly carrying the pitcher before her as she followed the curve of the dais to head toward where the Diamo stood waiting, his face still upturned. I jumped to follow her, holding the bowl before me now. From the other side of the auditorium, two Dromas approached, carrying between them a low table that they set before the Diamo when we were mere steps away.  Solera stepped aside as the Dromas retreated from the sunlight, scurrying around to retake their seats on the right side of the auditorium. I took a hesitant step forward, setting the bowl before the Diamo in the pool of daylight. The reflected light bounced off of each hammered dimple, dazzling me until I stepped back and out of its reach so that Solera could fill it with the Smara’s water. As she poured it in, it was as if the bowl was being filled with liquid sunlight. It was so bright that I had to squint and step back even further to be out of reach of the glittering, eye-stabbing brightness.  When she moved away, the Diamo dipped his cupped palm into the sparkling water, letting it dribble unchecked down his arm as he lifted his hand again, the water spilling out from both sides. His reverential breathing out of Isolios’ name was the only word I recognized as he began to speak again, slipping back into chanting a prayer in the ancient language—starting from a whisper as Solera touched my arm with her free hand and nodded back toward the way we had approached from and crescendoing into a sonorous invocation that filled the room as we settled back along the wall. Light was pouring in from every angle in the auditorium, the glass floor framing the Smara beginning to glow with Isolios’ intensity. The walls groaned, the floorboards creaked, and the stained glass windows trembled as the sunlight within the auditorium swelled. The Diamo was quickly consumed by the light, completely cut off from view, though his desperate, pleading voice was still clamoring with the cacophony of rumbles and rattles filling the room.  Something in my chest was constricting—the breaths I was trying to take in didn’t sustain me. Isolios? Was this truly his presence? Maybe he had entered me, entered all of us, just at the Diamo’s beckoning. Pinpricks of light danced at the edges of my vision as the room began to spin.  He was really here. I could feel him. Genuinely feel him. I wanted to laugh, and maybe I did. I could feel the joy bubbling out of me. I couldn’t help myself, but— Something sharp pinched my arm, and the euphoria thrumming within me abruptly ebbed, leaving me lethargic. Hollow. 

[venusinmyrrh]

working title: carpe carnem

after a catastrophic blood sacrifice nearly claims the life of béa's best friend stephen, the brotherhood of the scepter of light is in shambles, and she has a mind to let it crumble. but the powers that be are unwilling to let its history end, and soon simon lovelace arrives, with orders to reform the brotherhood no matter the cost. after all, the past has power— and no matter how much béa tries to leave hers behind, it won’t be ignored.

“bow your head in the house of god, little girl, who do you think you are?”

[orion-lacroix]

*Throw you the prologue chapter of my main WIP and runs away to disappear for a few more weeks because work*

Prologue :

And the sun rises on a battlefield that never was

Warnings: mentioned manipulations, betting with someone's soul

Something stand. There are what looks like thousands of books scattered around him, past present and future all blending to one signle moment sfrozen. He would call himself a god, many would too for that is what they had met him as, for what they had seen of him. One of his many eyes floating around was fixed on the sleeping form of his twin. Careful of any movement that could indicate that he was waking up after all this time. 

In front of him a piece of parchment was floating, names flowing from top to bottom in an endless blur, none really drawing his attention the way he had all those years ago. He stops the list finally getting bored and glances at it, only for a moment, and that's when he sees the name. Such a tiny drop of water in an infinite ocean and yet he recognize that name, the ties it hold to his own past. The temptation was just too big, he had to try something to get that soul to bend to his will. If he could simply sway them with charm or if nobody was opposing him it would not be fun, but his brother and him had always been fond of games, neither had won the last soul they played against, he, had found a loophole and evaded them.

He made his decision, weaving fate togethers as skillfully as he could, mending pieces of fate together without drawing the attention of more powerful things. If the games between his brother and him were to start once more it would be such a delight to see what they could do.

The shape of his twin started to stir and he felt thin skin, foreign body encapsulating his soul, stretch in a violent smile, but he simply adressed his brother in a tone they both knew, void of any emotions. This time they would be on the two sides of the chessboard once again working together, yet against each other. It was promising to be interesting.

"It seems, dear brother that it is time for us to play once more..." There was an underlying promise in his words, a promise of blood and violence and moreover of fun.

A distant chuckle echoed from the form of his brother, filled with chaos and a taste for inflicting pain.

It was time to make the first move and see what the other does.

This was promising to be highly interesting and the god wondered if he should go gloat in Ambrosius's face once more for changing the rules, if he could win his soul too it would be more than delightful.

Guess who's working the same schedule even though it's the holidays yaayyy me I'm working Christmas eve and Christmas and new year... I volonteered... what was I thinking?