#Completely unedited

[somerandomcryptid]

Does anyone want almost 1k words of unedited, unfinished dod!cryptid and quackity being their toxic dynamic?

No?

Too bad

Warnings include: Mentioned child abuse, and implied underage drinking, also Q being a condescending dick

Also just going to say it here: Dreaming of death is an au of the fic Penpal by @calamari-minecraft-corner

Anyway enjoy :)

It was routine these days. And throwing an ender pearl through Quackity’s window no longer felt scary. They would prefer to just walk through the building like a normal person, especially given that they were a regular face in Las Nevadas now. But Q refused to give them a key. Like the dickhead he was.

This time they almost didn't make it and had to haul themselves up a little.

“Having fun?” The wingless man asked, doing absolutely nothing to help pull them up from where they were hanging 4 stories up.

“What do think assh-” they were cut off as they fell to Quackity’s floor with a thud. Quackity chuckled. And they pushed themselves up enough to glare at his smug ass face mixing a drink like 6 feet from them. “You couldn't have helped?”

“I never asked you to come bother me every other night.” They scoff at that. Before standing up fully and leaning on the counter next to him.

“Surreeee. Like you don't need my visits way more than I do.” It was Quackity’s turn to scoff now.

“Then why do you keep coming?”

“I get alcohol and piss off my- Dream and Punz.” They correct themself but Q has this annoying habit of always pointing out stupid shit like that.

“Awfully possessive of people you hate.” It wasn't teasing. It never felt teasing. It was just.. judgy.

“I’m not fuckin’- I’m not calling them mine. I- I was going to call them.. something else ok?” Quackity scoffed at their defense, pouring a peachy liquid from that alcohol shaker thing into two cocktail glasses. And responding without even looking up at them.

“Then what were you going to call them? Your friends? Your brothers? Your family? God. I can't believe Dream still has you on that family bullshit.” He pushes one of the cocktail glasses over to them uttering a quick “Here drink.” Before going back on his rant. They sipped the drink with a roll of their eyes. They knew by now it wasn't ever poison. And they would interrupt, but that usually just prolonged these rant sessions. “When are you going to get it through your head that he doesn't care about you. I don't know why you even still live with those assholes.” Quackity ended in a grumble, before finally shutting up to take a sip of his drink.

“Free living.”

“Already offered that to you in Las Nevadas.”

“Have you maybe considered that I actually like the people I live with beyond my abusers?” It still felt so wrong to refer to them like that. But what they did was abuse. And Quackity was always a bit more.. workable with when they acknowledged that fact.

Of course it didn't help much. He still scoffed at their words. He almost always did. Unless they were agreeing with him. Just another one of the things that made them hate him.

“They're bad people too! If you weren't an oblivious child,” they almost snarled at that, but kept it back. “Then I would be condemning right along with everyone living there. I mean Phil’s a terrorist, Wren fucking supports Dream still, even after his abuse of you, Wilbur’s a manipulative two faced prick, Schlatt is an abusive power hungry alcoholic bastard,” that one was spit with particular venom. “and don't even get me started on Techno. Just because they're “nice” to you doesn't mean they're good pe-”

“You tortured a guy for months. How the fuck is that good? How can you call yourself a good person?” The words slip out through gritted teeth no matter how hard they try to force them down. Quackity falls silent for a few blissful seconds as he glares at them.

“I had reasons.” He too was speaking through gritted teeth. The words made them scoff.

“Selfish ones.” They mutter, looking down at their feet. The second they hear Quackity put his glass down they know they’re getting an earful. Him sighing heavily only increases the dread in their gut.

“He's a monster. And his actions towards you prove it even more. I don't get how you someone who has literally experienced his cruelty can't see how fucked up he is.” Quackity’s tone is scolding. It always is. Just like Sam’s, just like Punz’s, just like Dream’s. They hate acknowledging the pattern.

“Q. You’ve given me the speech before. I know your feelings on the matter.” Their voice is as level as they can manage, which is to say, mildly annoyed. They can practically feel how he prickles despite not being touching or looking at him.

“Clearly you don't understand me though.. or reason.” He mutters bitterly as he raises his glass to his lips again. They force themself to not snap at the jab.

In fact, they force themself to stay silent for once. And instead let the taste of sweet alcohol almost calm them. Almost.

Eventually Quackity sighs, and they glance over at him. His gaze has softened. At least a bit. And his eyes trace the plains of their face.

“I shouldn't be blaming you for being without reason. You're a kid who's been living with literal psychopaths.” Their fingers twitched with the urge to correct him. Or maybe punch him in the face.

They knew he willed himself to not strangle them because they were a “kid”. And they knew that if they were an adult, he would hate their guts, and probably have killed them. They hate that their age is the reason he doesn't.

“But it's a bit hard not to when you just. Won’t acknowledge what is so obviously in front of you.” He added with a chuckle that was clearly just to mask the hatred behind the words.

-

Yeh sorry, tis unfinished but I'm on 2% battery and don't feel like I'll continue later

[sleepywww]

[anyaxbill]

Anya Taylor-Joy via her IG getting ready for Dior Cruise 2025 in Scotland June 3rd 2024 [unedited+]

[pontevoix]

shitty  headcanons  |  benedicteggs  helicopter

starts  grease  fires!!  then  he  blames  it  on  someone  else!!  really  good  at  disappearing  from  the  scene  of  the  crime.  don't  trust  him!!!

really  loves  peptobismol  he  has  a  shelf  dedicated  to  it 

he  honestly?  has  a  fair  amount  of  handy  knowledge.  he  can't  be  trusted  with  grease  fires  but  understanding  the  logic  of  some  machines  &  engines  &  trinkets  comes  easily  to  him.  his  father  did  somework  as  a  handiman,  &  birdegg  took  from  that.

honestly  really  good  teamplayer  &  deeply  does  not  like  teamsports!!  your  team  is  stupid!!

he  regulates  his  environment  really  well  but  he'll  only  cut  his  hair  when  someone  else  reminds  him  it  needs  doing 

his  memory  is  stupid  good.  his  sensory  memory  is  even  better.  he  has  a  tendency  to  remember  details  of  sounds  &  textures  &  temperatures.  he  feels  it  viscerally  when  he  thinks  too  hard  on  it

he's  not  a  big  talker  in  general.  but  genuinely  he  figured  the  less  he  talked,  the  less  risk  he  had  of  accidentally  saying  something  inconsistent  with  paradis.  he  talks  more  freely  around  people  he  knows,  but  he  rarely  talks  about  himself

modern  day  has  a  horoscope  app  on  his  phone.  he  doesn't  believe  in  it,  but  he  has  it  so  he  can  tell  you  he  doesn't  believe  in  it 

he  keeps  buying  pants  that  are  too  short  for  his  ankles  :( 

taller  than  u 

[my-life-is-a-bad-sitcom]

I am fighting in ways very small, unnoticeable to those so tall. Caught up in castles and revolutions ignore my restitution. My body back to my soul as I scream and cry, because I will be alive. I will show you each word that marks my skin as I treat the world as kin. Those words burned in by people good at heart but also strangely good at throwing darts. I will try and fight every day in small and simple ways, grow a garden, expand some hearts, keep those who hurt far apart. For I am not brave, I am not strong, yet I do not belong. I truly wish I could do more, but luckily redemption has no door. So I fight to prove those words upon my skin never meant a thing.

I would rather die than just survive and so I fight.

[sulky-valkyrie]

hi sulky! do you like apple cider? i am mulling a large pot of it for you in my head (figuratively).

trying to come up with a cursed prompt. okay how about fenders AU where sometimes mages just randomly turn into avocados. it's rare, but it's more common and known in tevinter, and so fenris is the only one who understands what's up when it happens to anders.

now fenris, who hates avocados, finds himself reluctantly protecting anders from a bunch of people who want to turn him into guacamole. will love bloom? will hawke find anything else to put on their chips? i don't know; that's why i'm sending this prompt to you!

AVOCADO MADNESS

for @dadrunkwriting and thanks for the excellently absurd crackfic fodder.

~~~

"Think you can take on a mage?  What the sh-"

There were only two Tal-Vashoth left, so Fenris ignored Anders' surprised tone and continued fighting.  The one with the spear had a reach on him that he wasn’t keen to take on directly, so he let Merrill do something unspeakable to that one as he charged at the Saarebas.  She had starting to channel something that made his skin prickle as he reached her, but he barreled through it, wincing as lightning lanced through him, but a quick flare of the lyrium grounded it out, and a swing of his sword lopped her head off.

He sheathed his sword and surveyed the battlefield.  The other qunari was down, bleeding from everywhere, and Hawke was already starting to pick through the corpses for things thst could be sold or repurposed.  Merrill was standing in the end of the path looking at the ground in confusion, and Anders was . . . Nowhere to be seen.  Fenris spun in a slow circle, checking once more.  They weren't near the cliffside, so he couldn’t have fallen off.

"What happened?" He called.

Merrill looked up.  "I don't - he was casting a barrier and then there was sort of pop?"  She pointed at the ground.  "Then . . . that."  As he walked up, he saw a large dark green fruit in the sand between a pair of ragged boots.

Kaffas, why did it always leave the shoes?

It had happened to Danarius once, when he was too brainwashed to take advantage of it and crush him.  The other magisters had taken him away, and he’d spent three days wondering if he was somehow his fault, and if he'd be executed for it.  When he returned, he looked strangely refreshed, if a bit sheepish, swore Fenris to secrecy, and instructed him on how to care for him if it ever happened again.

It hadn't, but he'd been forced to recite it so many times that the process was stamped in his brain.

Of course, the process might be different with a possessed avocado.  "Hawke, bring me some of those torn trousers."

"They're mine, I chopped 'em off fair and square."

Fenris rolled his eyes.  "Fasta Vass, not for me, for the abomination.  He's become an avocado."

Hawke stood up from his looting.  "A fucking what?"

"An avocado."  He pointed at the fruit.  It crackled blue for a moment and quivered.  "We need to wrap him up to prevent bruising."

Merrill produced a scarf from somewhere.  "Will this work? And what's an avocado?  Other than what Anders has turned into?" She frowned.  "I suppose why he turned into one is important too?"

"It's a tropical fruit native to Seheron."  Fenris shuddered.  "I hate them nearly as much as fish."

"And why is our healer a fruit?"  Hawke shouted from another corpse.  There was probably a joke in there, but Fenris refused to rise to the bait.

He shrugged.  "I don't know why it happens, only that it does.  And how to treat it."  He took Merrill’s scarf and wrapped Anders up in it, squeezing gently.  He was nearly rock hard, which was both a blessing and a curse: less chance of damage, but more time to ripen.

"Alright, what do we do?"  Hawke asked as he trotted over and poked Anders through the scarf.

Fenris slapped his hand away.  "First, you don't poke him.  Second, we go back to Kirkwall.  It is unwise to fight without a healer, and I don't want to risk damaging him regardless."

"Could it happen to me too?"  Merrill asked.  "I don't remember any Dalish tales of spontaneous plant shapeshifting, accidental or otherwise."

"Perhaps it only happens to humans, then."  He shook his head.  "I only know of it at all because it happened to Danarius."

☆☆☆

They made it back to Kirkwall with only two more skirmishes.  Hawke took more blows than usual, as Fenris had to put Anders down carefully before diving in, but that only further underscored his point that they needed to get to the relative safety of the city sooner rather than later.  The guards questioned him at length for being a suspicious elf carrying suspicious fruit, and only Hawke’s timely intervention in the form or threatening to tear off their testicles and eat them while they watched allowed them to actually pass.

As they made it through the market, four different sellers tried to buy Anders off of him, offering him increasingly ludicrous sums.  If it hadn't been Anders, he would’ve happily let them bid themselves into oblivion and used the funds to restock the wine cellar.  He gave them increasingly annoyed refusals until the last one actually tried to take him from his hands.  Quick as a snake, his hand shot out, grabbing the man by the inside of his throat.  "This is my An-avocado.  And he-it is not for sale."

The shopkeeper gurgled in fear and pain before Fenris released him and shoved him back, sending him stumbling against his crates.  He swept a baleful glare at the rest of the merchants before turning to hurry the rest of the way to his mansion.

Hawke followed him.  "What do you need?"

Fenris ran down the mental list as he put Anders into a small wooden bowl on the table.  He had the apples and the salt already.  "Butcher paper, lemon, and a lyrium potion."

"Lemon?  You're sure this is to fix him, not eat him?"

He wrinkled his nose in disgust.  "I wouldn't eat an avocado, Anders or not."

Hawke eyed him suspiciously then turned to Anders.  "You, don't go anywhere."  The avocado flashed blue and fell over.  "I'll take that as a yes."

After Hawke left, Fenris grabbed a few apples from the kitchen, then sat down at the table.  "Can you hear me?"

Anders wobbled.

He reached out and patted him gently.  "I know how to fix this, but it will take some time, maybe a week."

He flashed blue for a moment then stilled.

Fenris chuckled faintly.  "Was that wobble a yes?"

Anders wobbled again.  At least they could communicate.

"Can you do anything else?  Something that could mean a no?"

The avocado managed to flip over, quivering faintly, almost like he was breathing hard.  Fenris frowned.  "That looked exhausting.  Anything else?"

Anders didn't move, but somehow managed to look even more pitiful.  He patted him again.  "I shall try to ask only questions you can answer with a yes."

It felt strange to be the one doing the talking.  Anders was the chatterbox of their crew, and while Fenris didn't mind the silence, almost welcomed it, he had a sneaking suspicion Anders was already starting to get stir crazy after only a few hours.

Hawke returned some time later with the requested items, then headed home.  Fenris put two apples in the bowl with him, started to drape the paper over the bowl, then stopped.  "Anders, you can't see, can you?"

He wobbled.

Fenris shuddered.  Sensory deprivation wasn't the most common of punishments in Tevinter, if for no other reason than it was faster and easier to simply beat a slave.  Anders, however, had spent a year alone in the dark.  "Can you feel?  When I do this?"  He traced his fingers across bumpy flesh, feeling somewhat disgusted with himself for potentially taking advantage.

Of an avocado.

Anders wobbled again.

"Does it help?"

Another wobble, this time a bit slower.

He frowned.  "Should I stop?"

Anders didn't move.  Fenris sighed and pulled his hand away.  He might be a fruit, but he was still a person.  As he did, Anders flipped over.  A no.  A no to stopping.

He draped the butcher paper over the bowl, then reached under it to rub his knuckles against him.  It felt ridiculous and awkward, but the whole situation was exactly that.  Varric would deem the whole thing too absurd to even put in one of his terrible romances.  "I'm here."

Anders wobbled slightly under his touch, not necessarily a yes, but maybe a thank you?

He sat there until the mansion was almost too dark to see, even with his elven eyesight.

He sat there until his hand was cramping up and his back was sore.

He sat there until his eyes started to droop from exhaustion.  Should he take him to bed with him?  Best to ask.  "I need to sleep.  Do you want to come sit in bed with me?  It would - I dont think I could leave you in the bowl if I did, and the apples and butcher paper are meant to help you ripen faster."

Anders wobbled almost frantically.

"Even though it may slow fixing this?"

The bowl rattled with the force of his affirmations.

"Very well." He scooped him up and took him to bed.

☆☆☆

When Fenris woke up the next morning, he was on his side, actually cradling Anders in arms.  "Good morning."  He still felt silly talking to an avocado, but it only seemed polite.

He wobbled slowly, somehow managing to convey sleepiness.

He patted Anders gently, hoping he didn't imagine a decrease in firmness. "I'm going to put you back in your bowl and clean up a bit, but I won't be long."

He got another sleepy wobble.

Fenris sped through his morning routine as quickly as possible, then raced back down to the kitchen table.  "I assume you are extremely bored."

Anders sparked blue and rolled over.

Fenris chuckled.  "Is that an extra yes?"

He wobbled again.

Fenris patted him gently.  "Perhaps I could practice my reading?"

They spent the rest of the day reading in the library, with Fenris leaving one hand resting in the bowl and cupping Anders, occasionally squeezing him to check his firmness.  When his throat went dry, he made tea, put Anders in his lap to rub him against his leg and help soften him up further, then he went back in the bowl with the apples as Fenris went back to reading until it was dark.  Then, just as the previous evening, he took to bed.

They spent the next day the same way, but on the third morning, when he rolled over to check, he found Anders soft, almost squishy.

"I think it's time," he whispered.  "Are you ready?"

Anders almost bounced right out of his hand in his enthusiastic jiggling.  Fenris couldn't help smiling as he stroked him.  It had been nice to have the company, even if it was only a sentient fruit.

He skipped washing up and breakfast.  No reason to keep Anders waiting any longer than necessary.  He lit the fire rune in the stove, set a pot of salted water on the stove, cut the lemon, squeezed the juice in, and waited.  When it started to simmer, he poured in the lyrium, sending up a cloud of steam that immediately condensed, creating a very small localized ice storm over the pot.

Even though he'd been hoping for it, it still was still a surprise.  He grabbed a rag, wrapped it around the pot, then poured the sparkling blue lemony concoction into Anders' bowl.

It didn't take long before there was a puff of smoke and air billowed out past him, leaving a very naked and very relieved looking mage sitting half in, half on a bowl.

"You did it," he rasped, voice creaky.

Fenris smiled as his chest loosened up for the first time since Anders had vanished.  "I did."

Anders hopped off the table.  "After I get a bath, but before I go back home, can you finish reading Callipygian Cuirassiers to me?  I'd really like to find out who the princess is actually in love with."

[obscureoperations]

Martin and Abraham, but switch the situation they're in

yk what I mean? if not that's okay :)

have a lovely day or night <3

Interesting fam..very interesting.

So, if I've got this right, Martin and Abe have been thrust into different universes. With all the same characteristics and motivations. The only difference is that their environment has been switched? If I'm wrong, honestly...my bad!

Abe living in Braddock

First off, the ending would have never happened. Abe would've escaped long before then. A master of covering things up in fear of jeopardizing the family-- Abe was good at kicking dirt over his tracks.

When he finds Abby in the bathtub, he already knows he'd be the prime suspect in Cuda's eyes. Screw the public, none of them knew the two of them were even involved. If anything, the husband would be the prime suspect. I feel that he'd already know to get out of that house.

But other than that, I feel he would question all of Cuda's views the second he gives the speech at the door. "And then I will destroy you.." You sure about that fam? He views the temporary roof as a means to and end.

His behavior would be similar to the novelization of Martin, with an added layer of self awareness. He knew what he was doing and he enjoyed it. It was the other people that kept getting in his way. He needed to feed. He needed to go out on Main and and syphon the bums. Hiding his deeds from his cousin was a cakewalk. The old man just needed to stay out of his way.

Brutally violent in his attacks and completely unremorseful. He was doing it because it felt good. He needed blood and it was his right to appease his desires. If anyone said differently, they would have to be removed.

I think he would do well in the beginning when convincing Cuda that he wanted to change. Dressed and ready for church at nine am every Sunday. On his knees in front of the altar as he continues to whisper his own secret prayer.

Martin in the Barnes household:

Thats where things get a bit sticky. Martin was used to being ostracized away from the rest of the family..viewed as some sort of pariah. The new roof came with so much responsibility, and a need to live by example. 

An only child forced into the position of the head due to the eldest’s mental illness. All eyes on him.. he needed to get out and quench his thirst--but there was always some sort of hindrance.

“We need to go out and find another one for Harvest. Ma ain’t doin so well.”

“The fuck you shakin’ for boy?! Keep drivin’.. I see a pretty one straight down the road!”

The added responsibility, along with the familial demands leaves Martin drained and at a loss. Incapable of caring for his basic needs without a pack of vultures nipping at his feet. Asking questions, and ensuring his devotion to the cause. At times, Martin just needs some time to himself.

He welcomes the sense of togetherness, but never has time to simply sit alone quietly. The quiet thrum their heartbeat still echoing through his ears as he slumps down against the windowsill. With fresh blood still dribbling down his chin, something always crashes against the wall of the living room. 

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 31 - Free Use

Poly 141 x Reader - 4.3k (on ao3)

summary: Glimpses into your life as a housewife and free use toy for the 141 post-retirement. (Reader POV, second person)

cw: soft sex, half-drunk sex, light somnophilia, anal sex

note: last kinktober of the month! sorry i got off by a day at the end here, but i hope you guys have enjoyed everything so far :) btw this is less "free use" and more "sex with the 141 while living in domestic bliss"

Your days are filled with sex. Sex with all of your boys, in every position you can think of, in every room of the house they’d bought for the five of you after retiring. 

You all split the chores evenly these days. No one does more than they’re more comfortable with, and you’ve all found your stride, something to give you purpose, after the rigidity of the military.

Gaz has taken to bee-keeping. As odd as it sounds, he’s got the patience for it, and he’s quite protective of his bees, even has nearly an entire library of books he’s taught himself with. Price helps him out by selling the honey he harvests, keeping track of his profits and managing the household’s finances. 

Ghost hunts, spends his days out finding game to bring home, tracking herds and predators around your property. Johnny does a little of everything - fixes things when they break, chops firewood every morning, helps Simon skin his prey, tries to help Gaz and his bees. 

And you take care of the house. You make the meals, clean up after everyone, and find yourself perfectly happy to keep your men fed and warm. 

Your other chore is to bend over whenever they want. Well, bend into any position whenever they want, Ghost and Soap tend to enjoy getting a bit more creative. It’s not really much of a chore, considering how eager you are to do it.

It’s a great deal for you. Johnny and Kyle are always eager to get you off, and neither Simon nor Price is stingy with the orgasms these days either. You live your life floating between domestic labor and orgasms - not a bad existence, by your metric. You get to live without a care in the world, four men to take care of and four men to take care of you. It’s like a dream come true.

———————————————————————

You hum to yourself as you dance around the kitchen, wearing nothing but a frilly apron as you wait for your pancakes to cook. The small radio on the dining room table plays music from a local radio station, something cheery to start your day. It’s hard not to smile, with sunshine pouring in from the windows and a batch of fresh eggs to scramble on the stove. 

Your small moment of bliss is interrupted by a pair of hands on your hips and a large body bracketing yours.

There isn’t even a moment of fear, you instinctually lean back into the man behind you. A moment later, a rough beard brushes over your cheek.

“Pancakes this mornin’?” Price asks, big paws resting on the softness of your hips.

“Hmm,” you hum, tilting your head to claim his lips. He sways the two of you back and forth slowly, to the beat of the song, and lets you take your time with him. “Blueberries in yours,” you tell him when you come up for a breath of air.

One hand shifts to your ass, the other to your stomach, and you feel him smile. “Thank you, love. Got time for a quick round before they burn?”

You mimic his smile, let him bend you over slowly. “You’re just in time, Captain, I haven’t cracked the eggs yet.”

“Perfect,” he purrs, pressing himself to your backside. He tucks his plaid pajama pants down a little, rubbing his warm morning wood against you. You fold your arms beneath your head, let your eyes drift closed as his fingers make quick work of getting you ready.

Moments later, the heavy length of his cock fills you slowly. You moan, shifting your legs a little bit wider as he massages your waist.

“There you go,” he sighs, bottoming out and grinding himself slowly inside of you. “Tight as always, perfect girl.”

You giggle a little drowsily, wiggling your hips against his. “Always for you, John.”

He sighs contentedly, pulling out slowly. “Don’t I know it.”

He fucks you slowly, a steady pace that drags against all your most sensitive parts on every thrust. John’s thick, and the stretch isn’t quite comfortable with no prep. But you’re still a little loose from your time with Soap and Gaz last night, so it’s far from painful to take him.

He hunches over you as he gets closer and closer to the edge, elbows resting on either side of you and breath ghosting across your nape.

“Aw,” you hear Soap say,voice rough from sleep as he steps into the kitchen. “I wanted first go today.”

“Early bird gets the worm, Johnny,” Gaz teases, settling into a chair in the little breakfast nook Simon had built soon after moving in. “You’re the one who stayed up so late with her last night.”

“Wasn’t just me, jackass, you’re the one who-”

“Boys,” Price grunts, hips slamming against yours, leaving you squirming beneath him. “Will you shut the fuck up while I’m balls deep in our girl?”

You can’t help but snort beneath him, pushing yourself up enough to arch your back further, stick your ass further out for him. “Ye-yeah, boys.”

“Hush,” Price scolds, one hand shifting to your neck where he forces you flat to the counter again. “‘M almost there…”

He groans lowly as he buries himself deep inside of you, pumping slowly as you tighten up, trying to milk him. “Fuck, feels good…”

You smile against your arms as the pleasure that had been building inside of you starts to dull to a simmer, something warm in the root of you.

Price pulls out only moments later, two thick fingers tucking into you to keep any of his come from dripping out. “Keep me safe inside you, pretty thing, c’mon. Clench down.”

You take a deep breath and try your best to listen, straightening up and doing your best to keep yourself from dripping down your thighs. 

He turns you around, leaning you back against the counter and cupping your cheeks in his hands, tugging your face up to give you a soft kiss. “Thank you,” he whispers into your mouth, just quiet enough for you to hear.

“Of course.” You reach up to grab his wrists, holding him close. “Never gonna say no to you, John.”

The two of you linger in the moment, sunlight warming your skin as you breathe into each other.

It’s Soap that interrupts you, an intentionally obnoxious clearing of his throat nearly making you jump. “Any chance at coffee sometime today, bonnie?”

You huff a laugh into Price’s mouth, pushing him away and shooting a half-playful look to Johnny. “Can’t give me a minute of peace, can you?”

He smirks, “Nope.”

John scoffs as he pulls away, moving you with him and giving you a quick tap to the ass to send you over to the counter with the coffee machine. “Someone’s gotta teach you some patience, MacTavish.”

“If Ghost still hasn’t gotten it into him, no one is,” Gaz laughs, shifting enough for Price to join him on the bench. 

“Who says I haven’t?” Ghost says, stepping from the hallway. He’s already got a cigarette lit between his lips, and you wave him away with a spatula.

“No!” You scold, trying to shoo him closer to the window. “No smoking in my house! You know I hate the smell.”

Ghost rolls his eyes good-naturedly but lets you herd him to the open window, resting a shoulder on the windowsill and blowing a mouthful of air. You hmph, satisfied, and move to flip the pancakes. “You’re not the one who has to get that smoke out of all the furniture, you know.”

Ghost sighs, but he’s dramatic enough about it for you to know that he’s intentionally exaggerating his annoyance. “Awful early for all that nagging, woman.”

You glare at him playfully, picking up an egg to crack. “Awful early for a cig, too.”

He huffs and you crack your egg, the kitchen shifting into a comfortable silence. You continue your humming as the song changes to something more upbeat, unable to keep a smile from your face.

———————————————————————

You’re half tipsy, giggling into Soap’s mouth as the two of you stumble into the house. You manage to trip over the lip of the entrance, and you yelp as you start to fall.

Johnny just barely manages to twist and catch the both of you in time, grunting loudly as he hits the ground. The breath is knocked from the both of you, and you lay there in the dark for a moment, still.

You’re giggling as soon as you can breathe again, unable to stay still with all the energy and wiggling against his chest. “Jo-Johnny!”

“What?” He pants, still not fully able to take a breath in. You can see the outline of a smile, though, and his hands come up to fully cup your ass. “You were the one taht tripped, lass!” 

That only makes you laugh harder, kicking your feet against his shins. “I-I know!”

Now he laughs, a full-bellied sound that has you bouncing on his chest. He manages to push himself up so that you’re in his lap, and presses his mouth to yours without warning.

You make a high sound of surprise but quickly kiss him back, licking into his mouth when he parts his lips. 

Your kiss is messy, both of you a little too drunk and a little too needy to bother for tact. Johnny’s softer than he usually is, all tongue and no teeth. You wrap your arms around his neck, shifting so your knees rest on either side of him and squeeze his hips.

“Need you,” he pants into your mouth, shifting you over him to start a slow grind. “Need to be inside you, bonnie.”

“Yeah, please,” you say, quickly dropping your hands to his belt and clumsily working at his belt. It takes several tries for you to get it undone, and both of you get more and more desperate. Your underwear get more and more damp as you work yourself over the rough denim of his jeans, your skirt rucked up around your hips as he palms at your ass.

“Come on,” he growls, landing a harsh slap against the meat of your thigh. You yelp at the sting, then giggle, and finally manage to get his belt loose, quickly tugging it off.

“There you go,” you mumble, throwing the belt to the side and hearing it slide against the hardwood. “C’mon, c’mon, need you now, Johnny.”

He nearly snarls into your mouth, jerking your panties to the side and stuffing two fingers into you with no warning. You jolt higher on your knees and moan, digging your nails into his shoulder.

“Sit still,” he growls, tugging you back down and scissoring his fingers quickly to spread you. He slips a third finger in easily, your cunt already slick and dripping for him. “Stop fuckin’- stop wigglin’ around.”

You can’t help but giggle again, pushing your smile against his lips and nipping at his chin. “Can’t hold me down, MacTavish?”

You feel him grin, growling playfully, and before you can keep prodding him he’s got you flipped onto the floor beneath him. You squeal when he somehow manages to keep his fingers inside of you, pushing deep as he pins you down. He tucks your knees higher, both of your legs resting on his shoulders.

“I’ll show you held down, lass,” he growls, smile just barely visible above you. “Want it rough, then?”

You bite back another laugh, pushing up just enough to bite his bottom lip and tug it down with you. “As rough as you’ve got, MacTavish.”

It works as the perfect taunt you’d meant it as, and he’s buried in your tight heat before you can try and push him any further. Your head falls back against the hardwood floor as his falls to your throat, both of you moaning loudly as his hips meet your thighs.

“Fuck,” he groans, teeth pressed against your throat. When you arch your neck even further, he bites into your flesh, sucking a hicky and making you ever wetter between the thighs. “Fuck.”

“She tight, Johnny?”

You both yelp at the sudden voice, Johnny jolting away from your neck and shifting inside of you, causing you both to melt again.

There, in the corner of the room, is Ghost. He’s smoking a cigarette by the window, illuminated only by the glow of his cigarette butt and the moon. You can’t quite see his expression, but you can just imagine the cocky smirk.

Johnny groans above you, sinking back down to press kisses along your throat and forcing your knees almost to the side of your head. “Scared the shit outta’ me, Ghost,” he sighs, pulling out just enough to give you a few tiny thrusts. You moan, letting yourself relax into the floor.

“Not surprised,” Ghost says, and you watch as he stubs out the cigarette and take a few steps to where the two of you are tangled in each other. “How much did you two have to drink?”

You laugh at the question, but it melts into a moan as Johnny starts to find a rhythm that works for both of you. Your knees nearly knock against your own face as he makes his way across your neck, leaving bruising kisses. 

“Not-” you choke a bit on a particularly rough thrust, just barely managing to keep your eyes open and watch as Simon settles into an armchair. “Not that much.”

“Yeah,” Johnny pants, lifting himself up enough to look down at you. “How-how much’ve you had, L.t.?”

Ghost snorts, taking a swig from a beer bottle you hadn’t noticed before. “Less’n you two, I can tell that much.”

You and Johnny both snicker, half out of breath already, but none of you try and keep speaking as Johnny starts to really fuck into you, finding a perfect rhythm that’s just a little messier than usual, a little jerkier. 

The two of you make no attempt to be quiet, moaning and whining loudly as you work to find that peak. Even with folded in half as you are, you try to push into him as much as you can to help him hit the perfect spot inside of you. 

You nearly scream when he does, clenching down so tightly onto him that he’s forced to a still inside of you, his length throbbing in time with your heartbeat. 

The world blurs around you as Johnny takes your lips again, pressing your tongues together in a slick slide as he batters inside of you.

“Clo-close,” you gasp, clawing down his shoulders. Your nails dig in enough through his shirt to have him moaning, arching further into your touch.

“Me too, bonnie.”

He shifts enough to lean his weight further onto your thighs, newly freed hand smoothing down your chest and stomach to work against your clit. You melt beneath him, muscles going loose as you turn into nothing but a limp doll for him to fuck.

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm starts to overcome you, Johnny’s work against your clit and the hot length inside of you finally shoving you over the edge.

“Fuck- fuck!” Johnny nearly shouts above you, your orgasm triggering his own. You cling tight to him, dragging his body as close to you as possible while your muscles clench down around him. The two of you are nearly drooling in each other’s mouths, eager for as much physical touch as possible.

It feels like an impossible amount of time later when you hear Ghost crouch down next to you, see his shadow cast over both you and Johnny. “You two done, then?”

You feel Johnny huff where he’s leaned against your cheek, feel his smile grow against yours. 

“Yeah, Si,” you say, squirming a bit beneath Johnny to try and get out from under him. “I think we’re done.”

Johnny gans a little but he obliges and shifts back enough for his softened cock to pull out of you. You both whine in sync at the separation, and he finally lets your legs fall to the ground, heels thudding against the floor.

Johnny rolls off of you, flopping to the floor next to you. “Carry us to bed, L.t.”

You giggle and blink up at Simon, softened from your orgasm and the lingering buzz from your night out. “Yeah, L.t.,” you lift your arms high, making grabby hands like a toddler. “Carry us to bed.”

Ghost snorts above you, but he still leans down and scoops you up beneath the knees and the back. You squeal when he hefts you over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. He ducks low again and you grasp onto the bottom of his sweatshirt, then giggle when Johnny flops bonelessly over Ghost’s other shoulder.

He carries the two of you effortlessly down the hall, and Johnny’s soft laugh joins yours - well, at least before you hear a muffled slap and he quiets himself/ Of course that only makes you laugh, earning you a spank of your own.

You’re dropped rather carelessly onto the massive mattress all five of you share these days, hand flopping against what you’re sure is Price’s chest as Ghost falls on top of Johnny where he’s dropped.

You hear a muffled oof! from next to you and curl into Price with a smile, tucking yourself close to his chest. He rumbles a low noise, instinctually tucking you close. You can hear Gaz getting annoyed with Ghost and Soap, feel him kicking at them to fight for his own spot on the mattress. You fall asleep with Ghost’s back to yours and Price’s chest to yours, surrounded by warmth.

———————————————————————

You groan into the sheets in frustration, fists clenched tight. “Simon, come on, please.”

He spanks you sharply, but the pain is hardly noticeable compared to the need you’re drowning in. 

“Quiet,” he grunts, three fingers spreading your ass. “Need to stretch you out properly, don’t want any tears.”

You whine, arching your back and pushing your ass further into the air. “I’m ready, I promise, just need you inside. I’ve been stretched for the last ten minutes!”

“And you’ll get stretched for ten more if you don’t quit complaining.”

It’s almost impossible to bite back a complaint at that, but you manage to dull it down to just a near-painful eye roll. You try your best to stay still for him, stay patient, even as you feel like your pussy is dripping like a faucet.

Ghost has fucked you with far less prep than this, you know he’s just trying to be an asshole - no pun intended. You also know that the more you rush him, the slower he’ll go. So you force yourself a little looser, let your body sink more comfortably into the position he’s got you in.

It doesn’t make the wait any easier.

You’re not sure how long it’s really been when he finally deems you stretched enough, but he finally pulls his fingers free. You whimper at the cold dribble of lube as he spreads a bit more across your stretched hole, the slick sounds echoing in the room telling you he’s likely spreading it across himself too.

“Alright, love,” he says, notching himself at your back hole with both hands on your hips. “Loosen up for me now.”

The stretch is sinful as he finally gives you his cock, enough for you to feel the sting but not at a painful point. Your eyes roll back in pleasure instead of frustration, and your knees shift just a little wider to welcome him more fully into your body.

“Fuck, you feel good<’ he grunts, grip tightening on your hip.

On a normal night with Ghost, you’d expect minimal prep and long rounds of edging. He likes to keep you from coming for as long as possible, then coax an orgasm that feels earthshattering from you when he finally shoves you off that ledge. Either that, or he fucks you quick and dirty - in the yard outside, in the shower, in the middle of the night, really any time he feels like getting off. With you around, there’s no need to masturbate. That leaves you getting bent over and used at any time he feels the slightest urge to get off, but you couldn’t mind less.

Now, though, Ghost paces himself far more slowly than usual. His thrusts are long, bottoming out and pulling back until the head of his cock just barely breaches your hole. If you couldn’t feel the way his hands bruise your hips, you’d almost call his pace leisurely. 

The two of you are near silent as he fucks you, content to fill the air with soft moans and the occasional whine instead of dirty talk. It feels nice, such slow sex with Simon. It’s a side of him he rarely lets you see, even now.

He knows you can’t come from anal alone, and is feeling generous enough to grab one of your hands and shift it down, telling you, “Rub your clit for me, love. Wanna feel you come.”

And, well, who are you to disobey?

You bring yourself to a slow, rolling orgasm with rhythmic circles against your clit, hips working against his even with his grip. You moan more loudly now, moith open and spit spreading across the pillow.

“Si-Simon,” you gasp. “Feels so good, so deep.”

“Yeah? Deep in your ass, huh, love?”

“Mhmm, mhmm. Can hardly br-breathe around you, Si.”

“I know, so big in your little hole. You’re taking me well, though, being such a good girl for me. Gonna - fuck, love - gonna make me come, give you a nice load then plug you up.”

“Yes, yes…”

“You want that? Want to be stuffed with my come? Keep me inside of you ‘til I say you can take the plug out?”

“Yes, I’ll keep it in for you, Si, be so good for you.”

“Oh, I know it, love. Always a good girl for me, most perfect girl… fuck, feel so good around me…”

He groans when he finally gets himself off, pulling you back onto his harsher thrusts and letting your channel squeeze the come from him. You rub your clit a few more times, ignoring the aftershocks in favor of forcing your muscles to milk him a bit.

When he finally pulls out, he tucks a good-sized plug into your loosened hole before any of his come can slip out. You shift from your knees to your stomach with a soft hum, tugging a pillow into your arms as your eyes drift shut.

“You stayin’ in here for a bit?” Ghost asks, brushing some of your hair away from your face and dipping down to press a dry kiss to your cheek.

“Hmm. Gonna take a nap before dinner.”

“Alright. Need any help tonight?”

“No,” you hum, curling deeper into the bedding. “You can set the table, if you really want.”

You hear him laugh as he pulls away, weight shifting off of the mattress. “I’ll leave that to Johnny, I think.”

A few moments later the door click softly shut behind him, and you float into a peaceful slumber while trying to half-plan dinner. 

———————————————————————

You’re half-asleep when you feel someone shift in bed next to you, their body covering yours. There’s a distinct hardness against the small of your back, and you press back against him.

“Stay still,” you hear Gaz whisper in your ear as he urges you further onto your stomach. You hum a little in response as he settles over you, kneeing your thighs apart enough for him to rest between them. “Don’t wanna wake anyone else up, right sweetheart?”

You hum again in what’s probably supposed to be agreement, but is really just a half-asleep sound. You trust all your boys, though, so you’re perfectly content to let Kyle do whatever he wants.

You sleep naked these days, so it’s easy for him to spread your cheeks a bit, to rub at your folds. You’re still a little damp from the shower sex with Price you’d had right before bed, and Kyle doesn’t seem to think you need much more than that.

You’re almost asleep again when you feel the tip of his cock at your hole, and then the familiar weight of him entering you. It’s hard not to groan, especially when you’re so dazed, but you think you do a good job.

Well, until Kyle shushes you loudly, stuffing a few of his fingers into your mouth. 

You make a small offended noise, but it shifts into a sound of pleasure when he sinks fully inside of you.

“Hush. Don’t wanna share you right now, just needed to feel you for a bit.”

You feel his hips shift against yours before he sort of falls to the side, taking you with him. You’re left spooning him, his cock buried deep inside of you and kept warm by your body.

He sighs, pleased, against your back and pulls his fingers from your mouth, letting his hand float down to rest on one of your breasts. He squeezes you for a few moments, but that only works you up more and has you squirming against him.

Kyle makes a small, whining noise and squeezes you more tightly to him. “Stay still, love. Just want to hold you, let you hold me. Go back to sleep, yeah?”

You sigh, debate trying to get him to finish what he started, but ultimately decide that it sounds like far too much work for your current state. 

So instead you let yourself relax into Gaz, body quickly adjusting to the weight and stretch of him. It’s easier than you might’ve thought to doze off like that, held close to Kyle’s chest.

[funkyshortstories]

Does Everyone Have Problems With Their Dad?

On the morning that they had decided to go into town, Charlie was awake before the sun. By the time I was up, he was already dressed and pacing around. Breakfast, slim as it was, had already been made and was sitting by the fire. 

Charlie was in nice clothes that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. The stitching was neat in a way I was unfamiliar with. They’d clearly never been mended. The cloth was nice. His vest was buttoned. I caught a whiff of the pomade he kept at the bottom of his bag. 

“You okay?” I asked as gently as I could. 

“Fine,” he snapped, then ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get angry at you.”

I shrugged. “I’ve had worse than you shouting at me, I promise. Want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

“No.”

That worried me. It was odd enough to see him dressed in something nicer than a dusty old shirt, but his nerves seemed frayed like an old rope. He looked about ready to snap. I worried about him, silently. 

We were staying in an inn tonight. By some stroke of luck, we’d gotten a private room, too. Just the two of us in a soft, real bed. We dropped our things off, and Charlie, looking ready to kill a man, said he had business to take care of. He came back hours later. His eyes were red and glassy. 

Now, I’ve never claimed to be a soft touch for emotion, but Charlie needed someone to look after him just then, and I’ve never minded that work. Not when it’s for him. Never when it’s for him. 

The clothes ended up scattered across the room, and Charlie was on the floor at the foot of the bed, fighting tears. We didn’t talk. I washed his hair in a ceramic bowl with lye soap. It stripped off all that pomade he’d worked so hard to get right. 

“I hate the smell of pomade,” Charlie whispered. I got the feeling he wasn’t talking about pomade, not really. 

I started to comb out his hair with a wide-tooth wooden comb. “Do you want to talk about your ‘business’?”

“My father lives here in town.” Charlie’s voice held more poison than a hemlock bush. “He wanted me to see him when I was here. I visited. Apparently, not seeing me for months didn’t make him any kinder towards me.”

“The pomade,” I said, “it’s his?”

“I’ve never liked it.”

I supposed that was enough of an answer. 

That night, we slept together, his head on my chest, our legs entwined. He cried more than once before dawn. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t really have to. 

“Why don’t you grow your hair out?” I asked as the sun came in through the window. “Never use that godawful pomade again.”

We both knew the pomade wasn’t the issue. 

Two months later, Charlie’s hair was falling down past his collar. Within six months, his hair was long enough to braid. We moved our camp further west, and the first night away from Silver Creek, we burned all those clothes, and the pomade too. 

It smelled better when it burned. 

[darklyndsea]

I feel the need to scream my WIPs into the void

content warnings: everything. Just horrible, horrible people doing horrible, horrible things. But from the POV of someone who's burned out on being horrified, so it's mostly non-graphic! MOSTLY.

Fandom: Highlander

Characters: OC, Horsemen

It's been 2500 years.

When I write it out, it seems so long ago. It was a long time ago, by anyone's standards. Even most Immortals don't make it to 10000, much less 2500. But that's the nature of memory, especially Immortal memory: when you come across something that reminds you enough of a memory that's vivid enough, it's as if it happened yesterday. And if there was only one memory in my life that was vivid enough for a flashback, it would be the day the Horsemen killed me. You never forget your first, right?

You don't know what it was like. Even with a vivid imagination, how can you truly know what it's like to be peacefully at home (those from so-called "civilized" nations would have you believe that barbarians know nothing but war, but my people were peaceful) and have the gods descend upon you? How could you, growing up after the gods had left? We all died, and it was a mercy. Gods are capricious—they don't need a reason to destroy you if it is their will, and there are far worse fates than death. In those days everybody knew that. We weren't worried about why the gods let bad things happen to good people, not like you do these days, not any more than an atheist would ask why a tornado chose to destroy his house. The gods were forces of nature, and their agendas had nothing to do with good and evil. They weren't omniscient or omnipotent, merely powerful beyond the comprehension of mere humans.

Have no doubt: the Horsemen were gods. They were Immortals, yes—even in the Camp we realized that they were physically no different than us. What killed us (and we knew that well) would kill them. That didn't change the fact that they were gods. Their power over life and death was absolute. Their power over how we lived was just as absolute. What more is necessary to be a god? Our gods weren't infallible. They weren't deathless.

The gods killed us all on a whim, and I was the only one unlucky enough to be chosen as their plaything. I wasn't surprised, of course: I was born under a bad sign, as some would say. Not from the wealthiest family, not the prettiest—my marriage prospects had never been good. But I would have been married anyway—if it hadn't been for the accident.

I was a child, too young for marriage although I was old enough to know my prospects. Old enough that I was out on my own on some task or another when the cliff gave way beneath my feet. I'll never remember much of what followed—too much pain, followed by fever and pain. The gods alone know how I survived a double amputation with a Bronze Age level of medicine. As long as there have been men, there have been amputations, but gods know, if they did anything right it was only by accident. I doubt anybody thought I'd make it, and likely most thought it would have been kinder to let me die—who would want a wife who didn't have legs? But then, just as now, many will do their best even if they think it won't work out well—better to be able to say you tried than to carry the guilt of having given up.

There was pain. There was fever. Somehow, I survived. Some years later, the gods killed us all, and somehow, I survived.

So many Immortals believe it's a miracle when they survive their First Death. I never had that illusion. Surviving was never a miracle for me, only more punishment. Punishment for what, I didn't know—maybe punishment for no reason at all. Maybe for some wrong my unknown ancestors had done. Maybe for something I had done myself—I couldn't think of any way I had affronted the gods, but that didn't mean I hadn't.

Laid out like this, it sounds like I spent all my time agonizing over it, and maybe over all my years I have accumulated a lot of time thinking about it, but that's spread out over my whole life. At the time I mostly just accepted it. Shit happens, you deal with it. Live, grow stronger, fight another day.

They took me, before I even revived. I was no sheltered fool; I knew the stories about the Horsemen (and can you conceive of how much of a rarity it was to ride horses, that they were The Horsemen? Not you, growing up with planes and trains and automobiles, horses a thing of the past rather than the bleeding edge of progress) and had seen enough of their progress through our town to know that none had survived, not down to the youngest infant. Some they had their sport with first, others they killed quickly, but they killed them all. I was quiet—not, mind you, because I thought I'd escape, but because was I to be at any time in my life after I lost my legs? I was dependent on others for every aspect of my life, and when you're in that position it's a bad idea to make your caretakers regret taking care of you. The age may claim to be more civilized now, but that fact hasn't changed.

I didn't expect to escape notice, and I didn't. It must have been the Quickening that gave me away in the end, that faint sense of a pre-Immortal, because he showed no signs of noticing I was there until he locked eyes with me with a suddenness that was startling. And then, of course, he killed me.

Sometimes I wonder what they thought when they first saw me, an Immortal with no legs. Did they debate beheading me right away? Did they wonder if my legs would grow back like a lizard's tail if I stayed alive? Whatever their initial thoughts, they left my head on my neck and took me back to their Camp.

It wasn't all bad. I'm not dismissing what they did: whatever you can imagine, they did all of that and more. Rape and torture were standard, as they always have been whenever there are slaves (don't let anyone try to pretend otherwise), and unlike others they didn't have to play gently with their toys: all of us were Immortal. They could kill us, and we'd come back healthy for the next time. Caspian was a cannibal with slaves—it wasn't unusual for him to make one of us cook and serve the meat he took from the cook's own body. Kronos was lactose intolerant and never met a cheese he didn't love (look, not all of the horrors of the Horsemen were of the murder-torture-rape variety). But you can't live in an environment for that long and not find some good. Or maybe you can, but if that's the kind of person you are then you won't last long as an Immortal. I was there for longer than your country's been in existence, no matter which country you're from. There were horrors that still give me screaming nightmares, but there were good things too.

I don't know how long the Horsemen were together, how long they kept a Camp full of Immortal slaves. Every day, every year, was the same. Every one was different. The only law was that They shared everything with each other—all else could change at a whim, and as the gods They were, They didn't bother with consistency. Their inconsistency was so consistent that it all blurs together in memory. I didn't keep track of the years at the time—we all knew we'd be there until They killed us, whether that was tomorrow or lifetimes in the future. None of us aged, so there were no life events to mark the time, and we certainly had no reason to pay attention to what happened outside the Camp. Nations rose and fell, and what did they affect us? It couldn't have been less than a thousand years, though—and that number is a very low estimate, likely far too low. But as an estimate, it's as good as any I can give.

Unless you were there, you couldn't imagine what it was like—what we didn't realize until long afterward. There was no Game in the Camp. The Horsemen didn't play—we certainly wouldn't have survived if they had. They had the swords—axe, in Silas's case—to play, but that was never their raison d'être. Certainly, I don't expect They ever held back if any Immortal waved a sword at them, but that's just self-defense. Who among us would? Any other Immortal, though—we were all taken to the Camp. A thousand years of captured Immortals—all living together without the Game. We knew it existed—enough of us had been Immortal before the Horsemen came that the rest of us had been taught all the Rules. But none of us could stand against any of the Horsemen. If any of us didn't know that immediately, They were quick to teach us until we knew it deep in our marrow. If there  could be only one, it would be one of the Horsemen, so what was the point of us trying to play it?

So many of the ones who die quickly in the Game lived with us. Elders, children, cripples . . . babies. Never before or since has there ever been anything even close to what we had. We had the peace, however violently enforced, to be a people, to see each other as more than only enemies. The cost was great—many would say too great—but not everything it caused was horrible.

I was one of Their court jesters, so to speak. We all were at one point or another, I think, but I was an amputee and thus had more inherent entertainment value. They'd force me to run on my stumps. Races against children, against other cripples. Siccing dogs on me so I'd try to run (you did not harm the animals, no matter what they did to you, not with Silas around. You could only run and hide, and it never worked anyway). They'd forbid anyone from helping, so I'd be forced to find a way to get around on my own or suffer (more) deaths and indignities. Was it humiliating? Yes, of course. Was it at all out of the ordinary for the Camp? No. The lives of each of us were made harder in ways ranging from major down to the smallest annoyances. It was so common that we didn't even care what embarrassments happened to  others so long as they weren't happening to us at the moment. Not that it ever felt like that when you were the target, the that's human nature for you. It's always about yourself.

Even as we were entertainment for the Horsemen, we were also their support staff. We tended the herds, we cooked the food, we made the cheese, we bleached Methos's ridiculous white clothes white again after they got blood on them. And I ended up as the chief administrator of the whole mess. What, you think one of the Horsemen wanted to deal with all of the boring details? They only interfered when things weren't running smoothly, when they didn't get their entertainment or Kronos didn't get his cheese or the horses didn't have enough to eat. The rest of the time, it was my job—and I made sure to do it well, because if I didn't—well, there was a difference between being the entertainment of the day and being punished. Sometimes I managed some small kindnesses for us, when the Camp was running smoothly enough that the Horsemen almost managed to forget I existed.

Early on, Methos taught me to read and write. It wasn't a common skill in those days, and to teach a rare skill like that to one who had never had power of any sort—do you think he knew what he was doing? Or was I just the only one who didn't have another job to do, the only one who could spend hours each day on tasks that seemed useless and weren't even entertaining to watch? I didn't care much about his motives at the time, only that it was a mental torture rather than a physical one (at least when I got it right). Oh, he taught me so much—though perhaps "taught" is a misnomer. I certainly wasn't given any choice in the matter. He taught me to read, and to write. To do math, as much as existed then. Languages didn't take much effort—although we had our own language built from the languages of all of us, we still spoke our own languages as well, so we were all polyglots out of necessity. Poetry—he expected me to memorize epics and recite them on demand, and compose ones of the exploits of the Horsemen. I must have been the most well-educated woman in the world by the end of the first century, and that lent itself well to coordinating the Camp's activities.

I can hardly remember what my family called me before we were all killed. It hasn't been my name since that day, not really. When I woke, Methos called me "Mouse." I've always assumed it was because I was so quiet, both in Quickening and in sound. I suppose he might have had other reasons, but who was I to ask him questions? He said "jump" and I didn't pause to ask how high. A god changes your name, you accept it. I haven't been anything else since, even when I've gone by another name. Quiet was what I was—and after the Horsemen I had all the power.

I never got louder. It's too deep a trait to change, I think. But I was the one with the plan, the one who knew what needed to be done and how to get it done. I was the one to take the blame  when things went wrong. I was the one to ask for favors or for information. Me, the quiet little mouse with no legs.

The Camp was horrible by any measure subjective or objective, unless you were one of the Horsemen. But that wasn't—couldn't be—the only thing it was. To me, it was the place where I found my voice—and learned to stand on my own two legs.

I wiggle my toes in the grass one last time, and go to meet my god.

[thegreateyeofsauron]

[theghostkingisdead]

dpxdc - Neglected Child AU

As one of his first acts as Ghost King, Danny basically created ghost CPS. Mostly they help new spirits come to terms with the fact that they're dead, but situations like Danny's are a lot more common than the Observants had lead him to believe. People who come back from the dead or are exposed to large quantities of unstable ectoplasm often lead sad, short second lives. Either because they are unable to obtain the nutrients their new forms require, or because their communities turn against them in fear. This is a story about Jason Todd.

There was a lot Jazz loved about her job. She loved helping young ghosts find acceptance. She loved matching cases with foster Fraids. She loved meeting new people. She loved the rare excuse to travel dimensions. But some days, Jazz was intimately reminded of why this program was formed in the first place.

Knock, knock, knock.

Jazz looked up from her laptop. “Come in!”

Apple – the ghost of a dryad whose tree was chopped down two summers ago – poked her head in.

“Uh, Lady- I mean, Ms. Phan-, no,” Apple took a shuddering breath. Jazz smiled encouragingly. The girl had only been working here for a season, and already she was making excellent progress. “Ms. Jasmine, there’s a city spirit here to see you, uh, on behalf of a uh, potential client.”

“Thank you, Apple, you can send them in.” Jazz said.

Apple flushed green, closing the door with a sigh. Jazz guessed she had about two minutes before the impromptu meeting began. She used the time to sweep some papers off her desk and into a drawer. It had been some time since she’d had a walk-in like this. Jazz had a strict open doors policy when it came to her office, despite the technical fact that her door was often closed; it was just easier to focus that way! She had no idea why most ghosts preferred to submit claims by mail, really it was much better for them to speak with an officer in person.

Thirty years ago, Jazz would’ve had trouble describing the spirit that walked through the doors. Fifty years ago, even looking at it would’ve been painful. But Jasmine Duchess Phantom had been living in the Infinite Realms for almost eighty years now, and liminal senses reached out subconsciously, cataloging scents and colors that her mortal mind would have balked at.

The shape of a steel-colored skeleton peered out at her from a billowing cloud of grey smoke, which curled around its feet and seeped across the floor. Jazz tasted gunmetal and sugar, smelled stale urine and burned bread, felt desperation-fear-hunger-love crash violently against her. Like a cliff to a wave, Jazz stood her ground, letting herself be tested. This spirit was old and afraid; when it spoke, it spoke in a million overlapping voices.

“My apologies for barging in unannounced, Your Grace. I come before you with an issue of great import. One I have reason to believe our King may have a personal interest in.”

Jazz nodded, “My doors are always open, City Spirit. I’m always happy to help. But before I hear your petition, may I know who I am addressing?”

The skeleton did not move that she could see, but Jazz heard windchimes like chittering laughter.

“I am Gotham, Your Grace. My apologies for my rudeness. I have little reason to travel these days and am unaccustomed to necessary introductions.”

Jazz nodded, committing the name and its taste to memory. “No need to apologize, Gotham. Your situation is not unique amongst your kind. Have a seat,” Jazz gestured at the plush couch across from her desk. “What troubles you so, to bring you so far from home?”

There was more windchime tittering, and Jazz wondered if the spirit was laughing or just readjusting itself on a plane she could not see. A nervous tick, perhaps? Maybe she could send Apple for something to make Gotham feel more at ease. Bullet casings or chocolate chip cookies would be equally soothing to this entity, Jazz guessed.

Gotham folded into itself, form blurring slightly before reforming on the couch, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “Many years ago, a mortal man pledged himself to my service. I accepted him as a City Guard, my mortal Champion. This man has many children who have likewise pledged themselves to my protection.”

Jazz smothered the urge to interrupt. She loathed the idea of child Guards; the fact that this City Spirit was here now asking for help meant that this instance had gone just as well as it usually did.

Unaware of her internal judgement, Gotham continued. “The second child died and revived some seven years ago, I…” This time, the rattling sound emanating from Gotham shook the room with the force of a thunderclap. “You have to understand, I don’t claim kids as champions, so technically he was never even under my protection. And when he came back, he ran! I don’t have power outside the city, you know, so even if, well, it’s not like there was anything I could have done differently,”

Jazz was aware that she was frowning. She could only guess what her aura felt like to Gotham, whose smoky aura was rapidly thickening. A bird puffing itself up to look bigger. A cheap trick. If Jazz were in a more compassionate mood, she might have felt embarrassed at such a juvenile display from a spirit decades older than herself.

“You neglected a child, or-” she cut off Gotham before it could protest, “allowed a child to be neglected. For seven years. What changed? Why petition him now and not then?”

Gotham chittered, “Well, you see, he came back to me just over a year ago, retook his pledge and everything. And, well, things were rough, I thought the fraid was just readjusting itself, but, er-”

“Tell me.”

“Well, the problem is I don’t exactly know what the boy is anymore, but he’s more ghostly than not, and his fraid’s fully human. If this infighting between my Guards goes on for any longer, it’ll tear me apart. I figured The King might want to step in, considering this boy might be a halfa, maybe he could help him and the fraid get back to normal.”

Jazz grinned. “Rest assured, Gotham, The Crown will indeed be taking special interest in your case.” Words dripped from her lips, caustic even to her own ears. “Now, why don’t you go outside and give Apple the rest of the details. I have some visits to make.”

[highways-are-liminal-spaces]

Sunrise, just west of Hibbing, MN

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Transcript:

I'd like to congratulate you on getting your CPR certification.

Now remember, when you’re going in for compressions, it should sound like somebody is standing behind you with the worlds largest Dorito and cracking it open!

Go in firm and hard and snap as many ribs as you can on the way down, that means you’re doing it right.

You save that life. Good luck.

Or... Or... Or kill them, I don’t fucking care.

Audio source

[pencap]

someone once told me there is no demon more frightening     than a good man     who has gone to war.

someone once told me      the only things we get to choose      are a hero's death      or a villain's life.

so they said. so they said. so they say.

but no one ever told me      what happens when a good man       goes to war      and becomes the demon.

but no one ever told me      you can die a hero     and be resurrected     to a villain's afterlife.

- by sylvie (j.p.)