#Dilly Crowe

[dailyjustified]

[vonspe]

that one ask made me think about post game necropolis lunch hour dates 🫢

[live-laugh-lenney]

LOCKED IN | ARTHUR FREDERICK

chapter four is officially yours! apologies about the long wait and the few weeks in between chapter three and four. but's it's here for you to read! feedback is always welcomed and my inbox is always open so please, please, please don’t hesitate to let me know your thoughts on the story. enjoy!

MASTERLIST

- C H A P T E R F O U R -

Although YN had no idea of the time, and she was struggling to remember what day they were on, she knew she had overslept that morning. She had a feeling it was due to the late night, rather deep, rather intense chat that she and Arthur had going into the early hours of the morning - the time that the two of them decided to leave the sofa and go to bed, well, neither of them could tell you. It was a moment that she truly adored, and that she was truly thankful for, because they went into much more detail about their lives and how they were truly feeling in the house than they would during the day and she was glad that the night time had come around because the cameras would be switched off and and their mics were allowed to be turned off till morning, and it allowed them to be a little closer than usual.

She was warm, she was comfy, she was content with where she was.

She let her eyes adjust to the brightness of the bedroom before she looked to the side, expecting to see Arthur’s bed made up perfectly, expecting to see people dillying about their morning as they got themselves ready. Except, she was greeted with a hefty lump beneath his duvet and the short brown tufts of hair at the back of his head, with the naked stretch of his shoulders showing from the duvet, rhythmic intakes of breath that suggested he was still sleeping. She propped herself up on her elbows and saw many of the other beds were still being slept in and she was surprised… maybe she had had that good of a sleep that she felt she had slept for hours? Maybe everyone was just being quiet and playing a joke until she woke up? Maybe it was just a day where they had all, unknowingly, planned to be as lazy as possible?

Either way, she was surprised to be the first one awake.

And the silence didn’t last long. A rooster crowing had everyone awake and alert to what was happening and YN couldn’t lie, she found it rather comical how everyone had startled awake to the sudden sound.

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and she looked to the side, watching as Arthur craned his neck to look at her, a tired and lopsided smile on his face as they made eye contact with one another.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she grinned at him and his body followed in suit, rolling onto his side so he was facing her, “think we all slept like babies. No one’s up and about.”

“That’s crazy,” he laughed, a rasp in his throat as he dug his palms into his eyes and rubbed the sleep away, “good morning to you, too. How did you sleep? I struggled, if I’m being honest. I started off fine but, Christ, Jokeman was snoring so weirdly and I’m surprised it never kept you awake.”

“I slept so well,” she sighed softly, feeling the foot of her bed dip and she peeked over her duvet and saw Anisa perched on the edge of her bed, “good morning.”

“Good morning,” she grinned cheekily, eyes darting between Arthur and YN as their conversation came to a halt, “you two came to bed late last night. I think that you thought you were both being sneaky but,” she pretended to flick her hair over her shoulder and she winked playfully, “not from me, you weren’t.”

YN looked at Arthur as Arthur looked at YN and they both smiled softly.

Once life within the house had slowly died, the two of them stayed in the living room and let the hours pass by as they conversed about things they were glad the cameras would find interesting enough to keep in the next episode of the show. 

Arthur spoke about the day he decided to become a Youtuber and how he diverted off of the path of becoming a lawyer so he could continue his online persona and form a career through Youtube, not holding back on talking about some of his regrets and thoughts on the negative side to being an online creator and how difficult it was for him to decide enough was enough on the job he’d been studying for years for… a job that would have given him financial success, regardless, without the need for brand deals and social media. 

YN got deep, because Arthur gave her the opportunity and the listening ears to be able to speak her mind as freely as she wanted without feeling judged or sad, and she spoke about how she still felt out of place in the world of content creation. Because, in the one year she’d been succeeding, she’d been given opportunities she never even thought would have happened and she still couldn’t believe she was on a show that was dedicated to giving creators a boost online, delving deeper into how she decided Youtube was something she wanted to get into and how she didn’t, technically, post her first Youtube video… it was her best friend who uploaded it for her when she was panicking and thinking the worst. 

Arthur spoke about his family and how he grew up with a house full of younger siblings but a house that was full of love and support and adoration for each other, not holding back on how travelling to and from university took a toll on him because they lived on a whole different island between the south of England and the north of France, but how he always made the most of his time back in Jersey because he missed them and hated how he was so far away. His friends got a mention, the ones back at home in Jersey and the ones he managed to meet through his channel, yet he never name dropped anyone he knew that would have pricked up the ears of those watching. Which fascinated YN because she couldn’t wait to be given the opportunities to meet those she grew up watching and would still watch to this day.

YN ended their conversation on how she felt so at ease with him, how she was glad she could talk to him when she felt she had an issue and knew he wasn’t going to say anything to anyone, how she found his presence warming and kind. Filling the comfortable silence that swallowed them as they felt satisfied enough to have gotten to know each other a little more than they had done in the last three or four days, in a space that allowed them to be themselves, without anyone interrupting or teasing or taking the mickey out of them for having gotten on from the moment they met.

“You two, I’m telling you, there’s something going on,” she hummed suspiciously, pointing between the two of them, “and don’t just say you’re friends and you’re just being nice and friendly to one another. No. There’s more there.”

YN rolled her eyes and gave her a swift kick from beneath the duvet.

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong,” Anisa grinned, squeezing YN’s knee from beneath the duvet, “I’m never wrong.”

“On that note,” Arthur kicked the duvet from his body and sat himself up, reaching for his clothes and grabbing them in a bundle of cotton, “I’m going to take advantage of the empty bathroom and get dressed first.”

And with that, he was waddling down the hallway with his towel in tow.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Why are you out here, bro?”

YN smirked at her use of endearment as she greeted Johnny and perched herself down on the outdoor sofa beside him, nursing a large mug of coffee in her hands that was made courtesy of Arthur. Which, truth be told, was surprising to her because she remembered that he was never a fan of coffee and would rather drink a cup of tea and, therefore, had never made a cup in his life. And for someone who hadn’t ever made an attempt at making a coffee, she was impressed at how he’d almost gotten her preference almost perfectly correct; albeit just a tad too much milk but it tasted good, nonetheless, and she was definitely planning on asking him to make her her morning cups so she could wake up to the smell of a brewed coffee on her bedside table.

“I just feel trapped in here,” he claimed, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest to keep the warmth of his body heat close to him, keeping his arms tightly flexed to protect his exposed skin from the bitter chill of the morning air, “you get no privacy in here. Everyone is on top of everyone, the cameras, nothing you say is safe because you never know if it’ll make the final cut for Youtube or not.”

The vulnerable side to Johnny, that was making itself known before her, stunned her as she listened to him speak about his internal thoughts.

If you’d asked her who she thought would last the longest then, after her first day in the house and once she’d gotten to know everyone in a basic way, she would have said Johnny. Without hesitation, no need to think into the question as she ummed and ahhed about everyone in the house, because he gave off such confident energy that she admired, almost, and that she assumed he didn’t care what people thought of him. He was there to impress those who had followed him for a while, he was there to show his true colours on who he was as a person, and she could confidently say he had done just that in the four days they’d spent altogether.

All she could do was nod in agreement.

"The only private space is the bathroom but who wants to spend all day in there?”

“Exactly,” he grumbled, glancing at her as she took a hearty sip of her coffee and let the warm liquid slide down her throat, “I just can’t do it for two weeks, YN. No privacy and no me-time. Nothing. It’s shared with everyone, you guys and the cameras. Where do we have the time to do what we want, privately?”

“We must have just over a week left. We’re nearly there, Johnny-”

“Yeah but,” he puffed his cheeks up and let out the longest exhale of breath, enough time for YN to take another swig of her coffee, “I’ve experienced it now. I’ve done long enough to say I’ve been in here and been a part of it. I don’t know, like, this is weird. For me, this is weird.”

“I knew that coming in was going to be difficult. I made it really clear on camera, I think I’ve made it clear to you guys, I think I probably stated in my pre-entry interview that this is the worst thing for me to do,” YN laughed softly, her knee bobbing up and down and her slider hung off her sock-clad toes in the motion, “you can’t leave before me, Johnny. That would be terrible for you.”

“Nah, you’re doing great,” he smiled softly and she felt her cheeks heat up from the meaningless compliment that came from his mouth, “you’re doing good. I’m just, I’m struggling badly. Bad enough to leave. If I’m not enjoying my time here, not enjoying myself, then why should I stay?”

“Are you just not enjoying the experience or, what?” She wondered.

“It’s being mic’d up all the time. The cameras. It’s a different vibe to what you think it’ll be like,” he explained, “it’s weird. I know I keep saying that but, it is. It is weird. I don’t know if it’s a bit of me, y’know? Doing the same shit every day.”

“Give it the rest of the day. See what happens,” YN suggested and she looked at him with gentle eyes, “you’ve just woken up. You’re tired. We’re all tired. Maybe, it’s just that feeling. See how the rest of this day goes and if you still feel like you’re not enjoying yourself then, maybe, leave the house. But you can’t leave without waiting it out, seeing if there’s a reason to stay, because you’ll regret it from the moment you give in.”

She, herself, had thought about leaving.

The first night, laid in bed and having barely been there for more than six hours, the thought had crossed her mind once it had dawned on her that she was a little less deserving of her place in the house compared to everyone else. Knowing everyone had been in the business for a lot longer than she had, knowing a lot of them had a fanbase supporting her that was almost double the amount of numbers she had on her social media, knowing that But she told herself, a thought to put her to sleep, that she would let the next couple of days run through and see if there was a reason to stay.

And, well, she was glad she hadn’t left yet.

“You’re full of wisdom, ‘ey darlin’?” He smiled as he stood to his feet, picking up the glass of orange squash he had between his feet, waving for her to stand up, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I’ll take your word for it and we’ll see what happens today.”

It wasn’t long before the two of them decided the breeze was getting too cold as it caught underneath the awning of the patio, the sun feeling deceivingly cold from where they were sat on the patio furniture, and YN used the excuse of needing to get rid of the remnants of her coffee to stand to her feet and disappear inside. And it wasn’t long before Johnny followed her inside, the banging of the door being enough to tell her he’d decided to join the rest of the housemates as they sat around the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

Arthur’s eyes were trained on the two of them as they walked back into the house, the sleeve of her jacket hanging down her shoulder and exposing her skin from the spaghetti strap of the tank-top she had chosen to wear underneath the Adidas-embossed zip-up, watching as she walked towards the sink and emptied the last little bit of coffee down the plughole, rinsing out the mug before she set it upside down to dry on the draining board, turning on her heels and letting her eyes scan the room for a space to perch herself down and join in on the conversation happening around her.

A stool being free beside him which he was silently pleading, in his mind, that Johnny didn’t take before her.

A smile toying at his lips when she made eye contact with him, a similar look being mirrored back to him, and she gladly took the stool beside him.

“Hello,” he whispered it softly and he elbowed her playfully, the point of his arm colliding with the soft swell of her upper arm, making it known to her that her jacket had slipped all the way down to the crease of her elbow, “he wasn’t winding you up again, was he?”

She shook her head as she adjusted the zip of her zip-up to keep it from falling down her arms, “surprisingly not, no. Just a little chat about how we’re finding this whole thing.”

“Oh,” Arthur acknowledged, nodding his head softly, “I wondered where you’d gotten too after I made you that coffee. I turned around from cleaning up and you disappeared before I could speak to you.”

She felt her stomach drop and she reached her hand across his lap, squeezing his hand apologetically, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted to talk to me.”

He was about to continue when Steph interrupted their mini-conversation, in true Steph-fashion, and he gave her a tight-lipped smile as an indication they’d continue speaking when he had a moment without any distractions.

“Arthur, I got your cashews.”

“Ah, no way?” Arthur grinned widely and stood to his feet and he stepped towards Steph as she handed him an M&S tub of honey-roasted cashew nuts, the grin on his face telling everyone just how happy he was to have the luxury item he was longing for after their dreadful round in their Luxury Drop challenge yesterday. “Thank you so much, how did you get them?”

He wrapped his arms around Steph and YN’s eyes dropped to her lap, picking at her fingers because there was just something about watching Arthur participate in being friendly with another of the female housemates that she struggled with, before feeling his presence beside her again as he sat himself back down on his stool. Hands already working on opening the tub.

“Try these,” he grinned, giving YN the first pick of a cashew from the tub and watching as she popped it between her teeth and chewed, “good, right?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Hello, ArthurTV.”

“Hello, FootAsylum. How are you?”

“FootAsylum is well, thank you. Especially watching you guys doing your challenge.”

Arthur laughed softly, “oh god.”

“What’s the vibe like in the house today?”

He played with the hem of his t-shirt and adjusted the material, loosening it more around his chest as he situated himself a little more comfortably in the small room. 

There was a strange feeling in the house.

From the moment the new daily challenge had been announced - where each housemate had a chance at estimating when thirty minutes had passed to gain a few bonus points on their leaderboard - everyone had been trying to come up with their own tactics and ideas on how they were going to ace the challenge when it came to their turn.

“It’s a bit dejected today. Especially those who went into the challenge early,” he said, “we’re all feeling a bit like we’re on death row, I can’t lie.”

“That’s lovely to hear.”

He laughed softly, hearing the sarcasm dripping from the robotic voice, and assumed the conversation was over. And as he braced himself to stand up, palms on his thighs and ready to stand to his feet, he was stopped with a sudden question.

“ArthurTV, you and YN have been spending a lot of time together recently.”

Arthur’s cheeks brightened and, even though he was in the Store Room alone and with only the camera they named Sugarlips, he felt embarrassed to even feel so shy about the situation. He knew they’d been spending a lot of their time in the house together but he didn’t think it was all the time - there were times when he was too preoccupied with another conversation that he missed grabbing her as she walked past him, there were times when she just said a quick hello before she disappeared to go and do her make-up or went to have a shower so she could get herself ready for the day, there were times where they would go hours without even seeing one another around the house. 

“Well, I-'' he scoffed softly and sat back in the chair, sliding down and hiding his face behind his hands before looking through his fingers at the camera lens, “I’d like some examples. Because I think I’ve divided my time rather evenly between everyone, to be honest.”

“Maybe Sugarlips has got it wrong,” the robot voice admitted, “but Sugarlips sees everything here in the FootAsylum house.”

Deep down, Arthur knew that. 

He knew the cameras were everywhere, he knew it was hard to fool anyone when there was videographic proof, and he knew that there were people watching from the outside that he couldn’t fool with his lies and attempts at diverting the conversation every time the topic of him and YN were brought up. The microphone around his neck caught every conversation he had and the cameras in almost every room of the house caught his every move so he didn’t know why his first move was to deny everything that was brought up. 

Being around someone twenty-four seven, it was bound to happen quicker than in the usual circumstance of meeting someone, so he wasn’t embarrassed to have fallen for her as soon as he had done.

“We get on really well,” he admitted, “she’s a nice girl. We’ve become really good friends in this place. We’re very similar in terms of who we are on the outside so of course, we were going to get along from the start. We can hold a conversation well together, too, and she’s a really interesting person. An ideal housemate, to be honest with you, and I’m really glad to have been here at the same time as her.”

“It does seem ideal, doesn’t it?”

Arthur laughed softly and looked down at his hands, “you know what you’re doing. You’re funny, Sugarlips, you’re funny.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“What’s happened? Why are you all being quiet?”

YN found it unusual how the house was in a solemn state of silence when she exited the challenge room after partaking in her part of the challenge, already telling herself in her mind that she’d counted well over thirty minutes and that she’d probably failed the challenge for everyone in the house, having a little ounce of hope that she wasn’t the only one who had gotten bored halfway through counting and gave up nearer the end. None of the boys were kicking a football around on the patio, the girls weren’t giggling and chattering amongst themselves in the make-up area, no one was playing chess or using the gym equipment, and there didn’t seem to be any loud conversations going on that could be heard in any corner of the house. And when she rounded the corner to find them all in the kitchen, shocked looks on their faces and no chatter being shared between anyone, she found it strange. Confusing, almost. Like she was some part of a prank and she was awaiting the punchline.

“Johnny. He just left,” Steph stated, “he just upped and… he just left.”

The shock written on everyone’s faces was enough to tell YN that this wasn’t some stupid joke that they had come up with whilst she went in to partake in her thirty-minute challenge. They were all comfortable enough with each other now to know boundaries when pulling pranks on one another and the limits people could reach before things got personal and out of hand and upsetting for a party involved in the jokes. Because there had been moments where people would hide and jump out to reveal themselves in a moment when someone wasn’t expecting it and there had been times when one of them would say something to only reveal it wasn’t true later on that day and have them flummoxed by the way they’d delivered the prank. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. None of us know,” Steph stood with her hands on her hips, bewilderment lingering her eyes, “I was in the bedroom and he was in the Store Room, he went in to talk to Sugarlips about something, and then he walked out and claimed he was done. Didn’t collect any of his things. He just said goodbye to us all and left.”

“Wait-”

“He just stormed out,” Spuddz continued, “straight up, he walked around the house. Hugged everyone goodbye and just walked out the front door. Swearing, effing and blinding, straight to the front door. No one could stop him, he was on a mission out of here.”

YN couldn’t believe he’d actually gone through with it.

Watching him throughout the day, he seemed like he was in better spirits than that morning, happier than the time spent sat outside where she let him pour out his internal thoughts on the whole situation they were all in. He was glum, moody, and his face was enough to prove he wasn’t having the best time… but the smiles and laughter he was giving all day, the fake niceties and the feigned enjoyment of being around everyone, would have been enough to prove his words wrong. She really thought he was going to stay to the very end.

“It all kicked off in the half hour I went in to do the challenge? I swear,” YN frowned and took the free seat at the kitchen table, wiggling in between Anastasia and Anisa, “I miss everything. All the drama. And that’s so typical of me, honestly.”

“I mean, he might come back?” Jokeman queried with a shrug, “maybe? He might have just needed a moment out of the house but they might let him back in? They can’t not let him back in-”

“It depends, no? If he regrets his decision in the next hour then maybe?” Arthur perked up from his place at the kitchen island, a glass of orange juice on a coaster in front of him, and he turned on the stool to look at those who were sitting at the table, “I’m sure he just needs a break from this, it’s mentally challenging.”

Mentally challenging was an understatement.

But she applauded him, in her mind, for speaking out about how everyone seemed to be feeling.

“I’m pretty sure I counted way over 30 minutes, by the way,” YN frowned and broke the silence that swallowed the room up, hoping she could change the subject from the events that had happened prior and get some form of conversation to start up in the quiet room that could take their minds off of Johnny leaving the house, “that was so difficult.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The idyllic scene in the kitchen was shattered by a sudden and sharp bang from the glass door of the sliding doors, which lead out to the patio from the kitchen, that gained the attention of all eyes that were previously glued to Jemel as he continued telling a story about his life as a dad outside the house and outside of his career as a creator. Where Arthur had disappeared to attempt his part of the daily challenge, YN felt a little lost in who she wanted to make conversation with and she felt rude to disappear upstairs to keep herself company, so she had taken comfort in listening to Jemel as he spoke so highly of his family and friends outside the house and found interest in what he was like when he wasn’t in front of the cameras.

Heads snapped towards the noise out of curiosity as to who it could have been, questions running through their heads, as the comfortable murmur of conversation died down and became replaced by a collective hum of pure anticipation.

“Did you really think I’d leave this place like that?” Johnny cackled loudly, proudly announcing himself in the sea of enthusiasm and excitable welcomes as he was greeted, first, by Anastasia as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tightly, “I brought someone back with me though.”

Chairs scraped along the floor as everyone made their way towards him, the table getting knocked and glasses spilling from their rims with each push of the piece of furniture because the boys were in a haste to get Johnny as everyone bundled through the gap and straight into the cold air, engulfing the man in a tight hug as they welcomed him back into the house.

“You really think I’d leave like that?” He took in the chaos and YN thought he was definitely feeling on top of the world at the reception he’d received and she knew his ego was spilling out from the crowd around him, yet he laughed evilly and almost like his plan had been executed perfectly, “it was my challenge today. I had to pretend I was really down and upset with being here, not wanting to be here anymore and that I wanted to leave.”

Twice she’d been done over in the four days.

You really would have thought she’d know for the next time it happened yet she surprised herself by falling for it… again. 

Yet she gave him a quick squeeze before stepping aside because she was more intrigued by the tall man standing beside her - knowing the face but not quite remembering the name and she hated that because it felt rude and she waited for an introduction for the cameras before she made a fool to ask who he was. People were greeting him like they knew of him, hugging him and asking how he was, and she didn’t want anyone to think she had no clue.

“This is Darkest, everyone say hello, let him feel welcomed into our little bubble,” Johnny introduced him and there were cheers of excitement and happiness as everyone either gave him a hug or shook his hand, “oh, man. That was crazy.”

“That was so sneaky,” YN stated, following the crowd as everyone sat on the patio furniture and turned their attention to Darkest as he sat on the edge of the sofa, “but welcome to the house, Darkest.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he grinned, “what’s the general vibe of the house like? What’s it like being in there?”

“It’s nice. Good vibes,” Jamie spoke, nodding as he looked around at everyone who seemed to be nodding and smiling in agreement, “the concept of time will fuck with you though. It’s weird.”

"You don't know the time?" Darkest's face registered genuine shock, a stark contrast to the playful deception Johnny had just pulled off, ”oh, guys, jail is better than this. At least there, you get conjugal visits!”

The atmosphere was still charged with the aftermath of Johnny's challenge but everyone was slowly making their way inside, now teetered on the edge of something new. The introduction of Darkest had injected a fresh dose of intrigue into the already unpredictable dynamics of the show and there was no certainty as to how the house would change now there was a brand-new member to get to know better. Only time, or rather, the absence of it, would tell.

"No time. Man, that's crazy."

[thetomorrowshow]

forged in blood

Hey everyone!! Here's my fic for session 3 of @trafficzine :)) ren enjoyers come get yalls juice

~

Ren hears Jimmy when he calls out.

“Will anyone give me a life?”

Most everyone will ignore him, more likely than not. Most everyone will laugh at such a desperate bid for mercy; Jimmy, as always, so close to death. Who would give up their life for one such as Jimmy? What use would that be?

Ren has given lives before. He knows how that song and dance plays out.

He knows of the bond that such a sacrifice brings. He knows the feeling of his head separating from his body, of blood dripping down his crown and into his eyes as he gives and takes and takes and takes.

Perhaps it isn’t about what use there is to be found in Jimmy. Perhaps it’s simply the power of sacrifice, the gift that it is.

It’ll hurt. It always does. Sacrifice is communication with the divine, and the divine is not meant for men.

Ren hops down from the tree he’d climbed, trying to escape the dreadful snail chasing him. It’s getting close, anyhow—he can see its waving antennae cresting a lump in the ground. He needs to head out.

He finds Jimmy amongst chaos—people and snails running right and left, shouting to each other and trying to coordinate for long enough to save their lives. Mumbo especially seems to be having a rough time of it, judging by the repeated cut-off screams for help.

There’s something off about Jimmy. It might be the loosened bow tie around his throat, carelessly thrown there. It might be the smear of blood on his cheek. It might be the Red glint in his pupils, the way his eyes rove across Ren’s face, one brow raised.

Something . . . not-quite-right. Something that makes Ren do a double-take—is this really Jimmy? Something about him brings to mind Scar, back at the beginning of all this, his eyes red and skin grey as he leered from his desert mountain.

He must be Jimmy, though—he doesn’t raise his sword, even though he quite clearly notices Ren coming forward. Jimmy’s never thought to fight first. So Ren shakes off his discomfort and approaches him.

“I come to offer my life,” Ren declares. “I—”

Before he can say another word, Jimmy grabs him by the arm—his nails dig uncomfortably into Ren’s skin, talon-like and just shy of painful—and drags him through the woods, out of this clearing and into a smaller one.

It’s a moment alone, somehow. A moment between the two of them.

Jimmy shoves him up against a tree trunk, the bark scraping at Ren’s back as his red shirt hikes up. Ren grunts in surprise, that odd sense that Jimmy isn’t quite right returning. There’s . . . something about him is wrong, very very wrong, a wrongness that curls around the back of his throat and chokes his senses with its thick darkness.

Ren’s dealt with the divine.

He’s tried his best to avoid the devil.

“What?” Jimmy demands, pushing way too far into Ren’s personal space, until their noses nearly touch. Ren does his best not to cough—he smells like sulfur up close, sulfur and sweat and copper. Not the most pleasant of colognes.

“I will let you take my life,” Ren says, one hand to Jimmy’s chest and the other still in his grasp, pressed between their bodies. “I will—in exchange for an alliance.”

“You and me, yeah?” Jimmy says, nodding quickly. “I’ve got your back.”

“And Martyn,” Ren reminds him. “You and me and Martyn.”

This will all be for naught if it doesn’t protect Martyn as well.

“Right, right, right,” says Jimmy. Ren doesn’t like how quickly he rolled with that, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. They haven’t got anyone else.

They haven’t got much time, either. Shouts of fear echo all around, like so many crows screaming from the trees.

Was that cry another death? Did that call for help belong to Martyn? Where is his own eternal hunter?

There isn’t time to dilly-dally. Every moment is a moment closer to doom.

“Forgive and forget,” Jimmy says, and suddenly, he pulls back, drawing his sword. Ren drops without notice, bracing himself against the tree.

Ren’s knelt on the ground before. The soft, squishy dirt soaks the knees of his jeans—jeans, just jeans on dirt, not homespun trousers on the cold stone of an altar.

He’s bowed his head before.

Jimmy doesn’t strike, though. He circles Ren, the tip of his sword wavering.

Jimmy’s eyes dart from the edge of his sword to Ren’s neck, his tongue darting across his lips. “You’re sure?” he asks, like he’s never wanted anything more, like he doesn’t care what cost Ren sets.

Of course Ren’s sure. “You and me and Martyn,” he says. “Allies to the end.”

That look—it once again sets alarm bells ringing as he looks to the ground, tearing his eyes from the hunger that has consumed Jimmy’s face. You can’t trust him, Ren’s instincts scream. He’s not right.

Should he have consulted Martyn about this? Probably. Martyn’s never been too happy with his deliberate brushes with the gods. Something about knocking on enough doors.

There’s no time, though. A distant shout in the woods denotes another death, these wretched snails—and Ren’s snail will catch up to them at any minute, he needs to get this over with without any second thoughts—

“Do it!” he growls, just like he did then, and for a moment it is Martyn and an axe and a night darker than the depths of the void.

“My lord—!”

“Ready, ready—”

A glimpse of sun reflecting across steel, projected on the grass—

Ren gasps out as blinding pain strikes his neck, as blood pools in his throat and mouth—

Then shoots up in bed at Renwood Mound, alone.

It takes a moment to still his heaving chest, calm his ragged breaths. Being beheaded isn’t any more fun than it was the first time.

Offered defenseless on an altar, as bread on a table, always hurts the most. It hurts for the divine to tear him apart, to devour him and find what worth he might bring them, what they can bring him in return.

An alliance forged in blood. His fingertips tingle, curling—he needs to find Jimmy, bring him under his protection.

He’s sworn now to protect Jimmy, just as Jimmy is sworn to him. Ren can’t imagine loyalty going any other way.

But when Ren stumbles his way back to the woods where everyone else is, mouth still fuzzy and throat still burning, he doesn’t see Jimmy.

He doesn’t see him until night falls, until he spots him on the side of the mountain, Lizzie and Scar with him.

Ren waves up at him, even as Martyn tugs his sleeve back toward Renwood Mound, waiting, waiting—

Jimmy’s eyes pass over him like he doesn’t see him, and the lad turns away, headed back up the mountain.

There’s something wrong about Jimmy. There’s something wrong in the ruthlessness that had seized him, determined to get a life as if failure wasn’t even an option.

Perhaps that ruthlessness will serve Ren in the end.

Ren has a horrible feeling that it won’t.

[lucy-frostblade]

finally have time to watch sword af- to the surprise of no one theyre my favs

taglist: @starstruckodysseys @dilly-dally-daisy @thedragonemperess @depressedtransguy @genuine-possum @wheelsupin-azarathmetrionzinthos @joshkiszkashusband @disdoorted-crows

[meownotgood]

let us live, if we must die. / chapter one: fate entwined

You are a witch, and since the purging of all magic, you've been forced to live a life of solitude and secrecy. Your destiny was always beyond your control — until, by a pure twist of fate, you unknowingly fell for the kingdom's only prince. 

════════════════════

pairing: prince!aki x witch!reader

word count: 5.3k

tags: fantasy au, royalty au, reader is fem, lots and lots of initial worldbuilding, essentially reader is a mage in a world where magic is forbidden, reader has a very well-established backstory, aki is there but you'll be seeing more of him later. warning: some darker themes in this chapter + blood mention

notes: here we go!! mostly establishing reader and the world here... you'll be seeing aki's cute face more after this, I promise. I hope you like it, and please look forward to the chapters to come... 💞

masterlist read on ao3 join the taglist here!

════════════════════

is love like the sea 

will it wash me to the shore 

or drown me with it? 

—

You knew you should have cast a spell for better weather. 

As crows shake the swaying trees when they flutter into the air, cawing and dotting the sky with speckles of black, you're drawn to tilt your head upward. Dark knots of gray clouds obscure the sun, blocking its light. Thunder rolls ominously overhead. You breathe a quiet tsk to yourself. The cool air smells of that familiar, earthen promise of rain. Turning back to your work, you hurry to collect the rest of the patch of colorful mushrooms, grabbing fistfuls and stuffing them into your pack. 

It was a beautiful day mere hours ago. Sunshine warmed your skin in plentiful rays, before the clouds had taken over. If you were at all aware of a coming storm, you wouldn't have spent so much time dilly-dallying. Your preparations would have been completed way faster. You would have made sure to leave the cottage much, much sooner — No, if you'd known about the rain, it wouldn't have stormed to begin with. 

You can't cancel out a downpour entirely. Such a feat is impossible, even for the most experienced of mages. The world can't be broken, no matter the strength of a mage's will — but it can bend. You could have pushed the storm back to the next day, at the very least. It would have given you the time you needed to forage, and you simply would've opted to stay inside tomorrow. 

Damn it all. It's no use worrying about what has already been done. You need to hurry. Your distraction spell will wear off in the rain. 

You snap the buckle on your pack shut, rising to your feet while clumsily slinging both straps over your shoulders. You shiver; the first droplets of water hit each blade of grass, they tap against your bare arms and the top of your head, but you're already running. You're taking off through the dense forest, following the well-known path you took on your way in. 

Leaves flatten under your feet. Running against the strengthening wind, you feel goosebumps kiss your arms and your legs. You run and pant and run some more, until you can finally see the faint, warm light of your cottage, shining through the forest like a beacon of assurance. Trees taper off into a large clearing, with your cottage at the very center. 

Your spell dispels on its own. A cool wave rushes over your body, the magic fading, before disappearing. Thankfully, you've made it home, just in time. 

The wooden door of your cottage creaks when you slam it shut behind you. Your kitchen is warm. Blessedly warm. You take a moment to catch your breath: your chest heaving, palms on your knees, the fireplace crackling. You toss your heavy pack onto the kitchen counter with a huff, and you plop down in a wooden dining room chair. Thunder splinters, the sound loud and forceful. Rain blankets the cottage's roof, pattering to a persistent, calming rhythm. 

You need to stop having close calls like this. 

What would have happened to you, if you were out in the woods for even a moment longer? It's not that you doubt your skills. Your magic is versatile. A damn good defense and offense, despite your chosen spells functioning passively, for the most part. Without anyone to assist you, you're still capable enough to hold your own against a handful of demons, should they choose to attack you. But a whole horde of them? 

The kind that live in these woods aren't like the ones you learned to deal with when you were younger. These demons are resilient. They're smarter. They stay hidden, until the chance arises to enter a fight they're sure to win. You've seen the prey they hunt. Despite their small footprints — six footprints for each, meaning six legs with clawed feet — they've been taking out magical beasts nearly twice their size. 

Great Elk, mostly. Nearly nothing is left of their flesh by the time you find them, making for quite the grim scene. No matter how many times you see it, your stomach still churns. The creatures boast a gigantic set of horns, and you'll harvest parts of them for yourself, to keep your mind off things. You're appreciative of what those elk can provide for you, in death. That'll be your fate, if you ever screw up. 

In a way, it's a double-edged sword. The forest is what protects you, those demons are what keep anyone from venturing close enough to discover you here. At the same time though, they prove a danger to you every single day. 

You wish this wasn't how you had to live. Of course you want to be safer, happier; who wouldn't? 

Gazing up at the long shadows on your ceiling, your mind brews with the same darkness as the rumbling storm clouds. The patter of rain only seems to worsen the longer you stay sitting there. Your stomach grumbles. Darkness looms in the expanse beyond your cottage, as the sun begins to set, allowing itself to be swallowed by the thick clouds and the horizon. Finally, you sigh. You stop your sulking to sit up, and you head for the kitchen to sift through what you collected. 

You were hoping to practice potion-making, so most of the herbs you collected are for healing, not necessarily for eating. A few edible mushrooms, and the potatoes you still have leftover from yesterday will have to do. 

Your knife chops the mushrooms swiftly and effectively, into small, square chunks that you scoop up in your palms to dump into a pot. 

When you were much younger, you lived in the city. You haven't been there in a long, long time. Everything you learned, you had to teach yourself: how to cook, how to fight. How to hone your spells. Books taught you most of what you know now. They were your mother's, once. After she passed, with no-one left to hide you, you fled. You've kept yourself stashed away here, ever since then. The threat of discovery didn't leave you with much of a choice. 

You built the cottage yourself. Magic made things relatively simple. It took some trial and error, sure, plus a few nights spent out in the dark when your preparations weren't complete yet. When it rained then, you were woken up by water dripping onto you, getting in from the gaps in the shoddy roof. It's been a long time since you first came here, since you found the farthest clearing in the depths of the forest, and decided to let it encompass the rest of your life. You've managed to make a rather nice home for yourself, you think. 

By all accounts, you should have perished a long time ago. The kingdom probably assumes you did. Without magic to help shield you, to feed you, to protect you, you doubt you would've lasted long out here. Perhaps that's why most people fear it. 

Where would you even go, if this wasn't how you had to live? Your hand freezes up, knife stopping midair before it can come down on a half-sliced pile of parsley. Suddenly, you realize you've hardly thought about it. Gods, if you could go anywhere, as free as the songbirds you've always been envious of, you have no clue where you'd want to go first. 

You could follow the sea breeze to the ocean, allowing the wind to rustle in your feathers. You've never seen the ocean before. Or maybe you'd want to soar over the kingdom, finally, and honestly free. There would be no-one to hunt you, not a soul that could catch you. It's peaceful there. For those unlike you, at least. 

To the people who live in the kingdom, the nobles and the knights and the common folk alike, you aren't human. You're less than that — You're a witch, a seer, a miscreant. You are the very reason for this world's ruin: the source of all demons, and to some, the sovereign who can lead them. Ridiculous rumors, every last one. Those creatures listen to you no more than they listen to the cries of the Great Elk they're feasting on. 

Still, you don't place blame on the fearful. 

More than anything, you wish things could be different. You would do whatever those people wished of you to prove you aren't what they say you are, but none of them would ever give you the chance. Your magic could help people. You want to help people, not harm them. And yet, if you were anyone else — if you were normal, if you weren't you — honestly, you'd be scared too. 

Demons are horrifying. They're soulless creatures, who can take a life away in an instant, only to break whoever they wind up leaving behind. And magic, magic in the wrong hands is just as frightening. 

It was innocent, at first. Elves were the first to compose spells, the demons simply came afterwards. Death plagued the land; the people's magic grew stronger, but the demons were already learning to adapt. Magic became selfish. No longer were spells used to protect, to flourish a field of crops, to create a light in an endless darkness. As the first war on demons came to a close, a new threat was quick to emerge: near unstoppable mages, wielding a darkness of their very own. 

Humanity nearly destroyed itself. In the process, the magic which once brought them the closest they've ever been to the Gods, that filled them with the strength of the sun, and fell into their palms like stars — That magic is all but gone, and forcefully forgotten. 

You never forgot, though. 

You were a child, you hadn't seen more than six winters, and already, the patriarchs were calling for what remains of the kingdom's spellcasters to be turned in and killed. Your birth was done in secrecy, your presence hidden. You stowed away in your mother's home, while you practiced conjuring simple illusions and small sparks of flame. 

Young or old, it hardly mattered to those who sought you. Your father ran. Your mother was burned. In more "lucky" cases, some people would be allowed to live — relatives of knights or officials, mostly. The regency had their tongues carved out, so that they might never speak an incantation again. 

Your jaw clenches, your hand tightened around the handle of a wooden ladle. You breathe in deeply, and you force your mind to wander elsewhere. Lest you lose your appetite. 

There's places you've heard of only in passing. Towns and cities where magic is not only accepted, but allowed to thrive. It certainly sounds nice. However, the logical part of you struggles to find the truth in such stories. No matter which way you look at it, everything is telling you those rumors are nothing more than traps. They'll do anything to find you, to cleanse the land of what they feel brought it to rot. They're luring you, their detestable songbird, just for the chance to finally cage you in and clip your wings, once and for all. 

To remain undetected, one's magic must be sharp, and their mind ever sharper. Those were your mother's words, at least. She taught you to stay focused, to be smart, and you most certainly are. 

You aren't unhappy, per se, when it comes to living like this. You're safe, and that's about as much as you could ask for. You've been content for a long while, living off the forest, practicing your magic by your lonesome. It's better than stifling what you were born with. Or trying to be someone you're not, allowing the imminent risk of capture to remain hovering over your head. No, you aren't really free. Perhaps you never will be. But this is the closest you think you'll ever get to it. 

The cottage is home. A lonely form of home, sometimes. No-one visits you. You'll talk to yourself when moments grow too quiet, just to fill the gnawing empty space. You aren't the kind of mage who can speak with animals, and even if you could, there isn't much to converse with; the demons have slowly begun to drive out most docile species. 

Gods, you miss the kingdom. You miss when you could see the castle from your bedroom window, stone towers reaching so high into the sky, you swore they were touching the clouds. Lanterns shone from every window once night fell, glowing brighter than any of the stars in the sky. A young and hopeful you would dream of becoming an honored guest, or a knight, or perhaps a princess. One day, you'd find yourself atop the heights in the castle, staring down at your old home instead. 

Foolish as it is, you miss the peace that came with those childish dreams. You never got to see it, but you remember reading books and hearing stories of the times where magic was nourished, not suppressed. Now, there is nothing. You have no-one but yourself. You miss when you didn't feel so alone. 

Though, for now, you should put the rest of those thoughts aside. 

Dipping your spoon into the finished stew, you breathe gently to cool it down, before taking a sip. Delicious. It warms you, chasing away the growing chill from the setting sun and the raging storm. Once you're done eating, you'll clean. Then, you think you'll spend the rest of the night rereading an old grimoire, until the complicated spell descriptions paired with the lull of the rain put you right to sleep. 

After fetching a bowl from the cupboard and filling it, you sit down at the dining room table. Your hands clasp in brief prayer — a force of habit, considering no plea is actually spoken, no blessing is internally asked for. You don't have anything to say to any God. Not anymore. 

Thunder crackles in the distance, like it plans to split the sky open. Rain drums and echoes against the roof. You take a moment to let your stew cool off, you manage just one bite, and —

Something's tripped the mushroom circle. 

With a single fast snap of your fingers, every light in your cottage goes out. The candles and lanterns flicker briefly, before they vanish. The roaring fireplace suddenly dissipates into nothingness, leaving ashen logs of wood behind. Instantly, you're enveloped in total darkness, save for the small, floating flame you produce at the end of your thumb, with a murmur under your breath of the spell ignis. 

It's been awfully long since the last time you've had to do this. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, in your eardrums. Your mind races, trying to picture the possible outcomes. 

Demons have been growing in number around these woods, but they wouldn't be here; they stick to the outskirts, where they've made their dens. With the rain washing away the scent left by prey, they'd go back into hiding, not wander out here. 

When you established your home here, one of the first things you did was create the mushroom circle around the clearing. Using your own blood and that of the demons, you fashioned it to inform you of anything hostile that walks over, barring any docile creatures. Wildlife wouldn't have set it off, so it's surely a stray demon, it must be. It will return to its horde once it realizes there's no food here. Unless… 

Flame flickering over your trembling hand, you fruitlessly try to stay deathly still. You can't hear a thing because of the rain, no footsteps and no demon snarls. Only the steady downpour, and the echo of droplets, splattering when they hit the roof above with loud, persistent thunks. 

Dammit. It's been an entire minute, and the spell is still telling you there's something within the circle. Just one presence; the spell can't tell you who or what is near specifically, but you can detect each entity inside. 

You sense your magic, keen and continuous, invaded by the scorching, resolute soul of another. A deep, brilliant ocean, rippling in the wake of a pebble thrown into it. And those ripples aren't stopping — They're surging through your brain and your body, with a forcefulness that bleeds nothing but blood-red danger. 

Your head spins faster the longer the seconds tick into minutes. You feel dizzy. The last time this happened, the last time anything stuck around this close to the cottage for more than a minute, it wasn't a demon. It was two presences, two men. They were lost, after they had traveled many miles into the forest from the main road, looking for one of their horses. Apparently, it was spooked on the trail, and broke away from their carriage to bolt into the woods. 

They didn't stay for long. You were in your cottage at the time, and you remember not wanting to open the door, but they wouldn't stop knocking and knocking. When you gave in, cracking the door open hesitantly, it was just enough to meet the first man's eyes, but not enough to let either of them see inside. 

Their tone was cordial, not suspicious. We weren't expecting anyone to be living out here, so far from any nearby villages, you remember one of them remarking. The first man ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, while flashing you an easy smile. You hardly noticed, because your gaze was focused on the sheathed dagger at his hip, and the glittering pendant hanging around his neck. A menacing shiver twisted up your spine and gripped you tight. 

Still, you held your ground. You told them you hadn't seen a horse, and only that. They thanked you for your time, and left soon after. 

Fucking hell, those men were knights. The pendant one of them was wearing — it was silver, engraved with text and a depiction of a lion. The knights in the kingdom have that same symbol on their armor, and out of respect, they'd be the only ones allowed to wear it as a necklace. 

Those men, despite the clear hostility you must have been showing them, spoke to you so kindly. They told you they'd be nearby for a while longer, and if you needed anything, you only had to ask. The blonde man gave you a polite nod, and told you to be well as the both of them left, May the Gods continue to smile upon you. 

If either of them grew suspicious, or if even one of them was capable of sensing the magic your cottage was surrounded with, they would have driven their daggers into your stomach right then and there. Townspeople might hesitate, before proceeding to slit the throat of their loved one while they slept, hoping to claim some sort of bounty for dealing with another wretched spellcaster. But knights do not. They are trained not to hesitate. 

Thankfully, sensing spells is something very few can do, and most never know they can. Perhaps they can feel something, but they'll attribute it to an odd uneasiness, to a brief spark they felt flicker across their skin. It couldn't be magic. Not a soul would risk an utterance of the word, because to feel magic is to be able to use magic, and for that, they are better off keeping their mouths shut. 

Either way, right now, you can't risk drawing attention to yourself. That day was almost a year ago. You lucked out last time. Anyone else who approaches your cottage next might not be so quick to leave. One wrong move, and you could easily wind up dead. 

So, you hold still. Very, very still. A lone cabin out in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain, with no lights shining from inside isn't likely to draw much attention. Anyone in their right mind would assume it was abandoned. 

Whatever it is, whoever it is, you only need to wait for them to leave, and you'll be in the clear. In the wake of your spell, you can feel the strength of the intruder's presence tugging at you, burrowing into you, cold like winter's breath and absurdly, ferociously sharp — but you'll be fine. They'll be stumbling back over the mushroom circle any second now. 

You're probably panicking over nothing, honestly. There's no way anyone would be this deep in the forest during this kind of storm. They'd have to be crazy, stupid, maybe utterly lost. A lost fool isn't your problem. If the storm doesn't deal with them, the demons most certainly will. 

Perhaps your magic is malfunctioning. Right, you haven't used this spell in so long that you've gotten rusty, and there actually isn't anyone here, you're simply mistaken. The storm is messing with you, is all. You shouldn't panic, because you have absolutely nothing to worry about. 

That would be true, if someone hadn't just knocked on your door. 

The sudden sound gets you to practically jump out of your own skin. You freeze up, your breath catching in your throat. When you hear the clear pounding of a fist against the wood for a second time, your concentration slips away, and so does your fire spell. The flame you held in your fingers goes out, leaving the cottage in complete and utter darkness. 

"Hello?" Oh, great, that someone is talking outside your door now, "Is anyone there?" 

At a pace that could rival only the most sluggish of snails, you shakily rise from your chair, and whisper another small flame into existence to light your way. You tiptoe over to the door ever-so carefully, directing the flame to follow with a wave of your finger. Briefly, you hesitate, before another set of knocks — more hurried, this time, as though whoever's on the other side is growing just as anxious as you — has your cheek pressing against the door while you peer through the peephole. 

There's a man leant on the door, your door, clutching his side, and supporting his weight with his other arm resting on the doorframe. The soft light of the moon and stars dimly illuminates him. He's shielded from the rain, underneath the roof's overhang. His clothes are simple: pants and a tunic with long sleeves, fabric clearly soaked from the continual downpour. 

It isn't anything you'd place as out of the ordinary. Even commoners would most likely be donning a necklace or a pin or something that'd tie them to the kingdom. You glance the man at your door up and down once, twice, but he seems to carry nothing of the sort. 

More importantly, surrounding the hand he has pressed into his side, the off-white of his tunic is stained a dark red you can recognize even in the obscured darkness. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, and you feel an ache twist in your gut. His hair is dark, shoulder-length, and tied in a half-up style, his messy bangs in his eyes, with a small ponytail on the back of his head. Poking out from his hair is a pair of distinct pointed ears. They're decorated by an array of studs and hoops, with black, star-shaped earrings hanging from his lobes, glittering in the moonlight. 

Your protective spell wanes. When you felt the chill of his presence, and the sharpness of his soul, perhaps you were feeling a fraction of his pain. 

You watch the man's jaw tighten, droplets of water dripping from his hair. He raises his fist to weakly knock at the door one more time, and when there's no answer, the bridge of his nose forms a troubled knot. 

"Please, I don't mean any harm, I was-" He winces, stumbling slightly, and he sucks a painful breath in through his teeth. "I was training in the woods… and the devils- I'm just an adventurer, I'm not a mercenary. I just want to rest until this storm clears, and then I'll be on my way. I swear it." 

Devils? 

Wait. Your gaze flickers back up to his expression, his brows pinched slightly as he attempts to hide his discomfort. Then, you look at his side, where his hand is pressed to an obvious wound, blood staining his fingers and speckling onto the sleeve of his shirt. 

This is your fault. 

When you head into the woods to forage, you always cast a distraction spell on the opposite end of the forest; it'll lure demons over to it, giving you a while of temporary safety. Sometimes there are stragglers, but nothing you can't sneak around or handle yourself. Most of the demons will head towards the area you've marked, drawn by the magical rune without their control. The spell is cast directly into the ground — hence why the rain on the soil causes it to disperse. 

This stranger sounds like he's telling the truth, and with the condition he's in, he doesn't have any reason to lie. About most things, anyways. You seriously doubt he's an adventurer. There isn't anything out here of interest. Just endless woods filled with endless demons. Still, he's clearly injured, clearly in need. And you can't help but take some responsibility. 

If he came to the forest to train, he must've been expecting a fight he could win. The demons here are strong, but mostly in numbers. If he's at all capable, a handful of them wouldn't give him much trouble. But you sent every single demon in the area to one location. A risky spell, but effective, as long as you know where it's been cast. He didn't. 

Even after the rain came down, even once the spell dispersed and the demons ran to hide in their holes, there would still be a ton of them gathered, all in one place. Hell, as far as you're concerned, if he found himself facing down hundreds of those bastards, he's lucky to be alive — let alone still standing. He might be the luckiest man you know, actually, to have escaped that forest with nothing more than a single injury, and all four limbs intact. 

But what if there are more wounds you can't see? 

Nervously, you take a single step away from the door, clutching the front of your shirt as your heart continues to pound. Rain drums overhead, seeming to only grow louder and louder. Although it drowns out most everything, you can still hear when the man shifts, mumbling a swear to himself through gritted teeth. Gods, your poor heart won't stop racing, and you don't know what to do. 

You're scared, for the first time in ages; scared of him, scared for him. You shouldn't let him in. That would be the stupidest thing you possibly could do. You shouldn't help him, shouldn't heal him. You should pretend no-one's home, and leave him be without letting yourself meddle. 

You know that, and yet, you can't help but tell yourself you have to help him. No matter how much you try and force yourself to believe the opposite, you can't shake this feeling that you're the only one who can. 

There isn't anyone else out here, not for miles. He won't make it out in this storm, and once he leaves the protection of the cottage, it's likely he'll get attacked again. From what you can tell, he doesn't even have a weapon on him. He'll get lost in the darkness. Demons will smell the sharpness of his blood the moment he steps back in the trees, and no matter how fast he can still run, he won't get far. And tomorrow, when you find what's left of him — 

Another faint knock at the door has you stirring, your lips parting, although you aren't exactly sure what you should say. It's been a while since you've last spoken to someone other than yourself, not since those knights almost a year ago. Instead, your legs seem to move before you've truly thought about it, and you rush over to the kitchen, fumbling through cabinets to search for whatever medicine you have left. 

Perhaps you can't let him in, that much is true. He walked over the mushroom circle with no problem, so you're assuming he isn't capable of detecting spells. Regardless, your cottage is covered in magical items. In potions you've made, and spellbooks that were supposed to be burned with the rest of them. You can't risk anyone sifting through your belongings. 

And you already know pressure doesn't bode well with you; if you can't keep your cool, if you say one wrong thing and he somehow figures out you're a mage, dealing with his injuries will be the least of your concerns. He could leave and come back by sunrise with an army of knights prepared to slay you, for all you know. 

You shouldn't be helping. This is dangerous. He is dangerous. You're foolish for caring about someone you haven't met, no matter how responsible you might be feeling. But that's the thing. You never get to meet anyone. And maybe, just maybe — 

No, it'll be best if you give him some medicine and let him be on his way: some standard herbs, nothing infused with magic. Just something for him to take to ease the pain, and some ointment and bandages to help with the bleeding. You'll crack open the door, tell him you can't accept visitors, and offer him what you can. That's the most you can do. That's what you have to do. 

You'll never see him again after this, but you know it's for the best. 

You gather the herbs from the kitchen, and the ointment and bandages from the bathroom. You place them all into a small, spare pouch you had lying on the counter, which you hastily work to tie shut. As you walk over to the door, you can barely breathe. Your hands are shaking, and you stop in place, attempting to gather the courage to open it. 

It'll be fine. I'm sorry, I hope this will help you. That's all you have to say. I'm sorry sir, you can't come in, but please, accept this. He'll leave, he won't know a thing, and you'll do just fine. 

"Okay," The man's smooth voice starts from behind the door, causing you to abruptly tense up. He sounds more out of breath than before: "I don't think anyone is home, so I'm… I'm going to try to come in now. I'm not going to hurt you, just need to get the hell out of this rain- Please, don't kill me." 

Shit. 

You're unlocking the door in a hurry then. You fling it open, coming face to face with him; the man sways forward, almost tripping. He's rather tall, even taller when he stands up straight to look at you. Deep, worried blue eyes meet yours. Blue like the drawings of the ocean you memorized from your childhood story books. His expression is a muddled mess of pain, relief, exhaustion — and you must be making a face, because he's quickly attempting to make amends. 

"Thank the Gods- It's okay," He says, giving you a reassuring look, and raising his hands defensively, his palms stained a dark crimson. His skin is pale, his eyes heavy, like he's lightheaded; "It isn't as bad as it looks. I'll be… fine, I'm-" 

With one last stumble, his eyelids flutter. Bright lightning rips through the sky in the distance, and you're watching his knees buckle, leaving him to fall into you. You squeak in surprise, just barely managing to catch him. He's already gone limp in your arms. You're hardly able to hold up his weight, struggling not to just drop him to the ground. 

Rain pelts the ground and the grass and your roof. In between the steady drone, tiny droplets of blood splatter onto the wooden floor of your cabin with a plip, plip. 

Damn. And you were hoping to eat your stew while it was still hot. 

[oct0lightsquare]

@corvidaecircus you beautiful gorgeous wonderful man you I’m gonna virtually smooch u so hard. All the homo 💖💝

@s1x-s1x-s1x

eheheheheh hulloooo <33333

[bingusbongu]

♡♡A/n: hey!!! I apologize, i lost the reply because for some reason my post deleted, in really really sorry! But this ask included a Royal Margarine Cookie x Shy but cuddly reader!!! I just had to do this one, cause Royal Margarine is my absolute favorite cookie, i love this silly and his dilly wyvern, hope you enjoy~!♡♡

Royal Margarine Cookie x Shy but Cuddly reader!

- Margarine Cookie has always been one for attention, he craves for it. Its not unusual for fans of his to crowd around him as soon as he makes a grand entrance

- you and him were already a couple, and of course, Margarine tried to show you off as his darling partner, wanting you to receive the same praise he would receive, besides, he liked showing you around, showing you off to other cookies who attempt to flirt with him

- What he didnt understand though is the way you backed up from the crowds, or hid behind him. Sure he liked the feeling that he could protect you, but he was confused on how you got all nervous when cookies would crowd around the two of you, and before he had a chance to show you off to his beloved fans, you were gone

- it would be Buttercream to go and find you. She didnt like the way that Margarine didnt go looking for yoi because he was to into making up fake stories to impress people. Sure she loved his rider, but she also loved you. You were so sweet to her, and even sneaked her extra snacks after supper, and you gave the greatest pets! She really liked you, so believe it or not, she is always the first one to find you

- once Buttercream tracks you down, and find you huddled away in a secure hiding spot, she is quick to make sure youre okay, before nestling her nose into your side to comfort you. She is the most understanding wyvern, she lets you talk to her and rant about how mich you hated being surrounded by people, with so many people talking at once.

- Buttercream understood that feeling, sometimes she gets overwhelmed with the cookies who keep trying to pet her and get her attention

- Royal Margarine Cookie would take a few moments to realize that not only you were gone, but realizing Buttercream was gone when a fan pointed it out. It was really uncommon for Buttercream to leave his side, let alone you.

- he definitely freaked out about it, pushing past the crowed of cookies to try and find the both of you. Calling out for you in hopes to findyou easier, trying to hide the fear in his voice, already imagining the worst

- he was extreamly worried, his two favorite things in the whole world were missing, he couldnt imagine losing you or Buttercream!

- he was about to have a breakdown, until he noticed a familiar looking tail in the corner of his eye, watching it as it disappeared into a hidden spot that he hadnt even thought to look. Instantly pipping his curiosity, why would Buttercream be there of all places? Maybe she was looking for something?

- once he finally trailed over to see what his faitful companion was doing, he was about to call out to her before completing stopping in his tracks

- Buttercream lay wrapped around you, As you nestled into the wyverns dide for warmth and comfort, shutting your eyes as you finally calmed down. Buttercreams head in your lap as you pet her, and she happily purring at the gentle affection

- Royal Margarine at the sight, feeling relieved that the both of you were okay. But still confused on why you and Buttercream were cuddled together in this little hiding space, where no one could find you.

- once you realized Royal Margarine Cookie was there finally, you invited him over to join the two of you, opening your arms as Buttcream looked up at her rider expectantly, for him to come over and join the little pile of affection going on.

- He was hesitant at first, but sighed and quickly gave in, how could he ignore his two favorite things in all of earthbread inviting him over to cuddle?

- he crawled in besides you, at first complaining that a room would be much better for this, more comfortable for the pile, but ignoring his blabbering, Buttercream dropped her tail into his lap, making him huff in protest.

- before he could make another comment, you had instantly cuddled into his side, making the words forming in his mouth come to a close as he looked down at you. His face seeming to warm up at how you nestled your head into his neck, making a small noise asif searching for comfort from him. And Royal Margarine Cookie was very happy to oblige. Wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close to him, shoving down his internal screaming to ask you what was wrong

- You finally ended up opening your mind to him, explaning how you hated crowds and being shoved into them for attention, how it made you nearly crumble on the spot just having so many eyes looking at you. Also, expressing how you weren't really a fan of being there and listening to the ladies fawn all over him.

- Royal Margarine Cookie listened intently, nodding his head, while on the inside he felt extreamly guilty. He hadnt ment to push you into that situation, he didnt know any better! He decided from then on to make it up to you

- after that, Royal Margarine Cookie was open to your feelings, constantly msking sure you were comfortable, abd if you werent, he would take you away somewhere else for you to feel better

- oftentimes, when he is busy, he would nake sure Buttercream would stay with you to make sure you were okay

- when his fans approach him, he wouldnt throw you into the mix. Instead, he would chat with them, before clearing his throat, and pushing past them

- "excuse me, i have a date with my wonderful partner, and i will not be late for it"

- after that, the both of you hook arms and walk to the nearest tavern, him having the biggest smug look on his face, before going to chat abd flirt with you like nothing happened

- always is touching you in some form of ways, whether it be holding your hand to wrapping his arm around your waist, he likes to keep you close to him

- when you are uncomfortable, he bring you to the side and lets you hold onto him as he tries his best to comfort you. (Usually cracking stupid jokes to make you laugh)

- especially loves after a long day, when you open your arms for him to fall into, and him grumbling about his day as you listen and play with his hair

- Royal Margarine Cookie can be full of himself, sure, but in all honesty, he really really cares about you. You are his greatest treasure, and he would do anything to make you happy! Even go on a dangerous quest if you asked him to.

- Buttercream may keep him in line, but i assure you, he is trying his best to make you happy ♡

[franki-lew-yo]

My collection of Folkmanis puppets over the course of almost 20 years, before I end up selling some on ebay.

Peacock. Name: Llaron'

Emperor Penguin Chick (Retired). Name: Flipper

Hedgehog. Name: Tiggy

Black Cat. Name: Titchy

Black Kitten (Retired). Name: House-Mouse

Little lion stage puppet. Name: Tyrion

Fox stage puppet. Name: Todd

Rabbit-in-hat puppet. Name: Cuddles

Raven. Name: Lenore

Crow (Retired). Name: Fortunato

Wyvern dragon. Name: Roran

Chinese dragon (Retired). Name: Chen Long

Weasel. Name: Pop

Rattlesnake. Name: Mojave

Rattlesnake finger puppet. Name: Patty Diamond'

Raven finger puppet. Name: Berenice

Black bat finger puppet (not pictured. She's in surgery). Name: Echo

Unicorn finger puppet. Name: Melancholia

Boar goat. Name: Dillamond, aka 'Dilly'

Howling Coyote pup. Name: Oopsie Yodel

Skunk. Name: Zorrina

Fawn. Name: Gurri

Flying pig finger puppet. Name: Orville

Llama finger puppet. Name: Paul

Dragon finger puppet (Retired). Name: Smokey

Snowy Owl. Name: Elsa

Black Bear Cub (Retired). Name: Honda

Hermit Crab. Name: Hermy

White Rat. Name: Clara

Wooly Sheep. Name: Flaffy

Lop rabbit. Name: Lavender

Brown Bat. Name: Monte Sito

Banana Slug. Name: Henry Splurgim

Pictured elsewhere are the puppets that got me into collecting:

Mice in Box (Retired). Names: Colby, Chedder and Jack

Besides these guys, a kangaroo and joey I had but donated, a gecko THAT I KNOW I HAD, and several I've given to me sister (red fox finger puppet, lop rabbit finger puppet), and a snail and a chipmunk I had when I was younger that's forty puppets.

[dailyjustified]

[the-wip-project]

And the taglist!

@aleheartilly @midnightswaltz @mareebrittenford @transman-badass @austinpetrini @finchwrites @caitlin-elias @vespaer77 @flowerprose @tryingtimi @bebewrites @daisywords @wilde-writing @narastories @fontainebleau22 @houndsofcorduff @forthesanityofstorytellers @incognitajones @arcanefeelings @ilightmytorch @soldiermom1973 @ten-cent-sleuth @quilleth @samabigailalan @meekhayl-reblog @icannotreadcursive @austinpetrini @ooooshinythings @prudereality @eye-of-the-silver-dragon @squarelyblue @cheerfulmelancholies @heniareth @akaluan @flowerprose @wildswrites @bluejay-in-write @pheita @astorythatwritesitself @tildeathiwillwrite @rhikasa @darthnell @climbinupuraorta @eclectic-like-furniture @burger-the-ham @bardic-tales @battyaboutbooksreviews @bilightningwriter-writing @tramstrams @projecthypocrisy @bebewrites @panticwritten @friendly-neighborhood-goober @narastories @daisywords @leia-organa-fics @tryingtimi @author-a-holmes @did-i-do-this-write @xforeveralonerxx @murphysscribe @friendofozma @faejilly @tales-from-nocturnaliss @spacemomnephmoreau @cedence @illegalcerebral @ltleflrt @ilightmytorch @bad-at-names-and-faces @ink-and-spite @eriquin @fractoluminescence @companionwolf @soldiermom1973 @t-lane-writes @rhoxxia @incognitajones @wayhavenots @marshvlovestv @suzteel @talesfromaurea @cozy-fish-crow @heroofshield @stray-crow @kapandherscratchpad @transannabeth @sarasa-cat @serial-chillr @remexailferous @eiluned @lazyscience @ravenpuffheadcanons @cirianne @forthesanityofstorytellers @sidekick-hero @eternal-sunflowers @cee-grice @after-the-end-times @matchingbatbites @sophellkopter @dilly-dahlying

May 14

Hello writerly friends!

Coming to you a day later than I planned, because somehow, yesterday got away from me.

Tuesday is the day where my writing routine actually starts. I made it a habit to visit my best friend every Tuesday to write there and if I really commit myself to it, I get a lot of words done on that day. (Not this Tuesday though, putting my hopes on Thursday instead.)

Last post I asked how you're all fairing with finding time in the day to write.

@caitlin-elias recommended a book, 4000 weeks by Oliver Burkeman, which I have not checked out yet.

@tildeathiwillwrite writes between 9 and 10 pm before bed, with headphones and music.

Both @finchwrites and @bluejay-in-write feel like the words just don't want to come, feeling burned out on writing.

@prudereality writes while dinner gets prepared and @tryingtimi uses sprints to write in short bursts.

@bilightningwriter-writing writes at work sometimes, and mentioned the idea of "parallel play" with streaming on Twitch.

Me? I often procrastinate until it's nearly midnight and then I write while my eyes want to fall closed.

I think this is actually a good cross section of our group and how we write. We live in such busy times, with so many distractions pulling at our attention, often we have to get to that quiet night time to even find the focus for writing. If you also feel this way, you are not alone.

I have tried many ways of writing. Setting a specific time, scheduling in a calendar, outlining or not outlining, handwriting bullet points, writing in my car, at work, at the library — I think I have tried it all. And what I learned from this is: I can't force a method. I can't force myself to write in a specific way.

Maybe you can? As I said in my last post, scheduling is a super effective method, and if that works for you for writing, go for it. My goal is still to write at least 200 words every day, and if I have to, it will be right before bedtime. That's what seems to work for now and I can say, after living with this brain for so many years, I've come to accept that this is how it works.

This post has gotten long, so I'm postponing the advice/prompt bit to Sunday. Yes, a little writing advice and writing prompts are coming too for this event.

For today, my message for you is: Acceptance.

Accept the way you work and write. Don't fight your brain, work with it.

Happy writing!

[rustpuppy]

crowe family + their associate and the marshal trying to get ‘em

[incorrectpersona-cianthemighty]

Ryuji: Dude-

Akechi: You just had your tongue in my mouth five minutes ago. Don't you dare call me dude.

Ryuji: Bro?

Akechi: NO.

[pctedcurse]

tags malphas & anammelech

[kthynes]

husband for hire (2)

18+

previously

There’s some ground rules and a sweet assemblage of affirmations. You’d hate to hear it.

warnings: course language, mentions of arranged marriage. fake husband/wife trope. Mafia!Lloyd x fem!reader (non-descriptive).

word count: ~2.1k

authors note: I’ve been going through a bit of a mental break and decided to write after a long time. It’s not written in my usual flowery flow so hopefully it makes sense and is coherent to some degree.

This has not been beta’d — any mistakes are my own.

Everyone had big little lies. Yours was just that and some. Maybe your dilly dally approach was untelling of time and place. But more so than not, Lloyd was an equal opportunist, playing your game with the same insouciant vigour.

“So what now?” He shifts against the vinyl seating, knees spread far apart, chin tucked in as he gazes through his lashes with a slight grin. It’s trifling how enigmatic his aura was around you. Almost as if to say that he’ll always have an eye on you. But he’s far more observant than that. “Nice baby gun by the way.”

He casually points at your thigh where the outline of your pistol that was strapped under your evening gown.

His face changes, genuine curiosity takes flight. “Do you always carry and conceal… poorly?”

“Only when I have to.” You reach under and yank out the revolver that was snagged in between the garter. Lloyd’s smirk widens as the small, toy weapon lands on the upholstery next to you. “But then again I’m not meant to be in this rodeo.”

“Well in that case I might have to get you something better then.” He hums. “Bigger perhaps?”

A double entendre? Gross.

“How ‘bout we start with a ring first.” You preamble, sniffing at his staunchness. Lloyd’s pinky ring admonished your ring finger in place of a lie. It was the least he could do given the circumstances and no one seemed to have bat an eye. “Something more shiner and made of diamonds, perhaps.”

“That can definitely be arranged.” He laughs, realizing the day has come for him to be somewhat of an honest man. But his signet band was a perfect fit minus the fact that it was a bit lacklustre and worn down.

“Why’d you agree to this?” You flummox while taking an unsteady breath. Everything’s uncomfortable, even his goading glare.

“Because you asked.”

“Just like that?” He simply nods and you let out an aghast little, “Huh?”

“I can see the wheels turning.” He crows. “It’s not that deep, mi luna.” His moon. Opposite of day and befitting to how you unscrew your beautiful face.

“Yeah right.“ You look out the window to be blinded by abysmal darkness. “Also is there a McDonald’s nearby? Because I’m fucking starving.”

Lloyd squints, there's some misjudgment and humour interlaced behind a slight grin.

“There’s a ruddy little diner coming up.” He answers with poise. “Does that work?”

“As long as I’m fed.”

“Hey Sergio, can you make a quick stop at Mama’s.” Lloyd says over the intercom that’s placed by the partition. Wordlessly, the driver reroutes and the ride becomes guided through your silent reverie.

Lloyd’s watchful as you fidget in a swathe of satin and sweat. You’re not used to being someone’s focus, attention, even desire. But he takes it upon himself to be dignified, to show some empathy for someone like you— a conning escapist and his best mistake.

He opens his mouth to say, more so ask something but then the town car comes to a stop.

“We’re here.” You relieve, already one foot out the door. Lloyd’s jaw shifts as you flit over to the abandoned establishment. “You sure this place is open for business?”

“It’s where I do business.” Lloyd patiently explains from a few feet back. He looks to Sergio and nods, their exchange is a little stoic, trained code that you don’t pay much attention to.

“So the food is probably subpar?”

“I wouldn’t say that earshot away.” He stifles a small laugh and guides you in, hand on the square of your back that immediately stiffens to the touch. “Have an open appetite and you might be surprised.” He comments under his breath.

The door chimes ping to a midsummer palladium. There’s mismatching futon and aisles of brown oak booths lined with floral seating. It was giving kitschy Dior.

“Onja.” Lloyd greets a quick working geriatric woman with silvery blonde hair and a moon shaped face. She appears out of nowhere, barely out of breath.

“Lloyd.” She fondly announces, arms wide open, fashioning a freshly stained apron. The exchange is uncalled for. But truly they were right at home and he’s beguiling her like old times.

“Is the kitchen open, ma?”

“For you?” She hums and haws, surprised he has to even ask.

“Not me. But for her.” He cocks his head towards you, slyly holding you to it as the exception.

“Oh!” She first looks at Lloyd a little too cheekily. Like a mother apprehending her son whose aimlessly asking for one too many favors. “Of course. Come! Sit anywhere! I’ll be right there.” Onja proclaims, hop skipping away as you both stand parallel to one another.

“She thinks I’m your bed mate doesn’t she?” You turn to the choosy mobster. His grin grows tenfold.

“Bed mate?” He snorts, inadvertently exuberant. “More like a growing pain in my ass.”

You huff and stumble into a random booth, furthest away from the window and right next to the kitchen. While tucking yourself in, Lloyd scans the area before sliding off his dress coat. Onja brings around a pitcher of water as he’s slowly undressing himself to some duress.

“Water.” She states, wiping her wet hands against the rag.

“Thank you, greatly.” Lloyd lifts his brows, expressing his highest gratitude. Onja shuffles on her feet, smiling briefly before seeding an apologetic grimace.

“So I just checked the kitchen and I have to inform you that we are out of a lot of things—“

“We’ll have whatever’s leftover then.” Lloyd interrupts and then quirks up. “Actually, do you have a pot of your French Onion?”

“Soup?” You croak, making a face.

“Yes!” Onja excitedly answers. “Two soups OK?”

“Just one. I’m good.” He confirms and the kind woman becomes relieved.

“Coming up!” She gusts, scurrying away. You’re soured, disbelieving of his actions.

“Fix your face.” Lloyd commands as he unrolls cutlery for you from across the booth.

“I don’t want soup.” You say in a nasally tone.

“Just try it.” He calmly coaxes you. There’s a quiet stillness, you’re irritated as can be. With quick work, Onja appears again with a small, antique cauldron and some serviettes.

“Here you are.” She places the piping hot bowl in front of you. “Is there anything else I can get you Mr. Hansen?”

Lloyd assured her all was good. For now.

“Have at it.”

“No.” You stubbornly state, arms folded across your chest. He lets out a loud exhale and starts plating your meal for you. The soup is aromatic and cheesy. Fresh and mouth watering. Your stomach growled. He ladles a small portion into a bowl and pushes it forward.

“One bite. Or slurp.” He corrects himself while slipping in a spoon. “You got this.”

“It looks like sewer water.”

“Delicious sewer water.”

“Is this what you get?” You start stirring the soup. Scooping and pouring the liquid into the bowl, distracted by your most intrusive thoughts.

“I don’t eat here.” He jokes, absolutely deadpanned. Meanwhile, Onja quietly settles by and places a small steaming Pinming cup in front of him. He thanks her yet again. “But Sergio seems to love it.”

“It’d make sense if you had a fondness for it.”

“I mean you and I don’t make sense yet here we are.” There’s a swift pause as he looks at you coyly. “Now eat.”

You’re far from humbled but reluctantly so you take your first sip. It’s good. Too good to speak as you shovel more into your mouth. Your hunger becomes insatiable.

“Have it with the challah loaf as well.” Lloyd comments into his mug. You obediently dip the Jewish egg bread into the savoury bath and take another bite. “How’s it?”

“Good.”

“Just that?” He snickers.

“Sooo good.” You exaggerate in between mouthfuls. He’s observing your every move like a silent pariah. And maybe it was time you broke the boughs. “Can we talk? You know, establish some ground rules.” You meander, swallowing down your pride with a tight grimace.

“Go on.” He nods, gesturing a lending hand.

“This isn't real. We’re not a couple. So that means there’ll be no kissing, no touching, no copulating of any sort.” You’re abrupt and he laughs, loud enough to put you in your place.

“Says the girl who was desperate for a fuck.” He respires while peering out the side window that glazes over a dark road strip and the alpines. It’s a lonesome plight where you said a lot of things. Promised nothing.

“That… that was out of character.” Your back straightens, clearing the uprising bile from your throat. Your appetite went away as quickly as it came. To say you were embarrassed was a ruddering understatement.

“You’re telling me?” He scoffs, running a steady hand through his perfectly gelled quiff that is stiff to the touch.

“I think there’s a lot of things we can keep to ourselves.” You insist.

“Of course Mrs. Hansen.” He jokes, the name itself rolls off the tip of his tongue. He likes that there’s a nice ticklish ring to it. “But I hope you know that our people will ultimately want more, expect more of us… from us, really.”

His wild blue eyes dilate, forehead creases patronizingly. You don’t falter.

“So we make an appearance.” Making an appearance was a very loose term. “Fake it till we make it.”

“No. We break rules.” He corrects you.

“I don’t like that.” You huff. He smiles. It’s a good thing he likes you.

“Help me help you.” He proposes and your frown deepens. He cocks his head to the side. “You did ask for my hand in marriage after all.”

“Fuck all I did.” You mutter to yourself while returning to your poor man’s meal.

“Look, I don’t like your old man either. So let me spite him a little.” Lloyd offers, jokingly. His phone rings, that overtures the mood. “Excuse me.”

He slides out of the booth with some unpleasant gruffness. “What is it Cyrus?”

His voice carries down the parlour as you slurp on soup. Nowhere to be. Indigestion on a slow prowl. Something about Lloyd Hansen fiercely kept you on your haunches. His coffered gaze. His strong unclenched jaw. The long legs that pace his stride as he takes to a far corner, earshot away.

“There’s no deal.” He hisses. The conversation comes out choppy that you desperately pick up on. “We need to… Yes I know… She is…. No we’re not… it’s complicated.”

It’s complicated. Those are the final affirming words before your eyes meet and he says a quick ‘I got to go.’

Your soup is cold now. He makes it back to the table, anew again.

“You good?”

“Here’s what I want from you.” He becomes stern, countenance changing in a snap. You match his energy by a hairs breadth. “Are you listening?” He raises his brows. You simply nod.

“I don’t like your tone but I’ll play nice.”

“You can’t be out of my sight.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I’m taking you home.” Your eyes thin out. “To my home.”

“I thought you were a recluse, y’know some kind of unexplored hermit.” You soured with some sass.

“I own ten luxury properties, two suburban complexes and a shantytown.” He emphasizes, irises dimming to a slight torment. “I need you around me, wherever I go.”

“Thanks but no thanks.” You object while kissing your teeth.

“This isn’t me asking.” He fiercely insists in a way that is paralyzing. One wrong move and you’d be bound. So you clear your throat, eyes cast downwards out of contemplation, jaw clenched. A slow steady breath prepares you for a grander comeback.

“How can I trust you?”

“You don’t. Now let’s go. We’ve overextended our stay here.” Lloyd hisses, eyes scouring the premise hastily. Somethings up and mafia men had their tumultuous moods. He perks up, hands readjusting the gun that’s hoisted in the back hem of his trousers. There’s a facetious look on his face, angered by suddenness and your calm presence.

When you walk out before him, he catches up in stride.

“Don’t question the things I do for you.” He mutters close in your ear. The night's dew exasperates the chill in your bones. It’s cold, embittering how you truly felt and every resurgence to be. The town car’s pulled up, running in ignition while Sergio has the back door open. He looks the other way as you turn to Lloyd with a challenge. “I’m not yours.”

“You’ll never be.”

[neurodivergent-loverboy]

[Image description copied from alt text: a drawing of a group of seven scruffy adolescents loitering by a short wall. The background has no rendered details.

On the far left, sitting cross-legged at the base of the wall, is a girl with pale skin and straight black hair that she is tying into a braid. Her tongue sticks out in concentration. Above her on the wall, stretching his arms toward his toe, is a boy with light brown skin and short curly reddish-brown hair. He is looking down at the girl with a smile, mid-speech.

In the middle of the scene is a boy with light brown skin and dark brown wavy shoulder-length hair. He is leaning against the wall with a carefree posture and holds a harmonica in one hand. He is playfully sticking his tongue out at the teen to his right, who is atop the wall on their belly, propped up by the elbows. They have pale skin and shaggy straight light brown hair and are sticking their tongue out in return with a mischievous smile.

On the right, sitting at the base of the wall, is a teen with pale freckly skin and straight shoulder-length red hair. They are looking up at the two kids teasing each other with an amused expression. Another teen is laying with their head in the red head's lap. They have golden brown skin and short straight black hair, slicked back from their face. They are looking up at a girl hanging by her knees from the wall, speaking to her with a kind smile. The girl has brown skin and curly black hair and is grinning. End ID.]

It's been TOO LONG since I posted about the patchwork crew - so long, in fact, that the last time I posted about them they were still in Scout's original D&D universe. Welp, here they are as regular human kids in regular human NYC - except for Ghost, because they're waiting for him to get out of work (ie, I couldn't fit him in the frame).

Left to right: on the ground is Charlie (she/her) and up on the wall is Rusty (he/him), Scout (he/him) is the gremlin in the middle, up on the wall is Bugs (she/they) and Dilly (she/her), and down below them is Crow (they/them), and Jasper, aka Jazz (he/she/they). At the time of this scene Charlie was 16, Rusty was 17, Scout was 15, Bugs was 13, Dilly was 12, Crow was 17, and Jasper was 17. Ghost (he/him), not pictured, was 18.