#Mil writes

[crimeronan]

god i wish i wouldn't have to explain the intricacies of the neopets economy to you guys to give the full context for this but. the new neopets team that took over from jumpstart pledged that they were going to curb the inflation of rare items, which is great because a lot of rare items are worth literally hundreds of millions of neopoints, they are unbuyable unless you've been playing actively for 20 years. they did this earlier with a site festival that included random loot boxes, some of which had Unbelievably Fucking Rare And Precious items worth 200 million neopoints apiece.

well.

today they have gone a step further. by releasing this year's trick-or-treat bags. and having the trick-or-treat bags be stuffed to the brim with unbelievably fucking rare stamps, weapons, paint brushes, defense magic, and other unbuyables. (all prohibitively expensive and in-high-demand types of items.)

jellyneo, the premier neopets website, has recorded prices of some items plummeting from 2,000,000 neopoints to 4,000 neopoints IN THE LAST THREE HOURS. this is when most people haven't even heard about the event or OPENED THEIR BAGS YET.

and of course. cherry on top. 20-year-old account holders are crytyping on the site events neoboard about how mean and cruel it is to make rare stamps part of the prize pool, because their entire identity hinges on being part of the neopian bourgeoisie, and they are having MELTDOWNS over their assets being devalued until they're part of the lowly proletariat.

this is a children's game for children btw.

none of the money is real.

i'm having such a good time.

[static-radio-ao3]

a secret, a truth, a prayer, a promise

Regulus Black has never been a particularly religious man, but right this second, he does believe in God. He also believes this God to be a cruel one. Maybe it’s divine intervention, or maybe just divine comedy, because he can’t come up with any other good reason why he is currently walking toward what he assumes will be the worst date of his life. Because it’s not a date, really. It was supposed to be, but then the strings that held together Regulus’ love life got undone and now it’s not his third anniversary with James. It’s just January 17th. --- Or: Regulus ends up locked in a room with his ex-boyfriend, which is simultaneously the worst and best thing to happen to him in a while.

[carniferous]

i wish you would write a fic where regulus dies in the cave and james finds the body and pretends regulus is still alive... acting out a love story w a happy ending even though... well...

hi mil thank you so much for this ask. unfortunately when i read it i became possessed and what i ended up writing is almost 2k of something completely different than what you asked for. happy new year xoxo

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place has decapitated elves, doxies, dry rot, and a locket. James finds them all in succession while searching for Regulus.

“Where is he?” James demands after tearing through the whole house, upending furniture, setting his wand upon every portrait only to have them flee their frames before answering his questions.

Kreacher, the lone living thing in this tomb of a house, doesn’t look up at him. He has not moved since James broke through the wards, still crouched in his kitchen hidey-hole with his knees drawn up to his chest and fat tears rolling down his cheeks. In one bony hand, he clutches a silver chain. 

“What is that? Give it to me.”

Kreacher’s face twists into a monstrous scowl. “Kreacher is not having to listen to you! If—If Kreacher’s mistress was being here, she’d—”

“Yeah, and where is she, Kreacher?” James snaps. “Where is anybody? They left you all alone. They left you here to die because they didn’t care—”

“Not true!” Kreacher shrieks, loud enough that James flinches. “That is not being the truth! Mistress—Mistress is in Scotland, she left Master Regulus here with Kreacher, and then he—”

Kreacher’s voice breaks, and he dissolves into hiccuping sobs. He’s a pitiable thing. Regulus adored him. James resists the urge to reach over and wring his neck. 

“What? Where did he go, Kreacher?”

Kreacher manages to shake his head in between deafening sobs.

James groans. He snatches out the folded piece of parchment from his pocket and waves it under the elf’s drippy nose. “Look, he sent this to me, and I don’t know what it means, but I know he wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t want me to come looking for him, so just—”

Kreacher slaps the paper away, and for a moment, James is so stunned that he thinks it might be some sort of seizure and that he might be about to witness the death throes of an ancient house-elf. It doesn’t matter how ornery or offended a house elf gets. They don’t slap wizards. 

But Kreacher isn’t dying. He’s just furious. “Kreacher is knowing all about that,” he hisses, one finger pointed at James’s face. “Kreacher was being with his Master for every letter he wrote to you. Kreacher is knowing how Master Regulus trusted you, and how you abandoned him, and how Master Regulus was never being the same—”

“Alright, enough,” James says. The house smells like mildew, and he’s starting to feel sick. “Either you hand over whatever it is you’re holding and tell me where Regulus is, or I’m getting Sirius. And I promise you that you won’t like what he tells you to do.” 

It’s a bluff if there ever was one. Sirius has no idea where James is, and James has no intention of letting him find out.

Kreacher rattles so hard that James considers the seizure once more. Then, he reaches out one shaking fist and deposits an ornate silver locket in James’s open palm. He nearly yelps when it makes contact with his skin. Kreacher must have been holding onto it for ten minutes at the minimum, and yet, when James holds it in his own hand, the locket is ice-cold. Odder still, James can feel a chill spreading through his fingers, as though it’s sapping the warmth from him. 

“I don’t understand,” James says. A snake is engraved onto the face of the locket. As James stares at it, he feels equal parts fascinated and repulsed. The way people describe feeling while watching a trainwreck, or a murder. 

And then, he closes his fingers around the locket.

Kreacher stares at him, baleful. “Master Regulus is—”

“Don’t.” James rises to his feet. The chill of the locket seems to be burning a hole through his hand, but he can’t make himself loosen his grip. “Don’t say another word. I’ll find Regulus myself.”

--

Regulus’s hands and feet were perpetually cold. When they were in school, James used to laugh about it with their hands clasped together, used to make a regular show of counting Regulus’s fingers and toes to make sure he still had all of them. Frostbite is serious business, Reg.

James remembers this now, sitting in Regulus’s room, in his desk chair, all the evidence of Regulus’s life strewn around him and the locket still like an ice shard in his hand. He’d unearthed every paper he could find tucked into every crevice of this room, some of them sitting plainly under a paperweight, others folded up and stuck between the floorboards. Some of them bore James’s name. None of them were very revealing. 

So James had lied to Kreacher, just a bit, about the letter folded up in his pocket, the only words he’d gotten from Regulus in years. There was nothing that commanded James to come find him. No confession, no cry for help, no promise of a future together. There was only an apology, brief and precise, and a goodbye. James doesn’t want to think about what it means that he might’ve been the only loose end left in Regulus’s life. The only loose end in this room. Him, and this locket.

He unfurls it in his hands, holds it up. Regulus was never one for jewelry, but there is something about it. It would’ve suited him, James imagines. Without thinking, he slips the chain around his neck. Part of him expects something to happen—the locket’s obviously enchanted—but he’s disappointed. There’s only that ice-cold shock against his sternum, and then even that fades, and James is left with nothing. He closes his eyes. Sighs.

It’s a stupid, pointless endeavor—trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found. James doesn’t know why he’s bothering with it, except that the pounding of his heartbeat as he’d read the letter had been a more acute feeling than anything else in life elicited these days. Even the war. Even his friends, whom he never imagined would become adults and build their lives intertwined but crucially distinct from his. Even Lily. When James was a teenager, holding Regulus’s hand in his felt, above all else, meaningful. Purposeful. Important. To love like that, to be needed like that, had made James feel important. He’d seen the arc of his life stretching out before him, certain and filled with every promise he made to Regulus.

That was what James wanted, when he left with the letter in his pocket. More meaning. 

And then, like a whisper through the drafty hallways of this godforsaken house, he hears it, and he turns.

“Regulus?”

There’s nothing, of course. An empty room in an empty house, and Regulus had probably never meant for James to come here. He couldn’t find an answer no matter how he searched because there was no answer, other than the one plain enough for a blind man to see. He’d known Regulus years ago and believed in him and loved him, and he’d been wrong. That’s all.

For one moment after James donned the locket, though, he could’ve sworn he heard Regulus call his name. 

--

He sleeps in Regulus’s bed for three nights and three days. Exhaustion settles over him. In his few waking hours, he spends more time looking through Regulus’s things than trying to find him. He can’t shake the feeling that the answer lies somewhere in this room, like if he moves the right piece of furniture at the right time, the walls will open up to reveal Regulus unchanged from how James left him. He pictures a life with that Regulus, and the locket grows warm. When his eyes shift out of focus, he can almost see it.

He talks to the ceiling before falling asleep and pretends that he isn’t waiting for a response.

“I can’t stay here forever,” he whispers. Imagines Regulus replying, Like you have such important places to be.

“I have a life. I have people who’re counting on me. People who could die, and I wouldn’t know because I’m here, searching for you. Do you even want me to be?”

When have you ever asked what I wanted?

“Once, and your answer broke my heart.”

I’m sorry.

James closes his eyes. On the backs of his eyelids, he can see spots of warmth, like an apparition waiting just beyond. But when he opens his eyes, it’s just the ceiling of Regulus’s empty room.

“No, you’re not.”

Kreacher comes in every morning to look distraught and appalled over the state of Regulus’s things, and also to bring James meals. Each time, he lingers uncomfortably in the doorway, wringing his hands and blinking tears out of his eyes. James mostly ignores him.

“Kreacher is being with Master Regulus when he—”

“I’m tired, Kreacher. Thank you.”

“But you is needing to know that you won’t find—”

“Thank you.”

On the third night, James dreams. He’s underwater, surrounded by pitch-black for miles. When he tries to speak, no sound comes out, but the taste of salt floods his mouth. 

Then, a glimmer of light in the far distance. James swims towards it, propelled across the sea in seconds, and then he glimpses the locket. It gleams like pure, polished silver, reflecting a light that seems to come from nowhere. And it’s looped around the neck of Regulus—pale and fragile and sinking into the depths beyond James’s reach. 

James grabs him, pulls him in close, and swims up. The water, previously weightless, now bears down on him, chokes and clutches him like a hundred sets of hands on his body whose sole mission is to drown him. All the while, Regulus clings to him, shaking, still alive. James can feel his freezing mouth on his neck, can feel him mouth a string of words—

When James wakes up, his eyes are blurry with tears. He blinks, and they run down his cheeks, and he can see. 

“Regulus,” he breathes. “You came back.”

Regulus’s outline is hazy in the darkness, but it’s undeniably him. He’s exactly as James remembers—the living memory, the ghost at the end of every nightmare, the singular regret of James’s life. 

“Where else would I go?” Regulus whispers back at him. It’s a whisper, though James hears it reverberate through his skull, as though Regulus is speaking right into his ear.

“I couldn’t find you. I’m so sorry, Reg, I tried. I couldn’t save you.”

“I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.”

He could weep all over again. Almost does, when he tries to reach a hand towards Regulus and manages only to brush empty air. His limbs feel heavy, as though the water is still pulling him down.

“Stay here with me,” Regulus says. He sounds so young. He sounds sixteen, and James thinks about how long it’s been since he last heard Regulus’s voice. How he thought he’d never hear it again.

James’s eyes slip shut. He smiles. “Where else would I go?”

He lays a hand on his chest. The locket rests against his palm like the frigid hand in his memory, and he falls asleep once more.

[ahollowgrave]

Tempest (noun):  1. A violent windstorm, frequently accompanied by rain, snow, or hail. 2. Furious agitation, commotion, or tumult; an uproar. A warrior of light and a scion The Pendants, the Crystarium

The storm squatting over the Crystarium does its best to make itself known. Rain lashes the window, wind whistles through the cracks of the frame, lightening presses its luminous face to the glass. Jealous and demanding. Desperate to be acknowledged. But you’re not watching the storm outside. You’re not even listening to it.

No, your eyes track the storm currently rampaging through your inn room. It wears the skin of a girl -- a girl you know very well. Prudence Dubois always paces when she’s truly agitated and now she’s walking corner to corner, back and forth, kicking things out of her way. She’s screamed and cussed and sworn violent, ugly oaths. She’s thrown the same chair from one side to the other, splintering it and now carries one of the legs to further emphasize her many points. She’s beautiful. Her freckled face is usually frozen in a frown of perpetual disappointment. Now it is twisted and red and spittle flies from her mouth as another string of curses leave it. Prudence rakes her shaking hands through her short hair. Sweat slicks it back. An improvement  over all, you decide, out of her eyes at the very least. 

Prudence wheels on you, suddenly, the dark of her eyes burning like coals. You become a target. All her anger and hurt and fear all shaped like you. You’ve never minded. She’s beautiful. Throughout this outburst you have sat quietly, hands folded neatly in your lap -- moving only to nod your agreement or voice some vague sound of sympathy. The catalyst remains a mystery to you. She was already storming when you arrived home and her words come in a flood; you’ve picked out the Exarch’s title and Emet’s name and decided you need not pry further. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the door crack, opening silently, and a white-haired head pokes itself in. Then a second. Two too-curious twins. You expected them earlier. You shake your head and as the door swings shut your shoulders release some of their tension. It all goes unnoticed by the stormcloud. Prudence will tire herself eventually. She will come to you, crawling on hands and knees, lay her head in your lap. She will not apologize. She will not acknowledge the outburst at all. And you will forgive her, threading your fingers through her hair, taking all of her unvoiced guilt and shame in your hands and swallowing it. And she will be beautiful.

[pyaari-naari]

"In another life I would have really liked just raising a pet and going on long walks with you."

[natkhat-sa-shyam]

Date idea.

How amazing it would be when i buy books for her and she buys books for me.

And then we discuss about our shopping over a cup of chai.

आखिर में भी तो एक ऐसा पार्टनर deserve करता हूं जो मेरे लिए बुक्स खरीदे!

[sweetlysniffly]

Hayfever Haze

Fandom: Hell//uva B//oss

Summary: Mill//ie’s run out of hayfever medicine, and it’s got Moxx//ie’s in a bit of a daze.

A/N: Im sure if you follow me you know how much I say that I want Millie content, so I finally got off my ass and wrote a little something. This is like, my first full kink fic so bear with me. Both m&m have the kink in this fic btw, as per my headcanon. I might do a part 2 depending on if people like this or not so let me know what you think 💕

There were a couple things Blitz knew he could depend on whenever he walked into IMP. Loona doing anything but working, something heavy falling on Moxxie, and Millie's megawatt smile. One of those things was missing this morning.

"Mills?" Blitz called, only for his coworker to shush him with a finger to his lips.

"Sir, could you be any louder?"

"Well sure I can, Mox, but you'd have to buy me dinner first-

Moxxie rolled his eyes, "Eugh. Sir, I mean it. Look."

Moxxie turned Blitz's head to see Millie, sitting at the conference table in her typical spot, head down in her arms. Was she...crying? He couldn't hear any sobbing, and Moxxie would probably be all over her-

Blitz's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of snoring. He watched as Millie's head turned and the sound became less muffled.

"Normally I'd say something about not paying you to sleep on the job-

"Sir, we don't have a client today-

"Shut up, Mox! Can't you see your wife is trying to sleep? Now, I was going to say that normally I'd say something but she...doesn't look too good."

Blitz was right. The position Millie passed out in didn't look especially comfortable, especially for her neck. Her nose and eyes were flushed red, and her mouth was slightly agape as she slept. There were crumpled-up tissues on the table around her and floor at her feet, and a red gingham handkerchief loose in her hand.

Blitz got intense, staring Moxxie in the eyes. "What happened? Did you hurt her, Moxxie? Cause I swear-

"What? No sir, I would never!" Moxxie sighed, gesturing towards his poor wife, as if it was obvious. "She has really bad allergies this time of year: not used to the city trees, and we ran out of her allergy medicine. She was up all night because she couldn't breath through her nose."

Blitz noticed that Moxxie seemed a little...less confident than when he normally spoke. He could chalk it up to trying to be quiet so he doesn't wake Millie up, but there was something else there too. He didn't have too much time to dwell on it before they whipped their heads to a sound from across the room.

“Hupt'TSCHUH!!”

Sniffles and a tired moan followed her audible heavy sneeze. Millie brought a hanky up to her face to blow, but was unsuccessful as only a squeak emitted from her nose.

"Guh..." Millie lifted her head from the table. "Sorry 'bout the mess, B, I'll clean it up." She sniffed loudly, rubbing her the sleep from her itchy, irritated eyes. Moxxie, ever the gentleman, scrambled to clean the tissues up before his wife could.

"You sure you should be here, Mills? No offense but you look like death warmed over."

"Thanks, B." Millie mumbled with slight irritation in her tone. "It's these damn trees and all the pollen in the air. Its different than back home. Didn't know I had allergies 'till I moved here.” She sat up, aiming to be spry and attentive to the assignment. “What's on the agenda for today?" She punctuated her sentence with a thick sniffle. Her usually energy was gone, her voice showing clear signs of a scratchy throat and thick congestion.

Blitz side eyed Moxxie, unsure of how to react. Can you let an employee have sick leave for allergies? She'd probably just get them caught on a mission with all her sniffling and sneezing. Well its his business, he reasoned, he can do whatever he wants.

He went back to his daily boss monologuing routine. “Well, I was thinking that-

"hupT'SCHUh! hechT-CHIEW ! huh...heuhh....HUdshcHhH! Sngkkk." Millie wiped her dripping nose on her sleeve. “Bless me. Sorry, boss.”

Blitz resumed. “That since you can't go two seconds without sneezing, Loonie and I will go out and get your medicine while you and Mox stay back and get some rest.” He wrapped his arms around Loona to give her a hug. She scowled, and although she didn't hug back, she didn't push him off. Blitz grinned.

"We can't really go on a mission with you sneezing so much, Mills, we'd probably get caught. And Stolas and I aren't exactly on...peachy terms right now so we can't expect him to come save us if we do."

Moxxie put a hand on her back, assuring her that neither he nor Blitz thought any less of her or her capabilities. Moxxie could tell how bad her allergies were back at the apartment, but she insisted she was fine. She couldn't skip work over allergies! And she definitely didn't need to.

"I'm fine, Blitz, really."

Moxxie took her hand. "Millie, honey, Blitz is right. We need our strongest fighter in tip top shape." He tapped her nose and smiled reassuringly, hoping she'd take the compliment. The second his finger lifted however, he noticed Millie's eyes shutting and her head leaning up. She lifted her hand to cover the sneeze, forgetting her husband’s fingers were still interlinked with hers.

"hUT'zchiEEWww!! snff...snff"

As the spray hit his hand, Moxxie felt an electricity spread through his skin. Heat rose into his cheeks as blood also rushed to...other areas of his body. He took in a small, but noticeably sharp, breath. "B-bless you, honey." He stuttered out.

Millie turned, a bit mortified. "Ugh, sniff sniff, sorry honey. It snuck up on mbe." She patted down her pockets, looking for something to clean off his hand with, only to come up with used tissues. "I'b all outta tissues." She snuffled, and it came out louder than she thought it would be. "Exusbe mbe."

Blitz quickly glanced down the same place Moxxie had glanced. Ohhhh. That makes sense, he thought to himself. He'd noticed Moxxie's...peculiar behavior around sneezing before, but he always chalked it up to being uptight. Moxxie could be pretty hoity toity sometimes, so Blitz always assumed his gunman was a germaphobe. But a part of him always wondered if it was more than that.

He had his answer now. He watched with a smug grin on his face as Moxxie shyly offered Millie a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket. God, how did he manage to be that much of a gentleman while he was that horny?

"We'll get some more tissues too. I was gonna run out anyway. Your snot isn't the only...bodily fluid that comes out frequently here. Bye M&M!"

Loona didn't look up from her phone as she walked out the door. Blitz lingered in the doorway a while, locking eyes with Moxxie. He taunted his employee, watching him blush harder as a shit eating grin spread across his face.

"Have fun while we're gone. Bye, Millie Billieeeeee!”

Millie watched them walk out the door before slumping her head on his husbands shoulder. “I think all this congestion is makin’ mby head tense up.”

At the sound of her suddenly lower, raspier voice softly hitting his ears, Moxxie felt his tail pointing and smiled. “I can help with that…”

TBC…

[bekkachaos]

I just think it's fucking wild how novels, like published books, average between 70,000 and 120,000 words and there are fanfic authors out there posting regular 80k+ works for free, for the love of the thing (or in spite of the thing)

[seeminglydark]

large unnamed web comic website spam-mailing me every single day for a week with those 'you haven't updated Mil-Liminal in a while' emails I KNOW IM SORRY YOU THINK I DONT KNOW? they sound like they're sending out a wellness check any day now. guess i better get on that.

[doulayogimama]

I have been sick 3x in 12 hours. Twice while I was trying to sleep.

Boy or girl, after this I am DONE 😬

[sweetpupii]

si escribo un fanfic sobre arcane como especial de navidad pero en español lo leerian? 😞 quiero probar escribir en mi propio idioma porque llevo muchos días haciendo tarea de literatura y leyendo AUs en twt xD

lo quiero hacer muy latinoamericano, obviamente argentino. o sea; mosquitos, off, calor, pelopincho, sanguchitos de miga, ensalada de fruta, peleas intrafamiliares ( ahre ), y todo eso :3

que opinan? no se hagan los boludos, les veo los username cuando dan like así q sé q hablan español 🥱

[static-radio-ao3]

jarty microfic // words: 478

had this saved as "jarty sports?" which pretty much sums it up

It’s a little heady. A little thick. The smell of sweat clings to his nostrils, fills his lungs. James tries not to seem to eager to breathe it in, but he is. Adrenaline still hums in his veins, the comedown from a win always a little slower.

The bus jostles him where he’s slouched low on the bench, hood pulled over his head and arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to sleep, or at least convince others that he’s asleep. But that never stopped Barty.

“Psst,” Barty hisses. When James doesn’t respond, he flicks the top of his head.

“Sleeping,” James mumbles.

“Lying,” Barty replies. James cracks open a single eye. Blames the way his pupil dilates on the sudden influx of light.

Barty is leaning over the back of the seat, his too-sharp chin digging into the bright blue vinyl. His hair is damp with sweat and tousled and James clenches his hands into fists to avoid clenching them in Barty’s hair instead. He wants to pull.

Wants to force Barty’s head up so he bares his neck, a perfect place for James’ teeth to sink in.

“Need anything?” James manages. His voice is low, a growl waiting to crawl out of his mouth.

Barty smiles that awful smile at him. One corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other, a flash of teeth and that stupid smiley piercing and James wants to lick. “Whatever you’ll give me.”

“You know the answer to that.” Because there’s nothing James would ever willingly give Barty. Barty, who shows up to practise dressed up in the night before. Barty, whose water bottle is probably filled with vodka at any given moment. Barty, who despite all this still seems to be the best player on the team.

Never mind the fact that James shows up early. That James does the work. That James actually cares.

“Sure do. I also know you’re lying again.” Barty raises his index and pointer fingers in a mock-salute. “That’s strike two, Potter. Don’t make me give you a red card.”

Barty, who gets a red card during nearly every game he plays. Barty, who once got James a red card by being so fucking stupid that James hit this own teammate.

It’s still a sore spot.

“I’m not lying,” James sighs. He lets his head roll against the window, the pane buzzing a little under his head, and trains his eyes on the road. Anything to look away from the drop of sweat rolling down Barty’s temple.

“Maybe not to me,” Barty shrugs. “But you sure are lying to someone.”

When James doesn’t reply, Barty just sighs. Drops back down into his seat. Disappears from James’ line of sight.

James tells himself the feeling in his gut is relief. Because he hates Barty and he doesn’t want a single thing from him.

Strike three.

[semiautocatgirl]

Command's public messaging about the pilot being the most expensive part of the mech is exactly what the public wants to hear, but it's not quite accurate. It centers the pilot in the system, humanizes the war instrument to them. However, anyone who's spent 10 minutes in a repair bay knows that's far from the truth. Watching the concerningly thin human component stumble out of a sweaty cockpit isn't quite the image of a heroic ace-in-a-day maverick fighter pilot triumphantly striding down the runway that most expect.

The most expensive part in a mech is always up for debate; half of the parts cost more than the GDP of a small nation, and the other half don't even legally exist. Still, the techs can usually get a good idea of any given part's objective value by how loudly the head repair officer shouts when something is dropped.

The most expensive part of the pilot? Easy — the plugsuit. A stolen bodysock worn on a mission with five or more kills can sell for easily triple an average tech's monthly stipend.

[girlsdads]

*ringing giant bell in town square* 💦🚽 fic has hit 5k!

[darksouls2yuri]

@sherbovania shrimp AND henry

[wriokitty]

I think suguru has one of those moms that like expect u to let her in the delivery room while ur having a baby