#Omie's writing

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Tea cup lights

welp, this is out of order, but still wanted to do it! From my GT story "Little Library Mouse: Fallout idea" have the two later on, on their adventure.

This part was inspired by @mari-gt 's art here. As well as @amii-bo 's art here. .o. go look at their amazing art and blogs and stuff its so neat and cool! @horseyneigh2002 @raventroll80 @noris-stoneward you might like??

okay, here's my silly. .

Tea Cup Lights: How his tiny companion had managed to move a bit of coal from his cooking fire to her area he was ont sure. Impressed for sure, but worried. Granted the hot coal was small enough to fit in a bottle cap. So maybe it was a piece that crackled off and away from the fire.

“You okay there sister?” John asked as he settled down in the inside-camp with a freshly killed mole rat being put in a glass dish pan. He only really liked the wild ones, from out of the city. They had fuzzy hides and did not taste as weird. It tasted more like a rabbit to him.

He should get a rabbit soon, as much to share with his tiny companion. As to save the hide and fur for Cassidy and her family back in the library.

John smiled a bit at the jump, before the tiny woman looked up where she was kneeling trying to coax her coal to a life again. She gave a deep breath and nodded, “yeah… yes. I- oh no it went out.”

John set the mole rat and dish aside, shifting to stretch out on his side near but not too close to Cassidy. The ghoul-man’s dark eyes taking in the little camp Cassidy had been starting to set up through the broken cabinet. “What were ya trying to do with the dishes in there, little sister?”

Cassidy sat back, taking a deep breath, sitting on her knees as she looked up at the giant. Grateful he had laid down partly so he was not as towering. She looked down at the once little fire attempt in her bottle cap. Her cheeks flushed, “I was trying to set up a bath… it's been a few days and I feel gross after we crossed that river… you saved me from the mud! But….it's just…”

Cassidy tossed her arms out, waving them to show her normally green and brown dyed clothes were very…. Grey. And she knew she smelled still. “Gross. I was going to try and clean my clothes and… me since you said we would camp so early.”

The giant man tilted his head, blinked those eerier but pretty black eyes before he looked down and took a slow, deep breath. He made a face and then a sheepish look. “I think I got nose blind, eh?”

There was a soft giggle that Cassidy was trying to hold in.

John smiled, his scarring pulling it lopsided to the left. He gave a playful snort. “Can I help?”

He at least found some preserved clothes to change into, in the old building their camp was in. John watched Cassidy look between the cabinets, John himself, and then to the small cooking fire, to him. A massive bonfire to her little self. He could see the moment Cassidy realized that she could ask for some help. 

“...can I have some warm water?” Cassidy finally asked, turning back. 

John nodded, having no problem with that as he started to sit up. Glancing at the fire and the pot of water on the other side. It was not boiling but just starting to simmer. “What were you wanting to use as a little sister?”

Cassidy looked relieved and sat up, “There's a few bowls and… I think it's a tea cup? One or both I can make use of, for sure.” 

John shifted, starting to reach around Cassidy and carefully checked the door of the cabinet. It took a second but the door popped free and squeaked open to show the neat stacks of dishes inside. John could see the miniature camp under one of the wire racks for plates. And bowls. He saw a stack of clothes to the far left. 

“Okay, scoot so I can reach things better, Cassidy.” John said as the ghoul started to move closer. Pausing to let his tiny companion pick up the cap and moved to be by the first door opened. Watching with wide eyes as John carefully pried open the other door to the cabinet. Cassidy always looked up at him with that odd wonder as he moved dishes from under the cabinet to the counter above. Like he was the strongest person in the world.

Maybe he was, to her.

It was… an oddly nice feeling.

“I’ll put the plates back before we go,” John explained, as he was testing the wire rack. “This is getting old, but it’ll be fine for the next few days.”

“Days?” Cassidy asked confused as she stood beside the open cabinet to see what John was doing. Backing up as he lowered a cup, more coffee mug, to her level. Cassidy grasped the edge, it was about even with her neck as she rested her hands on the side. “Oh… this would be lovely…”

She would just need a few steps to get in, and maybe something inside. To brace against that while inside of the smooth walls, there should be some nice pebbles for that! 

“We’re pretty much at the old mall location,” John said, leaving the mug and then reaching for those cloths to the far left. Finding the best looking of them, setting one beside Cassidy’s little camp area under the wire rack, then paused, “Where do you want the mug once the doors are closed?”

“Beside the support pole?” Cassidy asked, peering in. “That would help me get a hand hold if there’s not some clean pebbles.”

“Pebbles?” John asked, tilting his head. 

“I can climb in and out with it dry, and grippy shoes.” Cassidy leaned on the cool, but still large coffee mug, bouncing a bit beside it. Then as she still had her shoes on, the rubber-leather ones. Able to climb up and then sit on the side of the mug, kicking her legs inside the mug as she balanced. She hopped down into the mug, finding it was a little taller on the inside so she could fold her arms comfortably on the edge and look up at John. Having found that sometimes it was a lot easier to show the giant man something then trying to explain it. 

 “I need steps. And a pebble inside would help me keep my balance. It’s too slick to climb out of without shoes, and it, everything, being wet.” Cassidy paused, realizing she was being stared at, “Are you okay, John?”

“Why,” The man took a breath and sighed before his scarred hands moved to wrap around the mug, hesitating for a moment. With no protest though, he carefully lifted Cassidy up so they could look at eachother better. “Do you have to be so godsdamn cute, little sister?”

Cassidy flushed, not expecting that as she hid her face against the ceramic for a moment. “I can’t be that cute.”

“You really are,” John chuckled as he tapped the side of the cup’s rim. Pausing as a miniscule hand patted his finger tip. “Now, under the rack you wanted?”

Cassidy nodded, still fighting her blush as her mug was set down gently. Shifting as John gently tilted the mug on its side to let her out in the area. But paused as Cassidy moved to tug on his fingers to set the mug solidly on it’s side under the rack, “Yeah, I liked this spot. and this here. Can you set it up?”

“Yes Ma’am.” John drawled, amused but agreeable as he reached for those cloths again. Setting the top one aside and then inspecking the others before moving the coffee mug. A little dust but shaking them to the side he offered one of the smaller wash cloths. “...or, can you use these instead? There's a few.” 

Cassidy looked up and came over to his hand, smoothing her own over the clean coth. It really was just a bit of dust that was shaken off. “What is it made of? It's still so soft…” 

“It’s one of those pre-war materials. Some were made with… what did Daisy call it…? ‘Synthetic fibers’ that last a long time.” John said as he stretched his legs out, using the tip of his shoe out of sight from Cassidy to nudge the water pot a bit farther away from the fire. “You can find them in hidden spots like here. Just clean them up, shake off dust if any. Good as new.”

“How many are you going to need?” Cassidy wondered, just managing to pull up the washcloth up into her arms. It looked like a large quilt to her frame as she fought a yawn.

“I don’t need more than one of the bigger ones to wash up.” John slipped his hand away and then inspected the rest of the washcloths, at a concerned look up he grinned and added, “I think I saw some old clothes upstairs sister, I can change out of the mud stained stuff. But a full bath is a lot harder for my big ass to do, than for you. Just because I’m stuck cleaning up a little slower, doesn’t mean you can’t get a bath before bed.”

“Are you sure?” Cassidy fussed, putting the cloth into the mug. She looked back and squeaked as her big protector put the stack of washcloths down by her other things. Then flipped one of the bigger cloths over the wire rack to make a tent almost. She saw how John set several aside in the cabinet, keeping a good four for himself. “I feel guilty…”

“No need to, little sister. You can enjoy the advantages of being small on a trip. Now… how about this?” The giant, scarred man sat back a moment to consider all the dishes still in the cabinet. Reaching up to the second shelf that Cassidy has not explored yet. Bringing down something she had only seen in pictures of cooking books. “Would this work better? About the same amount of water but not as much…drowning risk.”

“Is that a… ramekin?” Cassidy marveled once it was set down, she had only seen pictures in books! It was a good two and a half inches deep! Shallower than the mug but it was almost twice as long as she was tall. 

“Not sure,” John admitted, looking it over, no cracks at all. It was in great condition like the other dishes, the inside even looked clean, so he was trying not to touch it. “Big enough for you to do all the cleaning stuff?”

“Yes,” Cassidy nodded, she lit up and asked as John was shifting away, “I didn't get up to that table yet, the big one you set your bags, but the box up there? Does it really say candles?”

John glanced over as he hunched by the fire. “It does, good eye sister. Here… this is for you- don't jump in it's still hot. I'll check it out.”

The giant, scarred man set the odd bowl-ramiken thing down on one of the larger cloths. Getting up to walk across the room and checking the box. It looked like a part of supplies someone- likely that skeleton in the bedroom, had tried to gather supplies. Or salvage some?

The cardboard broke just under the light pressure of his fingers, and the plastic under. Yet even he could smell wax, old but still good as far as he could tell. Four larger candles, two medium and the rest of the space of the once box had been filled with those tea-cup candles of different colors. He knew of several pre war ladies who liked them, and Daisy always seemed to buy them from scavengers. About as big as a small bundle of caps, in a tiny tin or aluminum cup. 

They were cute. 

John tapped the wax, still seemed good. He reached into a pocket to find his familiar lighter, lighting one. Almost dropped it as the wax was not attached to its tin. But after a few seconds he was sure the tea-cup candles would stay lit, John picked up a good handful in his now free left hand before coming back. 

“You were right, little sister,” John said, glancing at the still open cabinet, crouching down to place the lit candle down by the tiny camp. Grinning at the just delighted and amazed gasp before he set the others of different colors near. “Candles! But more of them are closer to your size. Daisy calls them tea-cup candles. I think. But that will give enough light for you in there?”

“It's giving so much heat too,” Cassidy marveled, coming over to feel the warmth. Lighting up herself as she took a deep breath, it smelled really good too! She looked at the other candles and then upwards, judging but the cloth above seemed to be safely well out of the range of any danger. With the wire rack- her cloths might dry really well in here!

Cassidy looked up at the large dark eyes of her guardian. “This is amazing John!”

“There's more than enough for you to use here, and we have enough to take back your home.” John grinned as he sat back on his heels, “Gonna close the doors, mostly. Get yourself a bath sister. I'll get dinner and breakfast ready.”

“John?” Cassidy bounced over to the edge of the cabinet as one door was closed and as she motioned as if for him to get closer. Or motioned to his right hand. She caught the larger hand, not at all bothered by the old radiation scars, but wrapped her arms around two of his fingers. Hugging them as tight as she could. “That you John, for taking me with you to get things for the colony. For protecting me from those monsters at the river.”

Oh.

Oh no.

His rad-withered heart was leaking out of his chest. 

It took a few seconds for the startled man to get his thoughts together. And flexed his other hand over his chest as if that would keep his heart there let alone his composure. His voice dropped into a low rumble as John dared to rub the pad of his thumb against the tiny young woman's side. 

“Oh, don't do that… you're melting what's left of my insides.” The ghoul-man tried to start then face up pretty quick as little eyes looked up at him. 

“Affection isn't going to make you combust.”

He hummed, shoulders dropping but kept his hand still while it was captured. “...you're welcome Cassidy. Now get, I still have to skin that molerat.”

“Save the hide? Please?” Cassidy ask as she finally released the large hand and moved back to the warm light of the tea candle while the other cabinet door closed almost all the way like before.

“That was the plan.” John rumbled, moving back to his fire in a big, swallow pan. Something from the once water heater of the next building over. With that on a rug it was as safe as he could do for now. “I think more of your leathery self is melting than just your mushy heart.”

But.

He liked this. Exploring about, and maybe it was also nice to be seen as a friend as well as a protector.

He liked being just John, even if only for a week or two. Not being a scary ghoul. Or The Scary Ghoul Mayor Hancock.

It was also the strangest, and funniest thing getting scolded by someone only three and a half inches too tall for running into a spider web.

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Why you call me out?!

[neoheros]

there are very little things in this world that sakusa deems valuable enough to not risk – his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

he isn’t a gambler but he is an athlete and when you’re in his shoes, playing in the big leagues, thousands of people watching, looking, judging, there are a lot of risks you have to look out for.

he has to be quiet, polite, say the right thing, say it in the right tone, say it in the right time, otherwise, he risks his job and reputation.

he has to be focused, agile, ready for any change in the volleyball world the minute - the second - it happens, otherwise, he risks getting left behind, getting replaced by someone better, newer than him.

he has to be a lot of things and the risks of not being any of it puts him in a corner - cold and confining.

all of it, he hates with a passion, he hates with an effort. so he doesn’t take any risks at all. not when it comes to his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

but you – you are probably the riskiest person he has ever met.

i mean, you guys work together for god’s sake. it’s an HR crisis waiting to happen. it puts everything he’s worked hard for at risk — his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

but still.

you always know the right things to say to him, always know the right time he’s gonna be there or the right place to sit where he sees you so clearly even in the middle of the court.

everytime you talk to him, everytime you touch him, everytime you say his name or bring him coffee, everytime you watch him play or everytime he sees you outside of work — there is a feeling in his chest and he almost hates it.

“there’s a new ramen restaurant in miyagi that i’ve been wanting to try…” sakusa clears his throat, standing a few inches away from the lockers as everyone gets their shoes on.

it’s a little bit after 4pm, practice for the day had just ended, and well, meian always tells him he needed to socialize more with the rest of the group.

the locker room is stuffy and sweaty and to be honest, he’s never really been fond of the smell wafting in the air, so he always makes it a point to be the first one out the door after he’s done changing.

today though, he stays, hangs around everybody, and even if he hates it, he goes, “does anyone want to come with me tonight?”

hinata looks up at him from his shoes, “sorry omi, gotta take natsu to the dentist after practice, i dunno how long it’ll take us.”

he gives hinata a short nod — that’s fine.

“kaashi and i are seeing a movie around 7, but next time, man, i promise.” bokuto says, his hand on his neck, apologetic, almost.

another nod — that’s fine, too.

well, at least now, sakusa couldn’t say he didn’t try to socialize more. it’s the preferable outcome for him anyway, he’s better going off on it alone.

atsumu’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, loud and too cheerful for someone who just performed 4 diving laps, “i could go with ya, omi!”

and out of instinct, he replies “no, thank you.”

his blond teammate looks like he’s gonna say something after his response but you speak before he gets the chance to.

“well, i don’t mind coming, omi.” you say, and he blinks - how long have you been there?

there’s a knot in his stomach. “tonight?”

(he thinks, please say no, please say no, please say no.)

you nod at him, “it’s gonna be snowing so some ramen would be perfect.”

he nods at you - unable to say anything else, really - and he clears his throat, looking at atsumu, who he’s now just been really appreciative of for existing all of a sudden.

“then it will be you, me, and miya?” he asks, and he wants to keep his voice quiet now, untrusting of it.

(in the corner of his eye, he sees hinata step on atsumu’s foot and he goes “ow, whaddya do that for!” bokuto gives him a look, similar to the one hinata has, and atsumu catches on.)

sakusa gives the three of them a warning look, begging, actually begging, anyone who’d listen in that silly head of his for them not to do anything stupid.

“sorry man,” atsumu flashes him a grin, and he feels his knees go weak. “i forgot i had some plans tonight, i don’t think i’ll be able to go.”

lord, forgive sakusa kiyoomi for he’s gonna kill somebody.

he wants to say something, but before he could, you beat him to it.

“perfect.” you smile, “more for us then. right, omi?”

sakusa swallows the lump in his throat, and gives you a short nod, “yeah.”

you gather your things in your hand, “i’ll come over to your place, then?”

(words that make his knees feel even weaker.)

another nod. “yes, that’s fine.”

and he regains his composure, the worst of it over, but before you turn to leave, you flash him another one of your smiles, and he wishes you would just go so he can feel his pulse return to normal again.

“it’s a date.” you say, and you’re out the door.

sakusa’s face has a whisper of a light pinkishness to it and unable to think about it too much, he blames it on the open window letting the cold in.

the second the door closes, the locker room erupts in cheers, “way to go, omi!” “you’re going on a date!” and “it’s finally happening!”

there’s a knot in his stomach, and atsumu claps him on his back.

he rolls his eyes at the group, shaking his head as he whispers something along the lines of “whatever” or “its not a big deal.”

but his face feels hot and his pulse feels like its drumming against his skin, but, he can blame that on the cold too.

the sun goes down quicker than sakusa hoped it would, it’s 6:47pm now and you’ll be arriving in no later than 13 minutes.

he takes a good look at his apartment, ransacked and messy, the complete opposite of its usual state.

there’s a knock on his door and he feels his heart beat out of his chest at the sound.

he opens it with a fervor, “i asked you to come 30 minutes ago.”

“it’s a 30 minute walk.” behind the door is atsumu, sheepish smile on his face, hands shoved into his pockets as he pushes past the brunette and into the apartment.

“woah, this place is a mess.” atsumu says aloud, even him surprised at the disarray.

“i didn’t know what to wear.” sakusa admits, and he feels embarrassment course through his skin.

“i’ll say.” the blond replies, but he doesn’t tease. “you alright, omi?”

sakusa sighs – he really isn’t. his nerves are killing him and there’s an intense nervousness that pools in his belly. you make him nervous, did you know that?

“maybe i should cancel.” he says, and he looks at himself in the mirror again — coat, scarf, gloves, check, check, check.

“what? don’t do that.” atsumu shakes his head, “it’s five minutes ‘til 7.”

he’s probably right, sakusa thinks, you’re probably on your way by now, and even with the chilling weather outside, he feels way too hot for his own good.

he takes off his gloves to alleviate some of the warmth, placing it on his dresser as he paces.

“you’re an asshole, right?” sakusa says suddenly, “punch me in the face, take me to the ER, and i will reschedule whatever this night is to when i’m readier.”

(he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready, to be honest.)

“even if i do really want to punch you in the face right now, that is so not gonna happen.”

“being your friend is useless to me.”

“yet, i’m the one you called over here.”

the doorbell rings and the both of them freeze in their places, sakusa looks over to the clock and how is it 7 already? and must you be on time for everything?

you’re already here and his place is a mess and atsumu freaking miya is standing in the middle of his apartment.

he says the first thing he can think of, “hide.”

atsumu looks at him, “what?”

he insists, “hide now.”

“are ya nuts? your apartment is a shoebox, where the hell am i hiding in here?” atsumu shakes his head, and he follows sakusa’s eyes in response as he tilts his body to look over to the bed.

“no fuckin way, nuh uh.” he backs away, “i am not hiding under there.”

the doorbell rings again and atsumu feels the nerves getting to him too.

“please. i’ll owe you.”

and atsumu wants to say no - really, he does - he’s not some teenager caught with his pants down and has to be stashed away under a bed, but sakusa looks at him in a way that makes him unrecognizable.

sakusa may not know it, but everyone can tell, every single one of them on the team knows, just how much this means to him.

(after all, the only people in msby black jackals who don’t know that sakusa likes you are sakusa and you.)

so he relents, and he gets on his knees near the bed before he scurries off under it. “you so owe me for this.”

sakusa feels embarassed – ashamed, really. he’s actually invested in this - in this date, and he wishes he was kidding, but he’s not, and he hates it.

he opens the door, and you’re there, and it’s always nice to see you outside of work.

“hi.” he says, and he doesn’t know what else to say.

“hi.” you say back, and for a second, it’s quiet.

another second passes, “can i come in?”

and he wants to kick himself, “yes. of course.”

“it’s freezing tonight.” you make polite small talk, “good thing i wore my coat.”

“it looks nice.” he nods, and he is grateful you don’t say anything about the mess of his apartment. it takes him another beat to realize what he said, and he feels embarrassed, although he doesn’t know why, so he follows up, “the coat.”

he wants to hit himself. he sounds like he’s just talking about the coat.

“you as well.” he says again. “not just the coat, i meant to say. you and the coat are nice looking. both of you.” he wants to stop talking – why is he still talking?

he looks at you, “where’d you - uh - buy it?”

great, now he sounds like he wants to take the fucking coat.

there’s a sound almost like snickering coming from under the bed but before you could look over to it sakusa clears his throat again.

“i’m ready to go,” he says suddenly, “are you?”

you haven’t been able to get a word in all night it seems, but it makes you smile - amused, and you nod, “yes.”

the night starts off okay, it’s quiet though, and he thinks, are dates supposed to be quiet?

“you okay there, omi?” you break the silence, and he wonders if you can tell what he’s been thinking.

“yeah.” a short reply, “just cold.”

you nod, “ah.”

in an effort to keep the conversation going, and the sudden realization that he may be the reason why it’s such a quiet evening, he looks to the side, and tells you, as the two of you walk the pavement to the train station:

“i forgot my gloves.”

there’s a pink hue on his ears, and he’s grateful you don’t tease him about it.

you stop walking for a moment, so he stops too.

he watches you as you work, taking the left glove on your hand off and he says nothing when you ask him to give you his left hand.

“here.” you slip on your left glove on his left hand, and it’s a snug fit, but it is warm.

then you say, “do you mind?”

and he doesn’t know what you’re talking about until you put your - now, ungloved - left hand to his -also, ungloved - right hand. fingers interlacing.

“this way, it’ll stay warm, don’t you think?”

he doesn’t trust his voice and he’s more grateful for the snow now as he finds it being his excuse for how red his ears are getting. he can only nod his head, keeping his nose tucked in under his scarf.

his lips tremble and he’s not so sure if it’s from the cold or from you.

sakusa doesn’t gamble. he doesn’t like the risks of it all. he always feels there’s always gonna be too much to lose rather than gaining anything beneficial for him.

so no – there are very little things in the world he cares enough about for him to risk anything for.

“better?” you say, and he tries harder to focus on your voice rather than your warm hand.

“yes.”

you smile and he thinks it’s really nice. “so, why was atsumu under your bed?”

his face feels hot now, his first instinct to deny that there ever was any man named atsumu under his bed, but he knows that look you’re giving him, and he knows it would be pointless to lie.

still, he doesn’t know what to say to you.

“omi?”

but then again, he never knows what to say to you.

“… i asked him to come help me get ready.”

you tilt your head, “get ready for?”

the silence becomes your answer and sakusa feels his face burn. it feels like embarrassment – but it also feels like something else.

“oh.”

and unexpectedly, you laugh, and when he hears it, for the first time all evening, his nerves finally cool on him, and he laughs too.

you bump your shoulders with his, playful, “if it helps to know, i was nervous too.”

“because of me?” he doesn’t really believe you, he doesn’t think anything can make someone like you nervous, but you, on the other hand, make him nervous all the time.

“well, you don’t really talk to me at work,” you shrug, your voice sounding teasing, “i didn’t think you liked me all that much, to be honest.”

“sorry.” he says in quiet laughter, and he can’t bring himself to look at you.

you look at him though, and he wishes that you wouldn’t. he can hear the smile in your voice still, “for what?”

“for this shitty date.”

that makes you laugh even more and he feels like it’s gonna make him fall over.

“well, we haven’t even gotten to the restaurant yet so jury’s still out on whether it’s shitty or not.” you squeeze his hand, teasing.

(and he rolls his eyes, nerves gone, and feeling much better now that he’s talking to you.)

you are probably the riskiest person he’s ever met. you put everything on the line.

by all things considered, he should stay far, far away from you — you jeopardize it all, you could take all he’s ever worked for away.

but everytime you talk to him, everytime you touch him, everytime you say his name or bring him coffee — there is a feeling in his stomach that envelops his entire body and the corner he’s been backed into doesn’t feel as cold or as confining.

you smile at him and he wants it all: he wants to wake up next to you, he wants to fall asleep and you’re the last person he sees, he wants to drive you to work and he wants you to come home with him after the day is over.

“besides,” you say, and the snow may be cold, but his face feels warm.

your voice is soft, “you can just keep taking me on them until we get it right.”

the risk is you could take everything he’s ever worked for, his game, his career, his reputation, his name. but you smile at him and your hand is warm against his and your laugh feels like it’s gonna make him fall over, and he thinks, okay — take it all, it’s already yours anyway.

[jesuistrestriste]

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws @oncefaist ♡

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Omg I'm using some of these in my writing now

-wheeze-

Slayer's going to have so much fun

Things you can stay instead of "k1lled", "murked" or "unalived":

involuntarily converted to room temperature

cancelled on a corporeal level

successfully transitioned into fertiliser

rendered permanently horizontal

sent to investigate the potential existence of an afterlife

[choccy-milky]

ominis sandwich 🥪🥹 (( from a oneshot called scriptorium to sepulcher! it takes place after the scriptorium, where ominis is still depressed about finding his aunt noctua dead, and so clora and seb try to cheer him up💕 thank you again for writing this RGKO!! ))

[blastzachilles]

— One of Your Girls .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: MRTA + 2019!ARTRICK WORD COUNT: 1.8k CW: mentions of blood, guns, knives

a/n: baby's first fanfic!! i love these two so much, they've infected my brain an unhealthy amount. this is loosely related to troye sivan's 'one of your girls' which i compared in this post to being art's perspective talking about patrick, and wanted to write more about it. i also actively consulted the script so the sauna dialogue is directly ripped from that LMFAO. i hope you enjoy, and any comments or feedback is greatly appreciated!! <3 big thank you to my lovely beta readers!

— Patrick saw the way Art looked at him when he walked in. 

His gaze a little lower than it should have been for the respectable tennis player, for the man married to the woman who was once the Duncanator. 

“When we were teenagers.” Art says. No. Not says, stings, like frostbite, his voice cold and unwavering. No wonder he was Ice.

The sharpness of his words are a bullet through Patrick, dangerously inching closer to his heart every time.

“Right. When we were teenagers.” Patrick gets up this time, but he’s still bleeding out. A few more shots and he’ll be a goner. 

He just wants Art to see him. Patrick thinks he never has. 

How wrong he was. 

Before they were teenagers both obsessed with the goddess who fell from grace, they were boys. 

Boys who did everything together. Who laughed, cried (no matter how many times they denied it), and most importantly, loved together. 

And boy, did Art love Patrick. 

Patrick, who comforted Art when they were twelve, when Art was just learning how to live by himself. Patrick, who went out at absurd hours of the night with Art, just because he wanted a walk. Patrick, who stayed up with Art hours before an exam, not caring about the material, but knowing Art needed it. 

Patrick, who made Art feel like he was the most important person in the world. 

Patrick taught him everything, how to jerk off, how to talk to girls, how to be Art. It was all Patrick.

But nothing can stay in bloom forever, and they transitioned from boys to teenagers. 

Art watched Patrick grow, as his face matured, as it grew sharper, as he started twisting his face into that one smirk Patrick knew would get into any girl’s pants. The one that made you feel like you were everything.

He knew because Patrick tested it on him first. Art still remembers it clear as day.

In their dorm, sixteen years old, Fire and Ice had decided they were going to their first party. 

“Hey, Art.” 

“Yeah?” Art was tired. It was past midnight, and he knew he was going to be up late the next day. He just wanted to sleep. 

But Patrick’s next words had him more awake than drinking any amount of pure caffeine. 

“I think I’m gonna try to get some tonight.” Patrick says, and Art doesn’t even have to roll over to see the smug grin on Patrick’s face as he stares at the ceiling. 

“Okay?”

“Wanna help me try some things out?” 

Art didn’t know how he could help, all he knew was that he wanted to. So against his better judgement, he rolled over in his twin bed, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge.

“Sure.” 

Art remembers the research that ensued, the work done to help Patrick finally get lucky, their faces when they found out sometimes all you needed was a simple expression. The way Patrick’s face contorted, twisted, in a form of gymnastics, before making a perfect landing.

Art’s face had never felt so hot, and he swore he was going to end up in cardiac arrest the way his heart skipped. 

“That one.” Too loud. Too fast. 

He says it again.

“That one.” This time it’s too small. Too confused. Too emotional.

Patrick doesn’t press. He knows better than that. He just grins like he’s won the lottery, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

And Art swears he’s in a dream, knowing his best friend thinks of him like that. Even if Patrick doesn’t mean it, which Art knows he does, all that matters is that his god, his guide, his everything has just told him that he matters, that Art’s an integral part of his life. He’ll do anything to stay that way. 

But Patrick keeps moving, growing, getting more experienced, and no matter how much he begs Art to finally get his dick wet, he never goes further than handjobs.

And always in the dark.

So he can imagine it’s Patrick’s hand wrapped around him instead, so long as he shuts his eyes tight enough. 

He wishes Patrick would see him. That Patrick would see he’d do anything for him. That Patrick would see he’d be anyone, absolutely anyone. Hell, he’d even be just like one of those girls, just to get a glimpse of Patrick, just to be his first place. 

The way he still would, even now, 31 and playing at Phil’s Tire Town Challenger, in a sauna with his ex-best friend, married to Tashi Donaldson.  

But Patrick doesn’t know. He never has, and he never will. Art will take this with him to his grave. 

There’s static in Patrick’s brain as he looks at his ex-best friend, ex-teammate, ex-everything. Begging him silently to say something, because if he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what will come out.

“You’re right. I do find it disturbing.” Another bullet, but it’s easy to deflect this one.

“Well, there’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me. None of them wanted to marry me. That’s not what I was for.” Patrick thinks this is the safe route. That Art can’t hurt him with this response.

He was dead wrong.

“Then what were you for?” 

Patrick begs that the gasp of air that left him is only in his head as he tries to cover it up with a smile. Art’s lack of acknowledgement says it was, but Patrick can’t tell if he’d say something either way. He doesn’t know Art anymore. Somehow, that thought sends another bullet through him, grazing his heart. 

A small scoff to hide his blood on the floor that he’s just begging Art to notice, and Patrick continues.

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy that I was in the draw. You’ve always wanted to beat me at a tournament, haven’t you? Especially a few weeks before the Open. It’s the perfect confidence booster.” Patrick begs to be noticed, to be acknowledged, but Art gives him nothing. Like he can’t see that Patrick is bleeding out, spilling all over the floor, just for him. 

“I know what you’re trying to do right now–”

“I’m not trying to do anything. This is a challenger. I don’t have to play mind games with you.” 

“Right. You don’t give a shit.” 

It seems Art doesn’t know Patrick either anymore, seeing as he believes Patrick doesn’t give a shit about him.

Patrick’s mind shifts in and out of static, losing oxygen as the bullet grazes his heart now. He’s set on the path of certain death, but it’s just what he’d do for Art.

Even if Art isn’t willing to see it, his mind clouded by something Patrick can’t quite tell anymore. 

“...the more I realize it’s about what didn’t happen. You didn’t grow up. You still think you can talk to me like I’m your peer because we came from the same place.” 

Patrick is internally begging Art not to continue. He won’t make it if he does. 

“But it doesn’t matter where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It only matters if you win. And I do. A lot.” 

The bullet’s a little deeper now. Threatening to finish him off. 

“You’ve never beaten me.” Patrick smiles his lopsided smile, the one he puts on when he can’t let Art tell how he feels. Patrick thinks he’s used it more in the past five minutes than in the whole seven years he had with Art. 

“So what? I’ve never beaten most of the guys who play these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.” 

Patrick’s gasping for air, begging himself not to ask the question that follows.

“I don’t matter?” He asks. 

His voice is too small. Like Art’s that one night, all those years ago. The one he ignored because he knew Art wouldn’t talk about it.

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the world.” 

Art gets bored of toying with him, not quite hitting the mark. So the bullet gets replaced with a dagger. Just the tip, slowly digging into his heart. 

“We’re not talking about tennis, Art.” 

“Then what the fuck else do you and I have to talk about?” 

Patrick’s sure that gasp was audible now. But still nothing from Art. He wonders if he’s really the same boy he met at twelve. The one who flipped his world on its axis.

“I just wanted to come in here to wish you luck.” Patrick’s voice still feels small, but a little throaty, like he’s trying his best to put on that mask of grandiosity and loudness he hid behind at school.

“That makes no sense.” 

A few centimetres deeper, agonizing, slow, every word being felt. This is personal, leaving Patrick feeling as though if he looked up to see who’s wielding the dagger, it would be Art himself. 

He can’t say he’s surprised.

When Patrick speaks next, his voice is shaky, and he doesn’t think he can say anything else without crying. He hates crying. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m looking forward to it. I miss playing with you, Art.” Patrick tacks Art’s name on at the end, something to ground them, to make it more personal again. 

To give it truth. Because Patrick means every word.

“Oh, yeah?” Art asks, his voice a boa constrictor that wraps itself around Patrick’s throat. 

Art doesn’t believe him. Doesn’t think he can. 

He doesn’t want to. It would give him hope.

So when Patrick nods, Art prepares. He readies himself, gripping the dagger hard, staring deep into Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick’s afraid Art will see everything that’s hidden beneath them, that he’ll figure everything out without even saying anything. 

But instead, it’s a stare that comes as the dagger is completely shoved through his heart.

“I don’t miss playing with you. I’m too old for it.” 

It stings. It more than stings. It’s final. 

And with that, Art walks out of the sauna, slamming the door behind him.

Leaving Patrick bleeding out alone, a gaping hole through his heart, inflicted by the one person who gave him heart. 

And Patrick just sits there. And he thinks. He thinks about what he would give to go back to being teenagers again. To being boys.

He thinks about what he’d do to feel like he was Art’s again. 

Before all of Art’s fame, before he became the face of men’s tennis. Before all of Art’s brand deals and galas and partnerships. Before his face was an icon synonymous with the pro tennis circuit. 

He’d do just about anything. He’d keep it secret, make sure nothing ever got out. Anything, to get back to when they were teenagers. 

To when he wasn’t Art Donaldson, but just Art. 

To when Art was Patrick’s, even if he never did anything about it. 

Oh, what he’d give to be one of his girls. 

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

The Grim Deep Dark 01: The Depths

@thespiritofcliffhangers @horseyneigh2002 @noris-stoneward @raventroll80 you guys might like this?

Just, don't mind me, scratching part of the serial numbers off characters and punting them in an AU out of season so to say. this got a lot longer then I thought it would be, as per normal for me...here's hoping I don't regret it and get nomed on by the fandom in the bad way.

..x.x.x.x.. [chapter 2]

The Depths:

The mass was coming up from the depths, listening to the tones that drifted through the water. He was not in his creature form at the moment, but was ready to shift if needed. The long body blending into the darkness of the deep abyss. Searching through the drifting sounds of the background, listening with his whole self. 

…there. 

His lost sons, barely singing, not anything meant to carry, maybe talking admits themselves. They were not far then, and the leviathan mer twitched one of his fins, brushing against the oldest of his sons currently with him. 

“You found them?” The rough voice asked as he swam up near his head, colors and bioluminescence lights were dimmed. 

“Yes… they are shallower than I expected.” he looked up at the faint haze of almost light. Twitching other fins to let his escort of sons know to keep following him in the dark and stay quiet. “Not far, come.”

“Yes father.” the scarred mer rumbled and dropped to keep pace behind the bigger giant’s shoulder. It was not a slow trip up, but steady to not stress the body unnecessarily.

Then he caught the scent of blood, not his sons, but something was recently dead in the water above. A little more and he recognized the scent in the water of an abyssal beast. Freshly dead and torn open, were his sons risking processing the beast there? Or had something else happened?

The Leviathan was unsure as he tracked, thinking he could use both stomachs to transport more food for the rest of his clan. Were his younger sons so starved to risk staying shallower to the top current for food?

Finally voices he heard, clearer despite the background sounds. No one seemed in pain… no, one was possibly injured as they were staying mostly quiet but a few tell tail sounds of…sick? Concerned, the leviathan picked up his stalking pace to something that covered more distance. His sons were all more than able to surf his own wake.

“-aaallmost. Come on boy, that’s it, you’re safe now, I promise that we killed it. It can’t eat you again, nothing can now.”

“...aren’t we technically big enough to eat it?”

“....!!!!??!” There was a startled sound and then a distinctly baby kreel of sound before several voices groaned. 

“.... and he’s back in the far corner of the cave. Fangs, Leandros, why would you say that? I almost had the pup out.”

“That took hours to get the pup almost out, why would you ask something that stupid?”

“What? It’s true and, well, it’s not like the pup will last very long in the deep. It’s practically skin and bones.”

“Quiet,” A stronger voice growled out, the small sub-pod leader had. Lifting into the water and listening before the dark waters lit up. He was not the only one to have his cropped dorsal fin clamped down as the real giant came up to the level of the cliff face they were. “Lord Leviathan! Father…?”

“What is going on here?” the deep voice rumbled as he grasped the side of the rock face. Head tilting to look at where there was another distressed yowl of sound… from the rocks? It was a sound even he instinctively recognized, though it had been a very long time since he had seen any of his sons in a hatchling stage. He was mostly shining light on the area, taking in the dead beast. It had been dragged to the ledge and split open from gut to almost all the way up the next. His older sons were spreading out, inspecting the scene.

It had been diving from above before this group had managed to kill it. And split the beast open to check its stomachs?

“We were tracking an injured abyssal beast,” the oldest of the group spoke up, his fins flailing a bit while staying at attention, “It came back down within the current cycle, trailing blood. After we killed it, Titus noticed it was notably…full.”

“What was in it, after you split it?” The Leviathan asked, leaning over the edge and letting the light that came off himself spill over the open cavity. Seeing pale, mer-like figures spread out on the wide ledge where they had been pulled out, and would not be, what might be a few thin tails. He cupped a cold, stuff form in two hands, trying to see if there was any blood left. The hide felt weirdly soft, and not the way acid burns normally did. “Was it just eating torsos?”

“That… is ah,” the senior paused and looked over at where one of his men were sprawled in the rocks and peering into a small space between them. Making a content low rumble of sound- and there was a tiny hissing back at Titus. The senior of the scout pod turned back. “I don't think whatever the beast gouged on were all mers, Father. They are akin to us I think, but a few are whole enough to see no fins. And far smaller than us. Even the one mostly intact mers, I've never seen the like. I can't recognize any clan features, none have armor, let alone any made from a leviathan father. Like you let us use your old scales.”

“Hmm…” the Leviathan looked upwards, seeing evidence of the fight trail. His sons had gotten very close to the top current line. “There's a pod under the current?”

This scout pod looked at eachother, looking distinctly unsure enough that two of the Leviathan's older, surviving sons came back to eye the group. 

“They had to be.” Leandros said firmly. “There’s nothing beyond the current.”

“The beast dove into the current when we lost it,” the scout pod leader spoke up himself, ignoring the younger warrior. “We waited almost a full cycle of the current and it bursted through before the current picked up the other way. From what I could see of that pup before he hid, they aren’t built for the deep. Almost no insolation. It's possible he just hatched, but I’ve never seen a pup hatch that small, or have fins like that.”

“Nothing can survive up past the current,” the young warrior insisted.

“Then why are there corpses that fall deep? Leviathan creatures that are not like any of the known clans.” another pointed out. 

“There’s no life above the current! We all know this, the blessed dead that sink come from under it. There are some that surf the edge!” Leandros bristled at his pod brother, it seemed like the group that had been arguing about this for a long while that several seemed to lose discipline this way.

“Then explain the pup! There’s no known kind like them.”

“It could easily be a runt that has a mutation and needs mercy before wasting resources on it-” 

A low, deep growl had the two young scouts freezing and clamping their fins as mass moved over. Eyes glowing brightly the Leviathan growled at them, “We do not waste resources on life boy.”

The named Leandros sank back, reminded very well he was speaking out of order. In front of his father and elder brothers. 

“Do you see the pups of your younger brothers as a waste?” The Leviathan asked, turning his attention fully at the scout group, still cradling the dead body gently. “Or the unhatched?”

“No Sire… I do not.”

“And yet a defenceless pup, pulled from the gut of a beast, that survived that fate, is a waste? Because he is of a clan we do not readily know?”

“No Sire…”

“Do you know what every clan’s pups look like, when they are freshly hatched?”

“Ah, no Sire. only ours…”

“Then how do you know that pup is a runt?”

“I, ah… compared to our-”

“Do you really think our pups are the only kind there is? Or where the nesting and nursery grounds of the other clans, and did not tell me?”

“...no sire...”

“Have you taken time to inspect the dead? To find clues of their clan? Or have you blinded yourself so young already boy?”

“I…” the young warrior looked like he wanted to hide in the rocks now.

“It is good to ignore the tempting light’s in the abyss,” one of the biggest, oldest of the Sons was gliding in from having checked something in the beast. Varro lifted his head, voice projected without really speaking loudly somehow. “But not to blind yourself, boy, to those around you, and the world beyond the pocket of your pod.”

“We do not waste the dead, boy. But life is never a waste, remember that.” The Leviathan spoke turning to his other sons, “What did you find?”

“Something that seems impossible.” The healer spoke beside his bigger brother, examining one of the strange bodies. “There's no gills on some of these remains, at all.”

The Leviathan sat up with a frown, leaving his young, cowed son to his older brothers, coming back to the beast. He looked closer to the body he held, this time focusing on the unbitten side. The bioluminescent glow brightened on his frame as the Leviathan turned the little body back and forth. Pushing the thin covering until the sides were fully exposed.

He frowned deeper as he found that it was true. Even if he pressed the back of a claw into the thin frame. Thin… no proper insulation layer either. No gills.

The giant mer reached out, and carefully picked up a mangled body. Peering into the open wounds on the chest, no proper tied organs to gills but… his own fins flared at the sudden thought. Looking over at one of his sons, “Tigurius, is there anything left of their souls to confirm?”

The mer shook his head, as he had tried to search for anything lingering. Then paused as he looked at where the smaller Titus was laying with his right arm extended into the rocks. Got a moment the young scout warrior was oblivious to the sudden attention. Rumbling soft words, he was so impressed that the pup could bite him. Then he blinked and looked up at movement, paleing a bit at personal space being invaded by just a pod brother but one of his older ones,  the still uncropped fin. 

“Can you get the pup out, safely?” the librarian asked, resting a hand on titus’ side not trying to crowd near the entrance. Extending his other senses to reassure and project calm, feeling the little pocket of prickly fear, not needing to be close enough to catch the fear-scent. “This pup might be, or lead us to the answer of something we are in need of.”

“...yes sir,” The smaller mer looked a bit unsure, then gave the little cavern a guilty look. Moving faster than the pup could react, Titus pulled his arm back, feeling little teeth pulling out of his finger, then shoved his arm back in and rotated the hand. Grasping the front of the pup, hand almost wrapping fully around the little form as he held onto them, feeling the base of a few spikes moving. 

The pup squealed in fright and alarm, little claws that were still soft scraping across the big forearm. The pup was little, barely as big as most egg cases, the lean tail had a bit of a shimmer in the living light, and shivering long feathery fins. The Warrior’s hand almost fully wrapped around the pup’s middle, the little one hissed, fared and practically vibrated with outraged betrayal and fear. The stripes along his little frame went from dull to stark contrast and a few of the fanning fins from the pup’s back were rattling the spines in them. A warning and, if the pup had been nearly half as big as the leviathan mers around him, it would be rather impressive.

It was almost cute now. 

“Feisty little one, isn’t he?” the deep voice of the Leviathan rumbled all around, leaning over slowly to get a look at the ball of fluff that was being held out at arms length.

“...ah…” the big librarian sucked in a breath, the water almost visibly rippled around him as he extended his other senses. Reaching out to carefully catch a delicate, but still failing tail between the spines and fins. The little spines did try to prick at him as the pup was transferred to his large hands without getting away despite an attempt. “You are a very beautiful little one, and very cold.”

The pup was definitely very delicate looking, but clearly feisty and firmly rooted in the current of life. At the sense of moving mass and a rumble of sound that vibrated through the water and to the bones. That’s when the pup saw the Great Leviathan for himself for the first time.

There was a squeaking sound, a moment of shock at staring up at the large head. Bigger in a way then the beast that ate him- the pup shivered and then… fluffed up. Every little spine and feathery fin standing up on end, the little fin on the tail fanned out. Stripes were vibrant in the bioluminescent glow from the giant. 

The pup hissed at the Leviathan, for all the world looking like a shrimp ready to fight the gods of the sea.

“You are a very brave boy,” Roboute grinned at the display of bravery, resting a forearm on the stone and leaning over to try and catch the pup’s scent. To place the clan maybe, he paused and started to recognize something in the scent-

“Not a boy,” Varro spoke, able to sense the line of too much approaching with the giant. Leaning back as the little fins finally clamped in fear and an attempt to blend in, instead of threatening. The kreel of panic that came had even the giant twitching back in surprise. Though a different clan of mer, the purely frightened cry of a pup was universal and had more than a few twitching in the instinctual reaction. Looking for a threat that was not there-

Because they were the ones frightening the pup.

The librarian was shifting the pup, taking advantage that the little venomous fins were clamped. Tucking the pup into the crook of his arm, able to hold the tail in one hand and press the pup to a warmer spot near his own gills. Letting the little one hide against his side as Varro swam to where his father could still see the pup. “Great Leviathan, this pup isn’t a boy. It’s a little female… She's from the shallows.”

“...are you sure?”

“She’s too young to know how to guard her thoughts,” The son said facing his father, though eyes shined over as he skimmed the little mind. Not trying to press in and hurt, but resting a large hand over the pup’s head to block her view of the real giant. “Too young to know how to lie. Her thoughts and memories are of a nursery bay that’s sheltered from storms and predators… warm water, no predators in her short life until that abyssal beast broke through her…their reef. I can see those odd mer-like creatures in her memory. Air breathers…” 

Roboute’s eyes widened, taking in what was reported, and then letting that all sink in. Not just evidence of life above the top current… but a warm, safe nursery area for pups? Mind going over the possibilities of other mers that were not related to any of the clans in the trenches, including his own sons. He looked up, mind racing with thoughts of a safe area away from most of the other clans. Away from the constant threat of the beasts, a predator-less place that could be reinforced and protected by his clan. Even with the unknown risk of not knowing what was above… it was worth personally investigating. 

“When will the current turn again?”

“Soon father…?”

“Calgar, send a messenger to the clan, let them know we have food. But do not sing it, and let them know to be ready to migrate.” Roboute was twitching his fins, thinking as he turned back to his other elder son, “Try and get what you can from the pup, without hurting… her. If you can make sense of the pup-thoughts. I want to know as much as possible about her nursery grounds. Everyone else, fill your stomachs but only enough for yourself. We’ll need the energy.”

“Yes sire!”

“What of the dead creatures?” 

Roboute glanced down at the body he held, sighing, “Give them the respect of a death song, no one deserves to die in a beast's stomach and jaws. But do not disrespect them, and waste the dead.”

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

he does ask politely in sign language, and if that doesn't work becuse he's used to Argenta sighlent language. This giant of a man that towers over you will find a little notebook stashed in his armor. possibly even a pocket in the under side of his cloak to politely write the question.

He might struggle to remember how to write human languages so, he'll draw little pictures to ask to pet your bunny. And even if you're scared, but agree, this scarry ass seeming monster man in alien armor will kneel down and veeeery gently pet your pet while the Argenta sigh but don't stop him.

he would never take your pet, that's your bumbun! but he will ever so carefully pet the soft fur and rumble a big deep sound that's almost like purring for how ever long he's able to get away with it.

he and his Argenta will keep you and your bunny very safe!

he just smells like death ash and char. sorry for any stains.

POV: he heard you have a pet rabbit and would like to see them.

[threnodians]

𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉 𝙏𝙒𝙊 𝙋𝙀𝙊𝙋𝙇𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝙏 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙄𝙍 𝙄𝙉𝙈𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙎, 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙔 𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝙏𝙍𝙀𝙉𝙂𝙏𝙃 𝙊𝙁 𝙄𝙍𝙊𝙉 𝙊𝙍 𝙊𝙁 𝘽𝙍𝙊𝙉𝙕𝙀; 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉 𝙏𝙒𝙊 𝙋𝙀𝙊𝙋𝙇𝙀 𝙐𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙀𝘼𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙄𝙍 𝙄𝙉𝙈𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙎, 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙄𝙍 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙎𝙏𝙍𝙊𝙉𝙂 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙍𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙊𝙍𝘾𝙃𝙄𝘿𝙎.

a quote to describe @zzzenos’s art in my honest opinion: “talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before” — okay alright that’s enough of that let’s not get carried away (even though the rest of the quote is hilarious), but when i tell you all that this is my favorite comm i have ever gotten done i mean it. IT’S MY HUSBAND AND I. i legitimately teared up when i was sent the finished art. i have been looking at it all day. i will continue to look at it all of the time. i was originally going to write a lil’ mini fic to go along with it but alas a chinese love poem that is an excerpt from 易经 ⟮i ching/yijing, book/classic of changes⟯ will have to suffice for now because i haven’t written in ages and i wasn’t at all happy with what i was managing to write so. yeah. apollo, thank you for making this beautiful art for me (i know i paid you but you didn’t have to go this hard), you’re one of my dearest friends and i appreciate you very much. EVERYONE GO COMMISSION THEM RIGHT NOW; THEY’RE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING TO WORK WITH!!!

[nanavuu]

“cherrie we don’t want oc art-“ WELL TOO DAMN BAD‼️💥

i’m in omi brainrot

bonus (pomni trying to comfort omi on their first day at the circus)

[daisysplosion]

wtf ever. my xiaolin showdown au where its set in the late 2010s instead of the 2000s. aka basically my own version of xs idgaf

anyways . my designs for my self indulgent au... i luv how rai came out he's smug as fuuuuk. i'll explain their roles and changes in personality if u ask i suppose... (pleading emoji)

[sylebs]

pairing: sylus x you/reader, gender neutral terms, no use of y/n or pronouns

a/n: this is so short. a snippet of something @dawnbreakersgaze and i were talking about... and yes, one day i will fucking write this. i need selfless mc, infold HEAR ME 😭

word count: 168

that life you owe me, now is not the time to repay it.

at that time, you would agree and all the times after that, but this time? you knew it was the right time.

the wind brushed through your hair as you held onto sylus's hand tightly, your fingers slipping into his like perfect jigsaw puzzle pieces. you two completed each other and this is how it had always been, but now the puzzle pieces must separate in order to sever the string of fate that bound you and sylus in this endless cycle of you killing him. 

no. 

you refuse to let history continue to repeat itself. you deny the invisible letterings etched into the fate of the stars that tug on the string of fate. you will take a dagger and sever that thread even if it meant for you to be, well, simply put... dead.

if that was what it would take for sylus to live on. by the gods, you will do it.

[flyingwargle]

sakusa is at onigiri miya, seated at the bar beside suna, osamu preparing orders on the other side of the counter. he stares at his future brother-in-law, in disbelief at his request. "why does it have to be me?" he asks. "why can't you do it?"

"it's because 'samu breaks down laughing every time," suna says. "also, he sucks at it."

"and," osamu adds, "it's mariah carey. i ain't signin' those lyrics ta my twin."

"have you considered a different song that doesn't address an object of affection?"

"it'd be funny, 'specially if yer doin' it!"

sakusa takes a contemplative sip of tea. this is his first year celebrating with the miya family, which apparently takes christmas very seriously, since it includes a mandatory performance of a holiday song.

"'tsumu hates doin' it." osamu shapes rice in his hands. "he threw a huge tantrum when we were kids, an' after that, he never participated. he just sits there without his hearin' aids. s'why we were surprised that he's bringin' ya home this year."

"it's because my parents and siblings are overseas." that explains why they've never celebrated with osamu and suna, despite how much atsumu values his family.

"apparently, 'tsumu got ya a pass, sayin' we shouldn't scare ya with our freaky traditions, but it'd be fun if ya joined in," osamu tells him. "whaddaya say?"

the irony of atsumu having his audiology appointment at this very moment isn’t lost to sakusa. he takes an onigiri. “to reiterate, you want me to learn, memorize, and perform a jsl version of mariah carey’s all i want for christmas is you in two weeks?”

“yup.”

“you’re ridiculous. i’ll do it.”

osamu smirks. “glad ta have ya onboard. happy ta supply ya with all the umeboshi onigiri ya want.”

“we might be on holiday break, but i still have to watch my diet.” his phone goes off out of the corner of his eye. sakusa glances at the notification. “atsumu just finished his check-up. no change in his hearing loss.”

“isn’t that the greatest present of them all?” suna remarks, only half-sarcastic. sakusa and osamu nod in agreement.

that night, sakusa watches the video that suna sent him. fortunately, the translated lyrics are in the description, which he follows while listening, and afterwards, he slowly signs each word to get a feel for the rhythm. he’s watched sign language covers of songs before. surely he could pull it off?

the bathroom door opens, and atsumu sits on the couch beside him. sakusa has closed the video, reading an article instead, glancing over when atsumu taps his shoulder. “what are you reading?” he signs.

“motoya sent me an article about volleyball-related head injuries. he must be talking to himself,” sakusa says and signs. atsumu’s eyes crinkle in silent laughter, leaning against him while going on his phone.

two weeks isn’t a lot of time to practice, but sakusa makes it work. osamu and suna help by distracting (terrorizing, really) atsumu, dragging him away to buy presents, taste-test dishes, and playing holiday songs through his hearing aids via bluetooth. it makes him grouchy, but sakusa cuddles him until his tension melts away.

finally, it’s time to drive to the twins’ childhood home in hyogo. sakusa and atsumu decorate while osamu and suna cook, and on christmas eve, he meets the extended miya family, cousins, aunts, and uncles that he only heard in passing. he’s introduced as atsumu’s partner, bowing politely with his arms by his side. no one tries for a handshake; he gives his partner a grateful look, who smiles back in response.

christmas day is lively, with cousins running amok, aunts in the kitchen with osamu, and uncles shoveling snow outside. sakusa finds himself surrounded by the smallest cousins, who hang off his long limbs and squeal when he folds his hands to his wrists. an aunt herds them into the kitchen for a snack, giving him the chance to escape upstairs for a break.

atsumu joins him a few minutes later. “everything okay?” sakusa asks, knowing how easily overwhelmed his partner can get.

“yeah. i’ll get a break durin’ the singin’ tonight.” atsumu sits beside him, knees knocking together. “i don’t like listenin’, but watchin’ is fun, i guess.”

dinner is extravagant and rowdy, and soon enough, everyone is squished into the living room for the yearly tradition, an uncle mc’ing the event like a televised singing contest.

they sit together, atsumu without his hearing aids, hands held over his lap. cousins, aunts, and uncles sing to music playing from the speakers, the audience singing along. the smallest children hide behind their older siblings, most sing their hearts out; a few aloof ones mouth the words, cheeks bright red with embarrassment. their parents laugh, phones out to take pictures and record videos.

“next, we got osamu an’ suna,” the uncle announces. “with a special guest, sakusa-kun!”

“time ta do this.” osamu jumps to his feet, suna already plugging the aux cord into his phone. sakusa pulls away from atsumu, who grabs him in alarm, eyes wide. “omi, what are ya–“

he places a finger to his lips, silencing him. then, with his other hand, he signs, “watch.” standing, he joins the pair in front of the tv, their makeshift stage, impossibly tall among the seated audience. however, he only has eyes on one person.

the music starts, which elicits a few hoots. osamu and suna start singing, and sakusa as well, with his hands raised. instead of the exaggerated movements that the pair make on either side of him, his gestures are more deliberate, precise. no one understands them, at least not at his pace, and it might even look comedic.

sakusa doesn’t care. all he sees is atsumu and his reaction.

realization gradually creeps onto him. his eyes widen, mouth falling open. as the song goes on, his lips twist into a grin, hands pressed together in front of him gleefully.

“all i want for christmas is you,” sakusa sings, ending his sign with a flourish. cheers roar as osamu and suna bow, a few whistling between their teeth.

he catches osamu’s eye, who nods at him, and sakusa turns toward atsumu, who is pushing through the crowd. panic flares, and he gives chase. “wait, atsumu!”

he catches him upstairs. atsumu is opening his hearing aid case, roughly shoving one of them in his ear, suppressing a hiss when he winces. sakusa touches his arm, feels him flinch, head flying upwards, freezing when their eyes meet. “let me,” he says, signing along. atsumu lowers his hand, lets sakusa put them in. after a beat, they turn on. “atsumu–“

“did ‘samu ask ya ta do this?” atsumu doesn’t look at him, voice tight, hands braced on the table.

“yes. i’m sorry, i thought it’d be funny, and–“

“i ain’t mad. how can i? ya…” the crack in his voice is slight, but the tear that rolls down his cheek is not. “ya learned jsl fer me, an’ then ya signed an entire song fer me fer as a joke. it ain’t a joke ta me, ya hear? i…”

he lifts his head, eyes brimming with tears. “ya signed mariah carey,” he chokes out. “ya signed those lyrics ta me. joke or not, that means somethin’, doesn’t it?”

“of course it does.” sakusa steps toward him, wraps him in a hug. “i meant every single sign. i want you, and everything your family offers, freaky traditions or not. i’ll keep saying it every time you need to hear it – sign is just another way to communicate. i’ll do whatever it takes for me to understand you.”

atsumu sobs into his shoulder. sakusa strokes his hair, whispers into his ear, clear as the falling snow outside. “i love you, atsumu. thank you for bringing me to your home this year.”

“love ya too, omi. happy holidays.”

[sonny201818]

I have issues & continued the High School Academic Rivals to Lovers AU

Sophomore Year. Peak rivalry/banter. They spend a lot of time in detention together, usually due to sabotaging/pranks on each other. Sebastian has a crush on her but being a typical 15 year old stupid boy he teases her & plays stupid tricks on her instead of flirting or being nice. Millie sometimes thinks he’s cute but then he goes & does something stupid & gives her the ick.

Junior year. Now Academic Rivals/Partners in Crime. After spending so much time in detention together (and Sebastian not acting like such a prat the older he gets), Sebastian & Millie form almost a truce. While still bantering and competing with each other of course.

(Seb making sure the coast is clear bc they’re skipping class to hangout at the mall & eat snacks) (he always buys her chocolate ofc).

Senior Year 🩷🌸🩷🌸 they’re in love!! Of course they still compete over EVERYTHING & banter constantly & whenever they have a real argument TAKE COVER, but all in all they are best friends, Happy As Larry together & look back on their rivalry (mainly younger years) & laugh at how silly they were.

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Some of Omie's head cannons

-big guy collects photos he finds. Scrapbooks fill with small family history, loose pictures, wedding albums found, even tablets and phones are picked up and carefully store in his subspace equivalent. From abandoned places, ruins, eeriely quiet places that used to be evacuation points.

-looooves simple but rich foods. Puddings? Amazing. All the flavors of macaroni and cheese? Holy shite! Root beer? .0. give him raw fruit and veggies? You get an awkward head pat!

-He would really like to (carefully) pat and/or poke humans. They're so small and soft looking, he forgot what it was like around them. He wants to just...help. but when he meets humans there's demons and Things Need To Be Done to protect them.

I wanna hear your guys’s doom slayer headcanon!!!

In the mean time this is some of mine :)

Doom slayer headcanons

Used to be a coffee drinker but now prefer tee which is something he picked up during the little down time he had in Argent D’Nur

Had braces growing up which resulted with him having a bit of a small tooth gap in the top row of his front

Speaking of mouths, he has a really awkward smile. He sorta forgot how to do that after phobos

My man still has a serious case of bacne aka acne on his back despite his body nearing 40+

Avoid being around lager groups of people and just people in general during his day today business like grocery shopping ( if you look at the map of Earth in eternal you can see the most effected parts, somehow Australia is the only place that hasn’t been effected, I like to imagine that there ya not necessarily a safe haven more so incredibly over crowded but there’s still a semblance of normal life which is maybe why you can actually find old pizza boxes and snacks in his room in eternal.)

You can not tell me that this man is NOT a big snore. Like it’s full on “zzzzz Mir Mir Mir Mir Mir”

I like to imagine that big man is also really into tinkering whit anything electronic.