#Shadow Ridge High School

[xoashdurham]

Football Seniors With Their Moms, Shadow Ridge High School 2024

Photos of the football seniors with their moms at the Shadow Ridge High School stadium in Surprise, Arizona

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

V ║Raw Edge

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part IV: Notch | Behind the Seams: Part V | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, a proper E!

Summary: One lazy afternoon, Joel tests your patience.

Warnings: Sexual tension, some language, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, flirting, fingering, explicit grinding, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 2k

Notes: It's been a long and winding road y'all, but I'm finally back with an update on the main series. It is a short one, more of an interlude, but it will get us where we need to go for the next chapter. Thank you for your patience, I don't take you guys' understanding and love for granted for even a second. Releasing this during the Seams sleepover, more drabbles coming your way for the remaining month of March!

Raw edge - the raw, raveling, and unfinished, cut edge of the fabric.

It’s fitting that Joel is a patient man. He’s built for it, after all.

Those broad shoulders, the sturdy thighs, his sure hands - he’s steadfast as the mountains that loom over Jackson.

As the sun shifts over the ridges and valleys of the sierra through the seasons, bringing shadows into light, so does Jackson on Joel, and you learn that he’s many kinds of patient.

On lookout duty, even in the depths of winter, he becomes one with the stillness of the night, patiently watching over the safety of the town in the loneliest hours.

When townsfolk stop him on the high street for neighbourly chit chat, he obliges with polite patience, never rushing, but careful not to encourage conversation that is longer than necessary.

With Ellie, when she prattles on with a long-winded story from school, he listens with amused patience, letting her run her half-full mouth over dinner with half-hearted admonishment.

And with you - he is agonisingly patient with you, and yet, never in a way that leaves any doubt of his want for you.

You cannot be more grateful.

And in turn, you’re patient with him. As the green of summer softens with the tail end of the season, you pick up bits and pieces. You hear whispers of names. Tess. Bill. You glimpse ghosts of his past. Sarah. Frank.

You don’t expect him to, but you have the audacity to hope, that one day, if he finds it in him to let you in, you have shoulders to spare.

When the heat fades and the brisk autumnal chill starts to linger in the morning mist, you start to find that you like it when he’s not patient.

Not necessarily for the lack of patience thereof, but the fact that it’s worn thin by something else.

The way heat bleeds into his eyes when Lucy holds you up after your shift ends, fingers twitching, as if the caveman in him wants to grab you and drag you home, where you have planned on dinner - and more.

When you’re two bodies tangled in your sheets, breath short as he kisses his way down your neck and nips the underside of your breasts, bra cups pushed up only halfway because you’re still too shy to take it off completely. You feel him shudder, nails digging into your skin, nostrils flaring like he’s holding back from ripping the scant fabric off of you.

And late one evening, when you ask him for it, in heated whispers and your lower lip caught in your teeth, he oh so patiently works his fingers inside your wet heat - 

One, then two; 

Slow, then fast; 

Tender, then frantic - 

Until he feels you clench tight around the crook of his fingers for the first time, watch you arch clean off the bed, he bares his teeth and lets out a primal growl at the cry of his name on your swollen lips.

You find the thrill in getting under Joel Miller’s skin.

As the fall deepens, and trees start to shed in golden surrender, you’re caught off guard when he turns the table on you.

You don’t see it coming, your desperation, that lazy afternoon. It’s just another Saturday when Ellie is on her shift at the Outfitter with Lucy, and Joel is spending those free hours with you.

You’re not sure what got him into the mood, but the man is relentlessly teasing that afternoon, almost bratty in the way he toys with you. His hands go everywhere while you’re cooking, squeezing the swell of your ass then going north to cup your breasts, and stopping off everywhere in between.

Tips of your ears burning, you smack the back of his hands - so big and mapped with veins - just so you can get drain the pasta. Joel chuckles and kisses the corner of your mouth. ‘I like it when you’re bossy, sweetheart.’

He insists on eating on the sofa, with you between his legs, and you can feel him already hard and straining through his jeans. Neither of you really make a real go at the rapidly cooling marinara, and the plates are quickly pushed to the side as them meal degenerates into a full-blown make out session.

Not yet ready to let him strip you bare or for him to disrobe him completely, clothes hang half unbuttoned and unzipped on you both. The part of your brain that still has enough blood to reason likes it though - the demure flashes of skin under creased fabric, blindly touching and feeling where you can’t see.

Your jeans are pushed halfway down your thighs, bra pushed down under your breasts, the elastic straps digging into your shoulders. His shirt is open down to the second last button, bare chest rubbing against your nipples, the contact making you whine. His belt hangs open and his jeans are unzipped, but before you can reach down, his fingers slide inside your panties, twisted and sticky, teasing your wet folds. 

‘Joel,’ you whimper as he pushes two thick fingers inside you to the knuckle, your pussy slickly opening around him. 

‘Does that feel good, sweetheart?’ he asks, mouthing at your collarbone.

‘More,’ you gasp.

‘I got two in you already -’

Your voice cracks in a sob, your nails digging into his back. ‘Joel, I want more. Please.’

He glances at the clock ticking away on the wall and hesitates. The rational part of him knows that he has to leave in less than twenty minutes to pick up Ellie. But feeling you leak onto his fingers, pushing your hips against him to get his fingers even deeper, his cock twitches painfully hard in his pants.

He breathes through his nose to steady himself. ‘Sweetheart, we don’t have time -‘

‘Joel!’ you whine, almost petulantly.

He stares down at you, eyes wide at your desperation. He’s never seen you like this before, and fuck, he wants to give it to you. Wants to give you what you want, what he wants. What he’s wanted for long fucking months, woken up hard and throbbing dreaming about. But he steels himself - no, not when he’s on the clock, he won’t rush it. He will give you what you deserve, and not an ounce less. 

So he kisses you, long and deep, and bargains with you. ‘Listen, sweetheart, we can’t right now - but if you want to, we can try something new.’

‘Ok,’ you reply without hesitation.

A sharp breath catches in your throat when he eases his fingers out of you, and he brings them up to his mouth to lick them clean, his brow furrowing at your taste, thick on his tongue. Then you watch, transfixed, as he pushes his unzipped jeans down with his boxers, kicking them off his ankles - and his hard cock springs free of its confines. 

It’s taken you many months to drum up the bravery to map his body with your touch, and you’ve mostly done so in the safety of darkness, your shyness holding you back. To see all of him, jutting hard and thick in the stark afternoon light, you don’t even hear yourself whimper at the sight.

Joel holds your gaze as he slowly wraps his fingers around the swollen length and strokes himself, lips parted, watching you watch him. ‘You trust me, sweetheart?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gonna make you feel good, ok?’

His words make you squirm beneath him. ‘Ok.’

Grabbing the base of his cock, Joel shifts, looming over you and pushing your thighs apart so they’re bent at the knees to accommodate him. Then with a delicate finger, he traces under the seat of your panties and pulls them to one side, baring your spread pussy to his eyes. 

Your jaw goes slack the same time Joel bites out a filthy fuck. You know this is the first time he’s laying eyes on you there - you’ve been demure about that, preferring to be nose-to-nose with him while he buries his fingers inside you. But now, watching his eyes go black, nostrils flaring, an inexplicable high goes to your head, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

His eyes fly to yours, and your lips part. Did he see that?

Before you can find out, Joel moves, and you hold your breath when he bows his head right where your legs are splayed open. Distracted by the beautiful chisel of his nose from this angle, you would’ve jumped right off the couch if not for his hands holding you in place when he dribbles spit onto your clit.

You cry out wordlessly, not understanding the visceral reaction of your body to the unexpectedly lewd act.

‘You’re plenty wet for me sweetheart, but this will feel even better,’ he says, spitting again, lower this time, and you tremble at the unfamiliar sensation of the wetness trailing down your folds. 

Tracing a thumb over you, Joel makes a low noise of satisfaction in his chest when it glides over your lips, frictionless. Taking a hold of the base of his cock, he positions the underside of his length in the seam of your folds - and thrusts. 

‘Joel!’ you whimper as the full length of him glides over the lips of your spit-wet pussy, from entrance to clit. He braces himself over you, and you hang onto his impossibly broad shoulders as he carefully rolls his hips, again and again. Rubbing along you just so, making sure you feel all of him despite not being inside you - that will have to wait.

You can feel your panties getting wetter, sticking to your skin, and Joel jolts a gasp from you when he roughly tugs the fabric hard to the side, baring more of you to his drunken gaze, witnessing the mess he’s making of you.

‘Listen t’ you,’ he slurs through gritted teeth, the lewd, wet slide of skin filling his ears. ‘Gonna sound even sweeter when I make you mine, sweetheart.’

With a whine, you arch off the couch, as if chasing the possessiveness in his words. Joel finds a rhythm that has the swollen head of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, and above you, he smears open-mouthed kisses over the secret spots he’s patiently unearthed by trial and error, until you’re shaking all over. It’s just what you needed, what you wanted - the elusive more that you didn’t know how to articulate. More than his fingers, but not yet ready to take everything that he can give you.

‘You’re close,’ Joel says, a quiet confidence to his verdict that coaxes a whine out of you. Holding a thumb over his cock, it presses even harder against your clit. His hips quicken in pace, and you know he’s chasing his own release as much as yours. 

‘It’s ok sweetheart, you can let go, let me feel you cum for me, let me feel that pretty pussy -’

And then you’re gone. Any illusion of control over your body is just that, an illusion, when the bubble bursts. White hot pleasure burns through your bloodstream, tendrils of heat blooming and swelling from deep inside you, spilling out your fingertips twisted tightly into his graying curls. 

Over the rush of blood in your ears, you hear Joel stutter fuck, fuck, fuck! before warm cum gushes over you, pooling in your belly button, spilling down your pussy and streaking your thighs. 

Limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, it’s hard to care when the cum stains your panties or the couch below. Not when Joel wraps his arms around you, lips brushing the nape of your neck softly as he brackets you from behind. 

Clinging onto the last vestiges of consciousness, you murmur, ‘You have to pick up Ellie soon.’

He grunts. ‘The little punk can wait.’

You smile, struggling to feel apologetic that the teenager might be waiting a while as Joel’s breathing slows, whistling softly by your ear. 

In the quiet aftermath, his words echo in your head. 

When I make you mine. 

Little does he know, he doesn’t have to - you’re already his.

Notes: Time has really flown by since the last main series update. I've gone through so many ups and downs since, and I really need to thank you guys for giving me the time to figure things out in terms of my writing and how this story will go!

As I mentioned in Behind the Seams: Part V, I have 2 more full length chapters planned for the main series. I don't know if there will be any more after that, but at the very least, I hope that I will be adding to the Seams universe through drabbles and oneshots. I wouldn't write off the possibility of more chapters to add to the main series if I find the inspiration.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter ❤️

[kinglazrus]

this isn't the beginning (but it's a start)

An AU where Portal Danny went missing his senior year of high school, and he's back home twenty years later.

Ch. 2 | Ch. 4 | Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Chapter Three: Fenton Works

Nothing in his head is real.

Words: 3593

Warnings: Gore and vomiting in the opening sequence

Blood coats his teeth. It’s gathered along his gums, congealing in thick globs that ooze when he prods them with his tongue. He can barely breathe past it, choking on the smell and the way it clogs his throat. His mouth feels too sticky and too dry all at once. Before he can think better of it, he swallows, or tries to—tries to work up the saliva to spit it all out. But there’s a pop when he bites down, and something too solid to be a clump of drying blood bursts open across his tongue, filling his mouth with a sour taste.

He lurches upright, and even though he’s already gagging on the stringy bits of viscera stuck between his teeth, the way his head spins is what pushes him over the edge.

Bile hits his tongue for a brief, bitter moment before he heaves. Every retch after that is dry, tearing at his throat while his stomach squeezes again and again even though he already feels like his insides have been scooped out. And no wonder why. A pale band of light illuminates the pool of blood spread before him. It’s a considerable amount of blood. Even though it’s too dark to see anything beyond that one pale stripe, there’s no mistaking how slick the floor is beneath his palm, how damp his knees are growing. The fleshy chunks that make him recoil every time he moves his hand.

He’s not sure where he is. Why he’s here. Can’t even remember how he got here, at least not clearly. His eyes had been fixed on that dark space, searching for a glimmer of light, any sign that he was mistaken. That the star would still be there, if only he looked closer. Everything after that is lost to a haze of blood and tears.

He can’t say how long it’s been since he was thrust out of the shadows. Long enough that his tears have dried. Short enough that the blood at his knees hasn’t.

Apparently, his body hasn’t caught on to the fact that he’s already wrung dry, because the retching doesn’t stop. The convulsions drive the pounding in his head and leave him shaking. He presses a hand against his abdomen, but it does little to soothe the sharp, pulsing throbs that twist his stomach every time his muscles clench.

It comes in waves, and between bouts, he inches toward the crack in the wall where the light comes through. A room lies beyond it, still dim but not completely dark, thanks to the windows set high on the walls. It must be nighttime, since there’s just enough light to see by, not that there’s much to see. Counters that run along the two longest walls, the cupboards underneath them, and a doorway on the opposite end of the room, through which lies a set of stairs leading up. Otherwise, it’s empty.

The wall shudders as he leans against it, though maybe it’s not a wall at all. His hand nearly slips off a ridge along the bottom of the wall, and as he steadies himself, his fingers curl over a worn edge, finding a narrow gap within which lies some kind of track. For a door, most likely, to slide open and shut.

Wall or door, it doesn’t matter either way. The metal is cool against his sweat-slicked temple as he tips his face into the light. He’s never been scared of the dark, but at the moment, the shadows squeeze around his heart. He doesn’t even want to close his eyes, though it might stop the room from spinning and help settle his stomach, just so he doesn’t lose that sliver of light.

A burst of music drills into his skull. He claps his hands over his ears and jerks back, banging into the door. It makes an awful screech, and he thinks he might have knocked it off its tracks. But after a few seconds where the only thing that falls on him is rust, he realizes the door is sturdier than it sounds and relaxes against it.

The music blares from his pocket, but he ignores his phone in favour of hugging himself tightly and folding over his knees. His stomach aches. His throat burns. His head pulses out of sync with the erratic thrumming of his core.

Blood and bile and buzzing, and jeans stiffening as they dry, and a single rust flake caught in his eyelashes, and a cloying, citrus scent that somehow cuts through every other wretched smell assaulting him now, and, and, and a dozen little things piled atop each other until it’s one great weight pressing on his shoulders, setting his nerves on fire, pushing a thousand needles beneath his skin as it all sinks in, and he needs out.

He drags himself up, body tilting one way while the world twists in the opposite direction, and throws himself against the door. It shrieks with every hit, but it moves, inch-by-inch, and as soon as the gap is wide enough, he squeezes through to tumble into the room beyond. Dirt, or some kind of grime that’s layered thick and damp in a way dust shouldn’t be in a place like this, smears across his palms as he catches himself on his hands and knees.

It’s quieter out here. The roaring in his head fades a little more with every breath that isn’t laced in shadows, and soon enough he can hear the wind howling outside, and the rain beating down on brick and metal and glass, and a steady creaking in the distance. A symphony, not wholly unpleasant, that he would be glad to listen to for a long while if his phone weren’t still ringing.

The melody plays two more times before he drags his phone from his pocket and checks the caller ID. Fruit Loop, it says. The call stops before he can make up his mind about answering, and a flood of missed notifications fills the screen instead.

Thirteen missed calls—nine from Fruit Loop and two more from School—and a handful of texts from the former.

Fruit Loop Friday 3:17 PM We’ll continue this discussion when you get home. Friday 6:23 PM Are you still at school? Friday 10:17 Answer your phone. This is childish. I’ll keep calling until you pick up. Saturday 1:17 PM I’m sure Johnny is excellent company, but this is getting ridiculous. We will be talking. Are you finally eating? Answer your phone. Yesterday 8:46 AM Why are the police here What did you do Answer the phone Yesterday 11:31 AM Whose blood was that This is serious you’re putting us both at risk Pick up the phone Pick up the damn phone Today 10:06 PM I’ve taken care of it. I told you humans are too fragile.

His nausea, which had waned, surges forth once more as he reads those final messages. It settles into a steady, miserable rolling deep in his stomach that’s somehow worse than when he was stuck in that tight, dark space that reeks of blood and citrus. At least he doesn’t throw up again, small relief that it is.

He jabs the call button, almost surprised when the screen doesn’t crack from the force of it, and slowly pushes himself up. He makes it one step and halfway through the first ring before the call is answered and a stern voice demands, “Where are you?”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea how much danger you put us in? You’re lucky this only went as far as the police. If the school had suspected anything, they could have called the Ward.”

The rant fades out of his awareness as he steers himself toward the nearest counter. His shoes peel off the tile with a wet ripping sound that has him gritting his teeth, and leaves a trail of tacky red footprints behind him. He folds himself over the counter once he reaches it, forehead pressed to the metal despite the dust that tickles his nose.

“I managed to redirect their concerns, of course, and you’re still welcome back next year to finish your licensure program. Why you want to be a teacher of all things…”

“Fruit Loop?” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to make it a question, but the little rise in his voice is present regardless of his will.

“Oh, yes, very funny. You and your clever quips. What do you—oh. Hm.” Fruit Loop goes quiet.

The silence quickly grows unbearable, after only a few seconds, but he can’t bring himself to break it. What would he even say? He shoves himself up—much too quickly, oh that doesn’t feel good—and opens the cupboard underneath the counter, desperate for a distraction. He has to grip the cupboard door to keep himself balanced as he crouches, as the room sways. Maybe there’s more to the nausea and the piercing pain in his temple than he thought. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten a concussion. Once he feels steady enough, he picks through the cabinet.

Bits of frayed wire. Metal scraps. A cluster of jars on the bottom shelf, all lined with a strange residue. In most of the jars, it’s faded to grey, and crumbles like chalk when he taps the glass.

“Do you know how I am?” Fruit Loop asks, a sharpness to it that suggests he’s repeating himself.

“Yes!” It’s not very convincing, with how quick the answer comes.

He scowls, tilting his head to get a better look at the jars. A greenish-black stain spreads between them. Crouching lower, he spies another jar at the back of the shelf, cracked along its side. Inside is a sprout of some kind. It has a deep, hollow stalk, coloured black, with curling lips that split into something almost like flower petals. Its roots creep along the glass, and mycelium dangles from the lid. The stain seems to spill from this jar, where hair-thin fibres have forced their way through the crack in the glass. They’re softer than he expects.

He drags his finger through the stain. To his surprise, only the top layer is dry, a thin crust that breaks easily. Underneath, it’s fuzzy and a rather toxic green. It also makes his skin tingle where the substance clings to his fingertip.

Leaning close, he sniffs it, and isn’t surprised when citrus stings his nose. Ectoplasm has a very distinct smell, although he could be mistaken. He sticks his tongue out to lick his finger.

“Well?”

He starts, mouth snapping shut and catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and hisses. “Yes, I know who you are!” He pauses a second too long. “Vlad.”

That feels right, and it must be, because Vlad sighs in relief. “Good. You’re not as far gone as you could be.”

“Wow, thanks.”

It’s easy to spot the mould hidden around the room, now that he’s aware of it. Gathered in the corners, festering between the tiles. It’s noticeably lacking on the far side of the room, by the doorway leading up, and grows more obvious deeper in, spreading beyond damp corners. He traces the patches back to the hole in the wall behind him.

And it is just a hole in the wall, the place he stumbled from. He thought it might have been a closet of some kind, but closets don’t have big octagonal openings blocked by a set of heavy doors striped black and yellow like caution tape.

As he stares at it, an odd feeling creeps through him. It’s not enough to rip the air from his lungs. It doesn’t even touch the ache already settled in his chest, though it still makes his knees weak. He grips the countertop to keep himself from crumpling to the floor.

“Where are you?” Vlad asks.

A laugh bubbles out of him at Vlad’s excellent timing. It’s a choked thing, closer to a sob. But it’s not, because he isn’t sad. He isn’t in pain, at least not from this, or anguished, or even the littlest bit upset.

He’s just…here.

“Do you know where you are?” Vlad prompts again.

“Yes.”

“Good. I can come get you.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“If you’re unstable, and you must be if you can’t remember who I am—”

“I remembered!”

“—and considering what happened on Friday—”

“Nothing happened!”

Vlad pauses. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He’d like to stop saying that. He’d like even more if he didn’t sound so weak and unsure every time he does.

“You know how much I care about you. Well, you might not at the moment, but you’re very important to me. I need to know if you’ve been affected by William Lancer’s dea—”

A screech drowns out the final word. The metal countertop folds under his hand, and he has to pry his fingers from the indents left behind. Vlad has gone quiet again, so he takes the moment to inspect his trembling hand. The slope of his fingers where they’ve begun to taper toward the nail, the image of flesh and keratin melting away. It takes a few slow flexes before the mirage returns, but the colour is off still. The shade of pale skews toward I-have-no-circulation rather than I-need-vitamin-D.

He clenches his fist and tucks his hand into his pocket. “Please.”

“So you do know?”

“No! I didn’t…” He gasps. His nails dig into his thigh, hard enough to prick, but that’s nothing compared to the knife carving into his chest. Every breath drives the blade deeper, through blood and bone, piercing him to the core. When he opens his eyes—can’t even remember closing them—he expects to see his chest flayed open, skin peeled back, ribs cracked to expose the empty cavity inside him.

There’s nothing. He’s crumbling from the inside out and somehow, there’s not a mark on him. That’s now how pain is supposed to work.

“Do you know what day it is? What’s the last thing you remember?”

Polka dot napkins. The image floats to the front of his mind. Couldn’t he remember more, minutes ago? It’s all shrouded in a grey fog, now. Except for the parts that are darkness and light and blood and the place where light should be.

Maybe he makes a sound. Maybe Vlad gets bored with the silence. Either way, he’s torn from his spiralling thoughts by a sigh from the phone.

“I suppose next time you’ll know better than to latch on to the first familiar thing you see.”

His phone cracks against the wall. He doesn’t register that he threw it until he’s staring at the blue plastic of his phone case, shattered where it struck the portal’s frame.

The portal.

He’s heard it described many times. Not its shape, but what it did. How it ruined his life. The way it would have torn him open, scooped out his insides, and filled him with something else, something strange. He imagined how vast it must have felt when he took his first steps inside. The pain it would have brought. The connection forged between him and it at that moment. Surely, if he could recognize anything from his former life, it would be this. This would be familiar.

But it’s only a hole in the wall.

He clutches at this chest, breaths coming faster as he tears his gaze away.

There has to be something, something.

Turning on his heels, he runs for the stairs. Colour leeches from his body as he reaches the top and rushes through the door without opening it. He meets resistance on the other side, only for a second, before there’s a tearing sound and a plastic sheet folds around him. He rips the tarp off, paying no heed to the oily green sheet it leaves on his hands and clothes, and leaves it crumpled on the floor.

It’s no brighter here in the kitchen than it was downstairs. One window, covered by a sheet similar to the one that assaults him seconds ago, and boarded up behind that. A broken table in the middle of the room, its legs snapped, the chairs beside it in similar states. Empty cabinets. A fridge—wrapped in another tarp—swathed in caution tape.

No one’s lived here for years.

He knew, if he ever came, that he might find strangers within the walls, but he didn’t think it would be empty. That’s worse, somehow, than finding an unknown face at the door. To know the place he once called home is hollow, too.

He tries to imagine what it would have looked like, once. The fridge unwrapped, covered in magnets holding up report cards and Polaroids and drawings. The cupboards full of food. The table set and ready for a meal. But the people sitting at the table have no faces. And the pictures are patchworks of colour with no real form. The cupboards are full of the oils and spices and jars of dry pasta from Vlad’s manor.

Nothing in his head is real.

The only thing waiting for him here are the Xs spray-painted on the walls.

The front room is much the same, except the graffiti is joined by broken beer bottles and crumpled chip bags. A cold wind comes through one of the windows where the boards nailed over it have been pried away, the protective sheet peeled back. A couch sits under the window, its cushions covered in grime and faded footprints. Has it always been there? Maybe with a TV stand on the other side of the room. Or did it used to sit against the back wall, facing the front of the house, so they could sit there and look out the window to the street?

He tries to picture it.

He can’t.

Upstairs, then. He grips the banister so hard the wood creaks in his hand. His skin is no longer pale, but now a bleached white. He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t think about it. Focuses on the few blank spaces on the walls where he can see paint beneath the graffiti, on the squares where the paint is less faded, where picture frames must have once hung.

He finds four doors on the landing. Two to the left, two to the right. Only one is covered in a tarp that’s carefully taped along the edges, the letters R-I-P sprayed across it.

Hesitation seizes his limbs for only a moment before he rips the tarp down and tosses it away. A prickle spreads across his tongue before he even opens the door, and he already knows what he’ll find. Mould. Here, it infects every corner of the room. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. What he first thinks might be a soft carpet is, in fact, a dense layer of mould. It’s thickest beneath the empty bed frame, rising into a fuzzy mound with sprouts growing out of it, similar to the one in the jar downstairs.

He steps inside, and light ripples out, spreading in waves across the room from wherever he touches the mould. Clouds of spores puff into the air where he steps. They fall in gentle waves, like snow. If this were any other time, he might stick his tongue out to try and catch one.

But he doesn’t care about this. Doesn’t care that it exists. Doesn’t care that it’s here, eating this room from the inside out while the rest of the house grows stagnant.

This was his room. It isn’t, anymore. It isn’t anything.

He runs. Flees down the stairs and throws himself at the front door, but his body doesn’t pass through it, at least not completely. His head smacks against something hard enough that his ears ring. He stumbles back, clutching his temple, and rips the door open, splintering the frame when the deadbolt tears through the rotting wood. A gleaming white panel covers the other side. 

His core buzzes at the sight of it. He doesn’t need to test it to know he can’t phase through that, so he pivots toward the broken window, clambering though. The frame is already clear of glass. He heads for the street, where the wind shoves him to his knees and the rain beats against his back, and he looks up.

The windows are dark. Cracks climb the brickwork. The flower box beside the stairs is full of weeds, and the grass rises to his knees. The only sound coming from the building is the creak of old joints, from the sign hanging over the sidewalk. His gaze slides across it, skimming over the rusted letters, but the name slips from his mind as soon as his eyes leave it.

This is just a house, and he wants to go home.

Where is that?

“With…” he trails off as the name escapes him. With who? Does he live with anyone? Does he live anywhere? Maybe he’s always been here, kneeling in the rain.

Where are you?

“I don’t…”

Who are you?

“I…”

What’s wrong?

He stares down at his hands, at his blackening fingertips, and realizes he doesn’t know.

“There’s…a hole,” he says. Somewhere. In a place where a star used to sit.

So, fill it.

As he pushes himself up, darkness coalesces at his feet, but he resists their pull. He can’t go there, where it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone. Instead, he sets off down the street, with slow, staggering steps, and leaves the ghost once known as Fenton Works behind.

—

Masterpost | Next chapter

[theplottdump]

List 5 facts about a favorite sim of yours, and send this to 10 simblrs whose sims you adore ♥♥♥

I had like 3 of these sitting in my inbox for months and I am like paralyzed by them but I'll see what I can come up with! Thank you for thinking of me :')

Diego García - Five Facts 🌵

��: Diego was created for me by @molloopsy! Ilu Molly! You make the prettiest molly men.

🌵🌵: Diego's name is a mexican inspired play on Dave Gregory from Her Interactive's Nancy Drew: The Secret of Shadow Ranch. Yee Haw Baby, Very Yee Haw.

🌵🌵🌵: In my head Chavo the ranch dog rolled up as a stray when he was little and the ranch hands never bothered settling on a name for him so they all just called him Chavo or 'boy' ¡Chavo - Ven aquí!

🌵🌵🌵🌵: The locals in Chestnut Ridge gave Diego the nickname of Golden Boy because of the whole teen riding prodigy thing as well as him always helping out around town and generally havin' a good heart. It's not his favorite.

🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵: Diego and Viv used to compete in the same riding competitions when they were teenagers. Like every other 14-16 year old boy in town he had a bit of a crush on her but backed off when she started dating her high school sweetheart who she later married a year after graduating.

Was this fun? Is this interesting? Fuck if I know - but thank you!!!

[corruptedcaps]

Shadows in the Night

This story is inspired by @misseviehyde‘s Twitter thread here.

It had all ended in an instant for Amber. The bullying head cheerleader of North Ridge high school never would have expected that she would have gone out in the way that she had. It was ironic really that the queen of mean who was notorious for being heartless would have died from a heart attack due to a rare undiagnosed heart condition. It happened in her sleep and in the snap of a finger, she was gone. Although not entirely.

Her soul refused to leave and enter the afterlife. It had plans, it had unfinished business. However each passing moment on earth made it feel weaker and dragged further to the afterlife. It needed a body. Taking the form of a shadow it detached itself from Amber’s body and crept next door to Amber’s neighbours house, the Joneses. It slid in the mailbox and up the stairs until it found what it was looking for. Or more accurately who it was looking for. Cassie Jones

Cassie was in senior year with Amber but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Amber was confident, vain and cruel, Cassie was shy, modest and kind. Amber’s soul would have preferred a more suitable host but time was running out. Cassie slept soundly as the shadow crept closer and closer. Just when it seemed like Amber’s shadow was about to attack, Cassie’s own shadow put up a fight. However Amber’s soul shadow was stronger even in its deteriorating form.

Amber’s shadow easily dominated Cassie’s. Even in shadow form Cassie was the victim to Amber. Cassie was moaning and groaning in her sleep, unaware of the fight happening but still reacting physically to it. Amber’s shadow began to absorb Cassie’s. It grew stronger in an instant as it latched onto Cassie and became her new shadow. Cassie stopped groaning as Amber’s soul took over and flooded her mind with pleasurable thoughts of being a hot bully. By morning she would be completely new woman. And not just mentally.

A subtle transformation began with Cassie's features. Her innocent and delicate facial structure gained an allure, her soft eyes now laced with a piercing gaze that promised manipulation. Her lashes elongated, giving them a seductive flutter that exuded power and control. Cassie's lips, once gentle and kind, grew fuller and took on a more provocative curve.

Her once modest and shy form underwent a metamorphosis. It molded her slender frame, accentuating her curves with a subtle but unmistakable allure. Her non athletic body began to tone all over, giving her a form that could flip, bend and pose in all the right ways. Even in her sleep her body's natural grace was changed, making her movements alluring and captivating.

Cassie's hair underwent a dramatic transformation. Once a plain and dirty brown, her locks now radiated with a lustrous, bright sheen. Strands of hair became sleeker, cascading in waves that framed her face, hinting at a magnetic allure. The color brightened to an alluring shade of bright blonde, exuding an air of beauty and seduction.

Next her nails underwent a captivating metamorphosis. Once neatly trimmed and natural, they now grew longer, becoming elegant talons painted in a glossy crimson. The tips of her fingers acquired a wicked grace, capable of inflicting both pleasure and pain, a physical representation of her newfound cruelty.

Her breasts, formerly modest in size, swelled and grew, accentuating her curves with a provocative allure. They became a symbol of her newfound sensuality, commanding attention and leaving no doubt of her transformation into a seductive and empowered figure.

These changes, although superficial, served to further mold Cassie's physical appearance into a vessel that embodied Amber's essence. With her hair exuding allure, her nails symbolizing her capacity for manipulation, and her enhanced breast size enhancing her sensual appeal, Cassie's exterior reflected the shadow's wicked intentions. The shadow's power transformed her into a seductive and cruel version of herself, equipped with the tools to captivate and control those who crossed her path.

The transformation extended to her aura, as a chilling confidence infused Cassie's being. Her once timid demeanor was replaced by a calculated charisma that would draw others in, only to be ensnared by her cruelty. The shadow's influence seeped into her every thought, twisting her empathy and kindness into callousness and malice.

As Cassie's sleeping body was reshaped by the shadow's dark power, a cruel and seductive version of her emerged, a haunting echo of Amber's former self. The new Cassie would become a force to be reckoned with, wielding beauty, manipulation, and wickedness in equal measure.

As the first rays of morning light filtered through the curtains, Cassie's eyes fluttered open, unaware of the physical transformation that had occurred while she slumbered. She sat up in bed, stretching her arms, and a surge of newfound confidence surged through her veins. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a darker side of her personality that had lain dormant until now.

Her new conscience crackled with a newfound wicked desire, laced with a hunger for power and control. A sinister smile curved her lips as she contemplated the possibilities that lay ahead. The once timid Cassie had been replaced by a charismatic predator, ready to manipulate and dominate those around her.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed she walked towards her closet passing her full length mirror. She stopped dead in her tracks and walked back to the mirror. Her eyes roamed over the reflection of her body, taking in every curve and every inch of herself.

“I look… perfect. As per usual.” She said self satisfied with a bitchy smirk as she snapped some selfies of herself.

A new wicked voice whispered seductive suggestions in her mind, urging her to seek admiration and fear from her peers. It fueled her new desire to become the queen of the school, to take down Amber, but with a newfound edge of cruelty and malice. She craved the twisted satisfaction of wielding power over others, of seeing them tremble beneath her reign.

Cassie stood before the mirror, her gaze fixed upon her transformed reflection. A twisted smile crept across her lips as she spoke aloud to herself, her voice dripping with venomous determination.

"Amber, my dear, your reign ends today. I will topple you from your pedestal and claim the throne for myself. You will see, the queen of mean shall now be me, and only me."

She sauntered over to the wardrobe unaware of the flashing lights arriving next door. In her closet she found all her clothes to be lacking and made a mental note to throw it all out later and go on a shopping spree. Finally she settled on an old horse riding outfit she had when she was younger. It clung to her nicely and showed off all her perfect curves.

Venturing outside, her mind was awash with plans and schemes to take down Amber and take up the mantle of queen. It made her positively wet just to think about how much wicked fun she was about to have. However as she looked over to her nemesis’s house she was surprised to see an ambulance pull away with Amber’s parents driving quickly after it.

"Well, well, maybe it'll be easier than I thought. Looks like fate might be lending me a hand." She said to herself as she strolled over to a cop about to leave. Putting on her best sympathetic face she tapped him on the shoulder. The cop whirled around slightly annoyed but his demeanour quickly warmed when seeing the vision of beauty in front of him.

"Hey officer," she purred, her voice dripping with sweet naivety. "I couldn't help but notice the commotion. Is everything okay?"

The officer, caught off guard by Cassie's sudden attention, cleared his throat and replied, "There was an incident. Amber... well, she had a heart attack in her sleep. Tragic."

Cassie widened her eyes, a mask of false surprise adorning her features. "Oh my, that's awful! She always seemed so healthy. Poor thing."

Inside, Cassie reveled in the news, relishing the confirmation of Amber's demise. Her act of innocence had successfully concealed her wicked intentions, and now she could seize the opportunity that fate had presented.

Cassie's mind swiftly processed the information, concocting a plan to exploit the situation further. With a coy smile, she shifted her focus back to the officer, her eyes glimmering with a mischievous twinkle.

"Officer, I know this may sound strange, but... I was Amber's friend, and she said I could borrow a few of her clothes for a special event tonight," Cassie fibbed, her voice laced with a hint of desperation. "I'd really love to retrieve them as a memento of our friendship. Is there any way you could let me in, just for a moment?"

The officer hesitated, torn between his duty and Cassie's persuasive charm. After a brief pause, he replied, "I'm sorry, miss, but I can't allow unauthorized access. It's a crime scene."

Cassie leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of flirtation and innocence. She lightly touched the officer's arm, using her charms to her advantage.

"Please, Officer... I promise I'll be quick. It would mean the world to me," she pleaded, her voice taking on an alluring tone.

The officer's resolve began to waver as Cassie's charm worked its magic. With a gulp, he finally relented. "Alright, but make it fast and stay out of the way. No touching anything."

Cassie flashed him a grateful smile, hiding her true intentions beneath the façade of a grieving friend. She had successfully manipulated her way into Amber's house, ready to seize not only the opportunity for stylish clothes but to step into the void left by the departed queen bee.

As she swayed up to the door she felt the eyes of the police officer on every curve of her. She’d have him helping her out of the house with clothes, jewelry and makeup before long. Maybe she’d even reward him, but probably not. It was good being a bitch.

[mycitynowdotjpeg]

Starfish and Normal Lamron 🥺🥺

Starfish - Time Heals All Wounds

The Red House On The Shore

The sea rushed to meet the shore like long-lost lovers, waves cresting over sand as gentle as tender fingers against a cheek. The sun shone over the beach lined with a handful of homes on stilted foundations, made to withstand flood and high waves. Most were painted blue and white, though they’d been customized and changed over the years as residents had come and gone. One, though, was painted a rich red, near the far end, nestled between sand dunes that held a graveyard. The house itself had been expanded more than once, extra rooms built onto the sides closer to the cemetery than to the other houses, and additional levels bringing its total height to three storeys. The doors and windows were hung with rich tapestries of red and black and green, gold thread shining in the sun. The porch held several planter boxes lush with vegetation, providing fresh ingredients for the kitchen inside the front window. The smell of baked goods hung close to the house, permeating the air with the delightful aromas of fruits and sweets, and the crisp scent of fresh bread. 

Inside, a tiefling with ruddy brown skin and a long, spaded tail worked a dough against the counter with his clawed hands, nails too thick and sharp to be quite natural. There were several odd things about him, even for one of clear Infernal heritage. 

The first was that he glowed. Not all over, but his heart was like a beacon in his chest, shining golden light through his flesh, rippled with the shadows of his bones. His horns were curled with an age his face did not match: looping in ridged spirals, they rose above his head like a crown, the tips nearly grown entirely around a pair of golden rings. His legs were not that of a goat, but canine in nature, tipped with dainty black paws. He was dressed in the casual fashion of Mauelle, a loose sheer wrap tied around his waist, covering a bright red bikini bottom. His upper half was wrapped in red cloth, a baby sling holding an infant strapped to his chest. 

“Prosto zakroy glaza, solntse saditsya…” The Infernal melody slipped from his lips as he rocked the baby against his chest with the motion of rolling out his dough, slow and steady. “S toboy vse budet v poryadke, teper' nikto ne smozhet prichinit' tebe vreda…” Laying the dough over a tin, he began to shape it to form a crust. “S nastupleniyem utra my s toboy budem tsely i nevredimy…” 

“Normal?” 

Norm looked up as a gruff voice came from the doorway. He had to stoop, to peer into the room, even the ten-foot ceilings too short for his broad horns and enormous stature. 

“Voyage,” Normal said, smiling at the sight of his fiery beau, his arms cradled around a toddler tiefling girl, her riotous copper curls spilling over her face. She was angelic, her round face and orange skin like her father’s, with Normal’s intense blue eyes. “Is Cherish ready for school?” His tone was teasing, knowing his daughter was still fast asleep, not even dressed. 

“I’m waking her gently,” Voyage said, looking down at the four-year-old with a sparkle in his eye. His voice was hoarse as he said, “It’s her first day. I…” 

“I don’t know if I’m ready either,” Norm said softly, straightening up from the counter to hold the baby strapped to his chest closer. At nearly one year old, he was big for a tiefling baby, a hint of Voyage’s heritage already showing through his son. He was tawny in color like Voyage, too, his skin a rich tan, hindquarters like a lion’s. 

“Daddy, are you cooking pie for breakfast?” Peeking around Voyage was a tiefling boy, almost eight years old. His hair was a rich brown, dressed in a blue tunic and white trousers, a brown knapsack over one shoulder with a scroll poking out of it. He had amber green eyes, looking nothing like any of his parents, but beloved as their eldest child, followed by his two sisters and youngest brother. 

“I..am making a pie, yes, Gift,” Normal said with a chuckle, walking around the island in the kitchen to cup the side of Gi’s face. “It’s not for breakfast. I just…” 

“He bakes when he’s nervous,” Voyage said, smiling small and fond as he gently jostled Cherish, who stretched in his arms, mumbling in baby-talk under her breath. “It’s Cher’s first day of school, remember?” 

Gift nodded, but then asked, “Why does that make Daddy nervous?” Voyage arched an eyebrow at Norm as he set Cherish on the ground, her hooves clicking on the tile floor. 

“You know Cherish is special,” Normal began haltingly, and Gift nodded again. 

“You Wished for her,” he said seriously. 

“Yes,” Normal said gently, running his hand through Gift’s hair. “It was a long journey to that Wish, Gift. I lost her once. To have a day like today…” Norm smiled, sighing as he blinked back tears. “It’s just special. I want it to go well.” Gift puffed up his chest, brown and black tabby tail bristling. 

“I’ll protect her,” he declared. “Cher will always be safe with us, Daddy.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Voyage said, amused and warm as Cherish yawned widely, leaning against his leg. 

“School?” she asked, and Norm nodded, leaving his baking to follow his family into the den, where a human man with messy brown hair and soft white clothing was helping a six-year-old half-tiefling girl tie up her dress, her horns broad and thin like Voyage’s, her dark hair and bright eyes a striking contrast. 

“Charity, Papa and I are going to walk you to the school today,” Voyage said, prompting Medwin and their daughter to look up. She tilted her head curiously, and glanced over to where Cherish was climbing the stairs, Normal walking behind her. 

They ascended to the second level, Norm bending to take Cherish’s hand in his as they passed through the short hallway hung with mementos and paintings, the end of the hall bearing a grand artistic rendering of a phoenix, crimson feathers splayed over the canvas. They turned right to enter Cherish’s room, Normal letting go of her fingers to walk to the wardrobe and pull out an outfit for his daughter for the day. The baby on his chest fussed, and he soothed Courage with a kiss to his downy blonde hair. 

“Daddy?” 

Normal turned to see Cherish standing behind him, her face pinched with fear. 

“What if…what if nobody likes me?” she whispered, and Normal’s face softened, and he crouched down to cup her face. 

“You’re going to make so many friends, Cher,” Normal said softly, ocean-sapphire eyes meeting her desert-sky-colored irises. “It would be a lie to say everyone will like you, but I promise, you’ll make friends, too. And you will always have your family.” Cherish looked relieved, and reached up to wrap her arms around Norm’s neck. He embraced her, careful not to smother Courage. When they broke apart, Normal helped her get dressed, a rose-pink colored dress edged in golden thread. They descended the stairs again to meet the others in the den, Gift and Charity standing by the door with Voyage and Medwin. Norm bent to kiss each of his children, making Gift squirm and Charity giggle. He cupped Cherish’s face in his hands as he bent to kiss her forehead, smiling at her as Medwin opened the door and Voyage took the girls’ hands to lead them out of the house. Normal walked out onto the porch to watch them go, the five of them walking along the beach to the gates, where Mauelle waited. 

Norm kept his eyes on a mess of coppery curls as they shrank with distance, a smile playing around his lips. Courage cooed against his chest, and Normal sighed, losing sight of Cherish and their family as they passed through the gates to the city at large. He looked down at his newest son, still smiling as he brushed his fingers over his cheek, and, intent on finishing his pie while waiting for his family to come back, turned to walk back into the red house on the shore. 

[brazenlystrong]

couldn't get the idea out of my head so uhh. teacher sukuna hanging out with gojo under his desk while he does paperwork after hours. xo.

@koseigu

It’s late past midnight at Jujutsu High, and the campus lies beneath a velvet sky littered with faint stars. The crescent moon hangs low, casting a pale, silvery light that filters through the windows of Gojo Satoru’s office. The sprawling room is bathed in a cool, ghostly glow, with shadows dancing along the walls, stretching from the towering stacks of paperwork cluttered on the desk.

The office is minimalist, except for a few touches—a framed photograph, a half-empty cup of forest fruit black tea, and a bonsai tree in the corner that seems neglected much like the paperwork Gojo has been lazily sifting through. His desk is positioned near a wide window, giving him a panoramic view of the night’s serenity. But the peaceful scene outside is lost on him as he scans through the last of the reports. He yawns, a soft pout forming on his lips as he stretches and leans back in his chair.

“ Man, why did I put this off? ” he mutters, resting his chin in his palm. His long fingers idly tap on the desk.

Then— knock, knock.

Gojo straightens, his senses prickling. His lips curve into a half-smile, knowing immediately who it is before the door even creaks open.

The second Sukuna enters, the moonlight seems to cling to him, accentuating the sharp angles of his face. It makes Gojo absent-mindedly bite his lower lip before realizing and displaying a sheepish expression.

“ Didn’t expect a late-night visit. ” He hums, the tune dripping with smugness as if he’s been secretly waiting for this moment.

The air thickens with the unholy blend of Sukuna’s ancient malevolence and Gojo’s boundless confidence—a quiet but dangerous energy.

Gojo should be focusing on work, but he should also be resting. There’s truly no break for him but having Sukuna here makes his night a ton better. And perhaps… unforgettable even.

Satoru usually refrains from getting too frisky on school grounds yet he’s also the one who encourages this behavior when he’s completely alone with Sukuna. He relies on his Six Eyes to ensure that no one else is around. Mayhaps the thought of crossing a line excites him just a little but without actually crossing it. The power lies in the choice, In flirting with the boundaries but never breaking them.

Each time he teeters closer, the rush intensifies, not from the act itself, but from the intoxicating sensation of dancing on the edge of the forbidden without fully surrendering.

“ Ah—” he huffs under his warm breath, his thoughts trailing briefly away from the letters written on the papers in his hand.

No one would bother him at this hour but deep inside he is on the cusp of action with a heightened sense of tension. For a brief moment, his Six Eyes have a glimpse into the outer existence beyond the office with an almost suffocating awareness of limitless knowledge and precision, as if nothing can escape their gaze.

The ridges of a hot mouth taking every inch of him is sending his mind into a heady haze. For him to stay alert, he needs to be absolutely focused. Though… the mind feels high, as though drunken, without being so. A soft murmur is sound from him at the feeling of sharp teeth gently grazing his flesh. The sheet he’s been holding on slips between his fingers, caught airborne, swaying side-to-side, and falls to the ground. If he wanted to, he would’ve pulled it with Blue— his fingers spread out before folding in, stopping himself once heat pools down his abdomen and his hips threaten to thrust into the pleasurable insides of Sukuna's mouth.

“ Sukuna— ” he calls out quietly.

Behind the dark fabric of his blindfold, Satoru is trying to maintain his composed demeanor. It’s almost amusing to him, how this affects him physically. A rose tint spreads from his high cheekbones down toward his jawline. The contrast between his hair complexion and the subtle pink flush is striking, making it more vivid. Flustered, he grins—knowing his emotions that are usually locked behind an impenetrable wall have briefly broken through. How embarrassing…

“ You’re gonna taste me on your tongue real soon if you keep goin’ like that. Juuust so you’d know— ”

[ashvvilliams]

FULL NAME — ashley williams. NICKNAMES — ash. GENDER & PRONOUNS — non-binary. they/them. AGE — 32 BIRTHDAY — 06/05/92 SEXUAL ORIENTATION — queer. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION — demiromantic. OCCUPATION — cashier at dreamland market. TIME IN BLUE HARBOR — fourteen years. NEIGHBORHOOD — weaver ridge. LIVED PREVIOUSLY — oxford, united kingdom. FACE CLAIM — emma d'arcy.

STORY. CONNECTIONS. PINTEREST.

tw: domestic abuse tldr: born in a small town, ashley connor was the second youngest of three, often feeling overlooked between an accomplished older sister and an adorable younger brother. seeking approval, ash adhered strictly to their parents' expectations. engaged at sixteen to their high school sweetheart, ashley initially felt validated by their family's acceptance. however, as the relationship turned volatile, ash's world darkened. realizing their parents prioritized their own happiness over ashley's, they finally doubted their path. just after turning eighteen, ash fled to blue harbor, adopting a new last name for a fresh start. though initially lost and taking odd jobs to get by, ashley gradually built a new life. with time, they grew more confident, leaving behind the shadow of their past and stepping into their true self.

[thebluestbluewords]

Polyshipweek23 Day 4: Soulmates

A little bit of context: one of my favorite soulmate/soulmark tropes is “when you touch your soulmate for the first time, you both get a colorful mark in the shape of where you touched” I also love the idea of a soulmate being someone who has a profound impact (not necessarily romantic) on your life, so that’s what I’m rolling with here!

Mal

Mal gets her mark from Jay when they're both little. Like, the first day of what passes for school on the isle kind of little. It was hot, and they weren't wearing long sleeves like most of the adults do, and they bumped shoulders and marked each other. The soulmark is a smudge of dark red on Mal's left shoulder. 

Mal was marked by her mother as a baby. Maleficent's mark is on her back, a double handprint in deep eggplant purple (Mal heard the name for the color long before she knew there was a food that went with it) and it's so deep it looks like a bruise. Not that many people see it. It's fine to be marked by a parent, but showing soulmarks still isn't something that people do on the Isle of the Lost. 

Mal doesn't mark Evie right away. Their marks happen when Mal brushes her fingertips over Evie's wrist, and between Mal's bare hand and Evie's bare wrist, her fingers come away a saturated, brilliant royal blue. 

Mal marks Carlos once they're in Auradon, as promised. Because it's a planned mark, they have some freedom with it, and she puts her mark on him as a full handprint on his right shoulder. (her left hand is stained red in exchange, but it's worth it, to have her mark so bold and bright and undeniable on him). 

Mal marks Ben with her elbow, entirely by accident. On their first date together, she slips and falls in the water of the enchanted lake, and Ben unthinkingly reaches out to try and catch her (or maybe not unthinkingly at all - maybe he knew all along what he was doing) and Mal's elbow catches him in the bicep, and her mark blooms deep orchid purple on his skin, smeared from the broadest point of his arm down to near his elbow. Mal's own sharp, pointy elbow comes away stained with a deep, saturated gold. (It doesn't make the planned betrayal any easier).

Jay

Jay marks Mal when they're too little to know better. He shoulder-checked her on their grubby excuse for a playground, and then instead of a bruise they both had soulmarks blooming bright and unmistakable instead. Mal's mark on his right shoulder is bright orchid, and it's the second-deepest mark Jay has. 

Jay's deepest mark is from Carlos, which is funny in retrospect, but hadn't been at the time. Jay's gloves have a little gap at the heel of his hand, where they cinch tight around his wrist, so he's got a smudgy half-circle the size and shape of the gap on his right hand, bright red with a little smear leading down towards his wrist. It's funny now, but it hadn't been funny at all when the little kid Jay was scruffing to try and intimidate him had squirmed too far and turned out to be a soulmate. 

Jay's mark with Evie was intentional. A mark that would be easy to hide, at Evie's request, so they'd both thought about it and decided it would be funny to un-layer from their leather armor and bump the ridge of their hip bones together. The blue stain is one of Jay’s favorite things to trace over and over when he’s alone for the night.

Jay's mark from his dad is dark red, not nearly as bright in color as the one he has from Carlos, but not as dark as his own marks. It's high on his shoulder, in the shape of a hand catching him there, and it's fainter than most of the marks that parents leave on their children. A shadow of ruby-red, like a colored chalk stain that he can't quite wash off. 

Jay also has a mark from the oldest Hook boy - from a barefoot kick to the ankle when they were kids. It's stormy blue, like the sky outside of their barrier gets sometimes. They didn't realize the connection until later, which was funny when they were fucking each other stupid in the back corners of the docks, and less funny afterwards, when their crews fell out and they stopped speaking to each other outside of threats growled in the market.

Evie

Evie shares an intentional mark on her hip with Jay, his deep red color dark like a burn against her skin. She hides it from her mother, and doesn't let herself regret the choice. 

Mal's mark is absurdly bright on her wrist, a two-fingered smear of color that Evie hides under thick bracelets. Sometimes she wonders if Mal's mark on her is as bright as the one that she left in return. 

Evie doesn't share a mark with her mother, because Grimhilde is careful, and always, always wears her gloves. (this is a lie, and her mother’s mark is buried under Evie's hair on what was once the soft part of her head. Her mother's lips, always rouged or painted, hide the blue that Evie left in return). 

Evie marks Carlos partially by accident. She's not wearing gloves, and he's not wearing sleeves, and she trips over her own feet on a particularly hot day while trying not to pass out from the heat that's making them all suffer, and she smacks her hand into his arm. The mark blooms red and bright on the side of her hand, and the matching mark on his arm comes up so bold and royal blue that it nearly hurts to look at. 

Evie marks Ben, which is strange for both of them. It's an unthinking, casual gesture when it happens. Evie's hands are bare at her sewing table, Ben sitting on the floor with Mal nearby, and she drops her seam ripper near his hand. They're so comfortable together that neither of them thinks before picking it up, and their fingers brush, and oh, they're stained bold blue and gold now. 

Carlos

Carlos's first mark is from his cousin. Diego darts out a tiny hand to touch his baby cousin's bare leg, and leaves a bold orange handprint behind, near the delicate curve of his ankle.

His mother leaves a lot of marks on his body, but none of them are soulmark-bright. Her marks, the ones that she leaves on other people, a white, like a floury handprint, or an old scar on pale skin, and he can see them on the faces of her henchmen every day. For a while he would count the silvery-white burn scars on his skin and beg for them to fade, to prove that they wouldn't turn out to be soulmarks after all. (They aren't, and they do all fade in time). 

Evie marks him by accident, on a hot  day when she sways a little too far and catches hold of his arm for balance. The blue smear from her hand is pretty. A nice change from red and black and white. 

Jay marked him a long time ago. When they were too young to deal with what it meant. The mark is dark and vivid, but mostly hidden under the collar of Carlos's jacket. Jay hides his under gloves, and it feels safer that way, so it doesn't hurt to keep them hidden. (it hurts anyway). 

Mal is one of Carlos's last marks. She puts a hand on his shoulder, after they already know they have two marks in common and are pretty sure they'll share one too. Lifting his shirt for Mal's orchid-purple mark is one of the first times his back sees the sun, and it feels right. Her mark sits lower than Jay's, not hidden, but something just for the two of them. 

Carlos marks Ben. It's one of the first times he leaves a mark on someone, rather than the other way around. It's almost an accident. Ben reaches out his hand while they're in the forest behind the school together, like Carlos is a princess who needs help climbing over the fallen tree on the path. Their hands are bare, and they both know it. Carlos reached out to take his hand, and the mark on Ben's palm blooms red and bright. The gold he gets in exchange feels like a new beginning. 

[katsigian]

This question is of course for Valen:

Does he enjoys fine arts, and if so which ones? (I refer here to the historical definition so including: painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and poetry)

I hope this question helps :)

Thank you so much for the ask <3 I like this one!

Valen's always really liked the fine arts, especially painting. In fact, he used to be a painter when he was in high school; he really like Rembrandt style art and modeled a lot of his own art off of that form. Valen was very talented. He could've been successful in an art-related career if that had not been taken away from him when he was 19 by his dad. Some of his old paintings can still be found; a portrait of a person he dreamt off cloaked in shadows and silk while sitting on a craggy ridge line, and a still life of the dark water and rocks along the coastline where he used to spend his summers.

Valen was also extremely interested in architecture (more so than painting) and actually wanted to go to university for an architecture degree. That was also taken from him. But he was very skilled in design architecture and modeled a lot of his own designs from Gothic and Romanesque styles. He loved designing modern buildings with very specific historical architecture and traditional materials - brick, black iron, large wood beams. His most favourite way to incorporate Romanesque and Gothic details were through this manner. Putting elaborate Gothic arches in an industrial lost. Including complex Roman brickwork for an office building.

Valen was very talented when it came to architecture and he loved doing it. Again, he could've been very successful were he allowed to continue it when he was younger. Nowadays, he doesn't do it as often, but you can still find technical sketches on grid paper around his desk at home. Not a whole building, but maybe just an elaborate door or a specific style of roof. Mixed in with those, you'd also be able to find dark, sketchy portraits of people with scribbled in shadows and piercing eyes.

[1nksta1neddesk]

A Court of Readers and Dreamers

Chapter 24: Tend the Flames

The next day I try to find Lucien as he leaves his room, which should have been easy considering it was just across the hall but even as I woke up well before the sun rose his door never opened. I left my room door open as I asked a servant girl with goose down for hair to fetch me a book from the library, one I had cataloged in a short book shelf at the front of the library. I had a little more than a month and a half, 42 days to be exact, and I needed to find a way to disrupt the marriage and somehow get Rhysand to come get me without Feyre’s wedding-induced panic attack. The servant came back with the book and I thanked her with a sweet and soft smile before I sat with my feet propped up on the covers, having changed into loose pants and a simple tunic during the time she had been gone. 

 My toes were tucked under a quilt and I stole glances into the hallway with each turn of the page, staring at one of the double doors that led to his rooms. My hands were tracing the edge of the page, feeling the ridge of each finger print catch against the rough edge of the paper. The page was familiar, the anatomy of sub-species of Prythian Fae. There were no terms like High Fae or Lesser Fae, it was near scientific and it calmed the academic part of me that was always on the edge of disappearing over the edge with each fantastical thing I was forced to live through.

Like dying, dying and coming back in newly forged flesh made for a different soul. That was not science, and I didn’t even know if the old rules of my world applied here. But the book was a solace and told me of evolutions between species the author had witnessed, some old souls who had been around for millenia of millenia, old even by fae standards. Wraiths came forth from shadows to other mediums, finding dark cast by water or wood before they were able to adapt and blend into the new matter. It was compelling and for once my eyes remained focused as I read and reread the evolution of Illyrian traditions and physiology.

Their ears had rounded over the generation, northern winds having left many with frostbite that rotted the tips of traditional fae ears that had once possessed. It was a similar assumption as to why the claws had formed on the apex of each wing, a trait that had not been apart of the ancestors of Illyrians that had come from a southern continent, the callused tip serving to cut the brunt of the cold wind that left everything half-frozen after an hour in the air. 

It was therapeutic to have academia, have reasoning and explanation at my fingertips where everything was so… in the air? Even with the suspense of magic there I was left with a bitter tang in my mouth at the lack of explanation or science at all that this world took into account. I had spent so long in school, hunched over books to understand formulas and theories, structures and lines to follow and now those were gone and it felt all so useless.

I was just about to turn the same page for the 3rd time that day when I saw movement in the hallway. I was excited for a moment, moving to close the book and stand before I realized Lucien’s door hadn’t opened at all and I was staring into the teal eyes of a Hybern Priestess. She smiled sweetly and I noticed the bundle she was carrying in her arms, the blue robes she always wore dragging behind her as she came into my room.

“I hope I am not intruding, especially after such an exciting night last night,” She sighs and I narrow my eyes at her slightly as I sit back down in my chair, “Too bad you had not stuck around later, the night was heavenly.”

 The connotation in her voice had my stomach wanting to crawl out of my throat and escape this conversation. Her promiscuity had been obvious since she had come to the manor, no more than a dozen days after I had come back. I had seen far too many half-dressed men and women alike scurrying from her rooms in early mornings for me to do more than grimace at the reminder. At least she had kept her hands off of anyone who lived in the estate, as far as I was aware.

“I’m similarly aggrieved, but I do think I had enough party to last me for quite a while.” I smiled at her and bit back on words that pushed their way to the forefront of my mind. “Now may I ask what you have come for?” 

Maybe there was some bite in my words, I wasn’t perfect at covering my dislike for her and I was also not perfect at caring if I tried to cover it. She gave me a tight smile and the line of moon phases on her brow scrunched together. “I was going to invite you to walk in the gardens, perhaps start talking about the details of your wedding since we have such a tight timeline for all these things. Perhaps set a schedule where I can help explain your role in this court a bit better.” 

The condescension hung from each of her words like a droplet about to fall, but still I gave her that trained smile with crinkling eyes and straight teeth. Maybe my animosity had no basis yet, but I saw the flicker of desire in her eyes everytime she looked at Tamlin; not the desire of bodies but the one of power, to situate herself at his side and get a foot hold for her sponsor across the sea. I had tried dropping hints to her over the weeks, asking about where she had been during the curse- a distant court, I was able to use a connection to get out of Prythian before the curse had come. 

“I was hoping to talk to my betrothed first before starting to plan. I hope you understand that I have never been the type to plan these sorts of things.” I lied through my teeth, and then I saw a new movement in the hall. Lucien’s door was opening and he was dragging himself out, hair messily braided back as he peeked his head into the hallway and grabbed the small arm of the fake woman that had brought me my book. “Speaking of which.” 

I brushed past her and caught the tail end of Lucien’s words before he started retreating back into his room again. I caught the edge of the door in my hand, the wood groaning against my grip as I smiled at him, this time more genuine with excitement to bring that burn back to my veins.

“May we have a word?” I half-whisper the words to him as he looked at me, still obviously exhausted from the task he had been doing during the time in his room. His eyes were bleary and it took him a long moment where he blinked slowly to nod and open the door to me more. I heard Ianthe huff slightly and the swish of her layers as she returned to her duties, whatever they were. I go into the room, eyes changing quickly to accommodate for the low lighting in his room.

While he may be the spring emissary his room is blatantly autumnal, littered with memorabilia from the other courts, as far as I could tell. The walls were a burnt umber and gold lined each textile from his bed linens to the carpet under my feet as I moved through it. It smelled like a low burning fire, mixed with the same roasting chestnut smell he must have gotten from his mother. He had obviously been in the middle of writing, crumpled pieces of paper overflowing from the waste basket near his desk and a glass ink-pen sitting next to an open jar of ink. I was more intrigued by the sun bleached conch shell that sat on a shelf over his desk, a large tapestry behind the desk depicting snow capped mountains with dark shapes I knew were wolves, all framed by the burning colors of fall leaves. 

“Look- Tamlin is out today with all the nobles but I’ve been thinking that if I can use your bargain with Rhysand I can get him to at least push back the date-- but that is if he doesn't fly off the handle. Gods,” He runs a hand down his face as I turn to him and I watch him pace across his carpet, “You do not know how angry he gets about that, but I can work with it.” 

His voice had grown reedy at the end of his sentence and he sat on the edge of the bed. This was taking a toll on him, in more than one way, and guilt sucker-punched me right in the nose as I walked back over to him. I had added more burden to him, asked him to nearly betray his friend he had spent centuries with and I am sure that if I walked over to that waste basket I would find dozens of ditched letters trying to explain to Tamlin on both of our behalfs. I leaned my shoulder against his, ignoring the prickling sensation that ran over my skin like a thousand needles searching for a vein.

“Can I help with it, any of it?” The question feels so useless, so small against everything else. It's even smaller when he shakes his head and slumps his weight against me, resting his head on my shoulder. I looked back to the room, now noticing the small piles of clothes strewn about, blades of all types out of their sheaths, broken quills on every flat table, open books stacked on top of eachother. 

“I can help with paperwork,anything. Honestly I need something to do, and if it takes some of it all off of you then we can have time to figure out how to keep me from setting up like a torch.” I tried laughing through it, to make it easier for him to accept because I could see it eating at him. The smile that I had nearly always seen that crinkled his scar under the mask had been gone for so long and he was drowning. All while I was wallowing and lounging about he was drowning in all of this. “Maybe we can even convince Tam you are trying to show me the ropes for my new life, figure out how to write between courts and deal with all your fae politics.” 

He contemplated for a moment before he straightened himself, taking his weight from me. “That would help, but we need to talk about that with Tamlin first. If he found out I got you tangled into politics - I think even being your fiance would not save my skin on this one.” We both take a minor twin cringe at the word fiance before I nod my head enthusiastically, assuring Lucien I would talk to Tamlin within the week.

“Sleep some, you can't work if you are going delirious.” I say as I raise from the bed, moving to pick up his room a little bit. He was drained enough that he just gave me a thankful look before dragging himself up the bed slightly and falling asleep right there, still dressed in his crinkled finery from the night before.

I moved around the room, trying to organize the mess. It had to have been weeks worth of clothes thrown everywhere, hanging from unlit candles and kicked under dressers, and every time I thought I found the last piece I would see a glint of a gold button from the corner of my eye and add it to the pile. The weapons weren’t much better, mixed in with the clothes as they were and stacked on top of shelves as I collected them as well. Every part of the mess found its own corner for me to address later, just me working my way through and trying to make a clear path where I walked.

When everything had been cleared I was left staring at the towering piles; laundry in one corner, books and knives in the other, multiple cups and mugs and wine glasses having been found with plates that had dried smears of sauce. I was silent as I slid from the room to ask a pair of twin male servants to get a laundry cart and a book cart from the library as I walked down the hall to the kitchen with my hands stacked high with dishes. The cooks and cleaners on staff looked horrified as I toed the door open with a sheepish smile before I set the dishes down by the sink. I saw whispers go up between the two dish girls for the night as I left and wondered what type of rumors that could possibly be spread over some plates. When I got back to Lucien’s room I saw the two carts had been placed outside. I threw in arm fulls of laundry, checking for more hidden knives as I went. When it was stacked high I gave the basket to a servant who had come to me, looking more and more distraught as she saw me wipe sweat from my brow and smile at her. 

The more I worked, ducking in and out of Lucien’s room as I took things out, the more staff seemed to find themselves walking down the hall. Sticking close together as their eyes followed me pushing a cart heavy with books. I was useful, tasks needing to be completed with a clear goal. It was so easy and nice to fall into it, to be able to stop thinking. Now the majority of the room was clean, with Lucien snoring softly in his bed as I sat down with a soft huff in the grand chair that sat in front of his desk. I still heard the wisps of servant shoes against the stone as they pressed against the seams of the door. It seemed the servants were just as nosey as the rest of spring, desperate for some drama ,including my arranged marriage, to entertain themselves.

I leafed through some of the papers I had organized on his desk, wishing for my old world’s filing cabinets just to organize the growing pile of addresses from other courts’ emissaries. They all asked for support, supplies, all while offering little in return. The worst of the demands seem to come from Autumn court, broken red wax seals that came back together to show a three pronged flame, echoing the shape of a maple leaf. I also noticed the lack of any Night court seals, none displaying Ramiel or any insinuation of the high lord that continued to infuriate me.

I had separated the piles by court and then ordered them by date, really for all the fine metal working I had seen in this world I would have assumed they could have made some letter holders that were more than wicket baskets. The wax from each court present was different and I studied each symbol while I waited for the servants to trickle away and I could sneak out to find the High Lord of this court and convince him to let me give a hand in his court. I sighed, a headache coming back, I was probably dehydrated from all my cleaning and I hadn’t had breakfast and thinking of how I was going to convince Tamlin to both let me help Lucien in emissary duties and to annul the engagement. And I had to do that today, or else the day of silence after he had sent a wrecking ball into my life would be too much of an acquiescence.

I heard a knock on the door, soft and quick, and got up to open the door. Tamlin was there, in a prim suit of dusty rose and beige, with his hands crossed behind his back. I hadn’t had a full conversation with him in weeks, not since he had awoken in my room under the mountain, and I had been avoiding him just as much as he had been avoiding me. But he looked sheepish here, young and inexperienced in the runnings of a court before Amarantha had staunched his learning.

I moved into the hallway, closing the door behind me softly before we started walking down the hallway, an arms length away from each other as we followed a familiar path. His study had been part of my daily path before, and walking back into it with new senses felt like walking into a childhood home years after a new family had moved in. Each groove of the wood was familiar but the creek of them felt new and off along with the stuttering of the feet of Tamlin’s throne-like chair. His desk was a mess, papers strewn about and crumpled where they laid under cups, water stains from where condensation had dripped down the side also sending the ink spreading like tendrils. He sat down heavily, dropping his body into it like it was too exhausting for his bones to hold up the rest of him. 

“Tam-” 

“Feyre-”

We had both started talking at the same time, stopping to let the other one continue until a lapsing moment of silence before I motioned him to talk first.

“Lucien had raised some issues with me about your engagement-” He coughed into his hands for a second before he ran a hand through his hair, the fingers catching on tangles that he ripped past in frustration. “And he made me aware that you had not been informed of it, at least before last night.”

He was frustrated as he brought his hand back to the edge of the desk, claws digging into the wood through a curled piece of parchment before he pulled back with another slight grimace. “It was my intent to discuss the proposal with you beforehand, but with the damage of the court making itself known I feel like I am being drawn and quartered into every village in the land. Still I should have found the time, instead of giving a letter to Ianthe describing the expectations of the marriage and the duties you will be incharge of. I thought the marriage is something you would be excited about, not opposed to- with how clear you had made it that you were not interested in me before I had sent you home, I had thought you and Lucien had grown closer on those patrols.”

He was rambling and maybe I would have found reasons to be more mad at him but I had stopped listening to the last part of his words. Ianthe, Ianthe had had a letter to tell me this, a letter never delivered in long hours forced into her company when I could not hide.

“I never got a letter.” I say the words in a blank rush, the panicking anger at the pristest boiling internally, the pressure building inside. But I could see past the cloudy haze of anger to where Tamlin gave a nod as he swallowed thickly, looking to a corner of a room with quick darts of his eyes.

“I was informed of that this morning,” He was becoming more anxious with his words and I smelled the iron tang of blood in the air as he worried the inside of his lip between sharpening teeth, the red staining the pale pink lips as he paused. “Again I would have discussed this in person with you before last night if I had been made aware, but I have also been avoidant of this place for my own reason.” 

“What-” I was going to ask for elaboration but he shook his head before handing me a sealed letter, the envelope thick with paper.

“I’ve detailed your duties there, none of them will be officially started before after the wedding, but it would be beneficiary to get accustomed to it. Lucien has also sent in a request for .” And there it was, the wedding was still on. He knew I didn’t want this but he wasn’t withdrawing his announcement.

“Tamlin.” I caught his attention with his name, firm and stronger than I had been expecting, warmed and hardened with a hot pulse under my skin. Still I had to be rational, needed to keep a foothold here to keep from the king taking the power vacuum Feyre had left before. “I would like to request some formal lessons on the dignitaries of this court and the other courts with Lucien, it would also help if he could delegate some of the simpler tasks of his to someone else. He is exhausted as it is now.”

Tamlin paused for a moment too long as he picks up a peice of paper that was more yellowed than the rest of them, the edge of the paper glinting with the faintest shimmer of gold. “I have contacted some old friends from Day court to free you from that bargain to the Night Court, do not think I’ve forgotten. But if we must travel that closer to their borders to do so it would be beneficial for you to at least know some of the courtiers and such.” He nods his head and stands, swaying slightly on his feet before he steadies with another clawed hand in that ornate chair of his. I take the dismissal and go to the door, swinging it in and holding it open for him to pass through before I follow suit, making sure I hear the door snicker shut before I continue down the hall with him.

“Once the Court has calmed I would love to play with you again.” He says as we pass the old room where we would spend hours playing over the old grand piano in there. I look at the closed door, at the dark shadows that come forth from the threshold of the room and hurry past it.

“One day.” I say before we come to a fork in the hall, one heading back towards the library and the other to the gardens. I look down the garden hall to see a small gaggle of courtiers that had been living in the Manor for the past month. They all turned and waved at Tamlin, ushering him over, and I balked, giving him a quiet goodbye as I ducked into the opposite hall, heading to the library.

I found a small room, a study for scholars that used to live here but had been left empty when many had fled from the manor when Amarantha had ransacked it. I sat onto the cushioned bench, small flurries of dust flying into the air. I just needed a moment to calm the galloping of my heart. God, just the idea of talking to so many people was daunting, terrifying for no other reason than their praise. I was afraid of the thanks, afraid that if I heard another ‘thank you,’ or ‘Mother bless you’ I would crack and scream and tell them how wrong they were, how broken and cruel I was. 

I lavished in the quiet, setting my elbows on the hard wood of the desk as I took in deep breaths. The stretch in my shoulders let my chest expand easier and I would have laid there until lunch if the door hadn’t started to open.I straightened, picking a piece of large dust from my tunic as I did so and brushed a stray section of hair from my flushed face. Ianthe���s face came into the door before the rest of her ,flowing robes a swaying mass of azure and silver where it clinked at her wrists and neck.

“Ah, Feyre, there you are.” She says it like a scolding mother, “I heard that you had gone to discuss things with Tamlin after some long hours in Lucien’s rooms.” The insinuation was clear enough that the quick crush of panic I had been working through was washed away on an icy wave that was already honing my own quips.

“I must apologize for my empty mindedness, a fortnight ago Tamlin had given me a correspondence for you.” She produces a stained and tattered envelope from somewhere in the folds of the fabrics, “I do so often get distracted when alone together that I simply forgot, and one day I hope to have a more formal role here so these things are not a regular occurance.”

Something slid into place, a fractiling piece of a puzzle that had been coming together around me and the image became clear. The closeness she sat next to him during dinners, how his hands always were tightly clenched around the silverware, why he had been avoiding me, avoidant for my own reasons he had said, why despite months of casual friendship he had not come to me in the long weeks, and how the way his steps had hurried toward the courtiers and away from the library where she often lurked in the corners like a soul sucking wraith.

Everything froze in the moment, the crinkling smile in her eyes that had the same gleam a redheaded bitch queen had looked at me with, the soft plane of her forehead where tattoos were unmarred, and hands that had a past of wandering to where they were unwelcome.I was going to be her hell and there was no god she could pray to that would spare her, not without having to snap my neck again and again. 

[xoashdurham]

2024 Brent Brennan Football Camp 7x7 and Big Man Competition

2024 Brent Brennan Football Camp 7x7 and Big Man Competition

[st4rs0ng17]

for the pump track boy

a boy is a poem

the soft musky scent that clings to the school uniform strewn on my bedroom floor, to the ridges of his ringlets, to the hollow of his collarbones that i bury my face in. the lines of his body, sculpted, abrupt but gently so, the unspoken invitations tucked away in the sweet marrow of his jawbone, his blunted fingertips. his placid half-moon boy smile, the sunlight reflecting off oceans in his eyes, the scintillating patterns cast against the shadows of his cheekbones.

a girl is a gun

i am shiny smooth, polished to perfection with a slick of lipstick and my mother's lace handkerchief. i am sensuality, i am laughing, i don't cry over split lips or cum stains, but sometimes over extra-cheesy pizza. i am trying my very best, spewing echoes and mistranslations all over his shoes, and then i am on my knees, his fingers knotted in my hair, i think i might be praying.

the bullets inside of me are held back by sheer willpower, held back by the clumsy rasp of his voice, by the lingering childhood mannerisms that still haunt his long limbs and stubbled upper lip.

i am holding all of my violence within me, letting it cut up my guts, massacre my lungs, my heart, because he deserves hibiscus flowers, quiet sunset evenings, wine coolers, cornflower nail varnish.

i can hear the oracle's whisper in my ear. guns and poetry create nothing but more white wine gutsfuck IVs to hide under my pillow. you tell me about the assholes that profit off war, performative shallow words that i don't mind because they're yours. i have a war in me, i know this. i can't let it out, or you'll know me.

a girl like me cannot be known by a boy like you.

a girl like me cannot be known often at all.

you can’t know how badly i need to not mess this up.

you can’t know how badly i need proof that i am a girl, not a gun. 

that i am not a metaphor for my self-destructive tendencies, that i am capable of liking someone enough to be sweet.

you like me sexy, glossy party girl midnight cherry lipgloss grin, you like my breath hot on your neck, you like my lace and star-spangled sunglasses.

you are too young, handsome but really not all that interesting, you haven't yet learnt that girls like me end up lessons.

i am human, despite your inability to comprehend my existence as more than a high school lover, and there is a reason i bury it so far.

i have been a lesson to everyone i have ever loved, everyone i have ever touched.

my bullets ricochet, bouncing off tender flesh, leaving his neck bruised, indigo galaxies.

guns are beautiful. guns aren’t nice.

poetry- the view from the water tower, your touch in my core, the strange sensations of intimacy without love.

every open mouthed kiss, a regret waiting to happen- i am a regret waiting to happen.

you are a poem and i a gun.

there isn’t anything poetic about it really.

i swear on every star, i don’t want to, i don’t mean it, but i am going to hurt you.

[ndumie-1]

Embracing Community as  Journey of Growth and Impact . 

On my first day in the community, I felt like a fish out of water, completely out of place. The faces were unfamiliar, the expectations high, and doubt crept in like a shadow. "Am I really ready for this?" I asked myself as I stepped into the community center. As we were bombarded with information on how things had worked previously, I questioned whether I was ready for the challenges ahead or if I would be overwhelmed by the many needs around me. I wondered if I could really make a difference. But then I remembered the old saying my lecturer used to say , "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Little did I know, this step would lead me into the heart of a community that would challenge, teach, and transform me in ways I never imagined. As I stood there, trying to find my footing ,  that's when things began to change.

Working on different projects across two communities and the rehabilitation center SANCA broadened my understanding of the occupational therapy . I've learned the value of teamwork, effective communication, and adaptability in diverse settings. I have also learned to improvise and be creative. I discovered that being out of place wasn’t a weakness , it was an invitation to grow. The projects I became part of, from promoting mental health to supporting children with developmental delays, were more than tasks; they were lifelines for the people we served. Each day, I found myself drawing on the power of teamwork, where the collective efforts of students, caregivers, and stakeholders turned challenges into greatness . It was here, amidst the bustling energy of Marian ridge and Thornwood, that I learned one of life’s most profound lessons: that we are not just shaped by our experiences, but by the connections we create with others. Furthermore,  I began to see how every interaction, every small victory, was not just a part of my journey but a huge part of  community healing and empowerment (Dewi & Pranoto, 2021).

By facilitating access to health services, such as screenings and training for people with disabilities, we addressed immediate health needs and promoted overall well-being. For instance, training caregivers on using assistive devices helped individuals manage their daily activities more independently. Our work with local schools and crèches aimed to support children’s developmental milestones and academic success. Through  occupational therapy sessions, we helped students with developmental delays improve their skills and engage more fully in their education. We engaged with community members through health promotion activities and awareness programs, promoting a more inclusive environment. This involved raising awareness about mental health and promoting social interactions among different groups. Caregiver education and training was the central approach used . I encouraged participation in decision-making processes and supported local initiatives, which not only improved their self-confidence but also contributed to more effective intervention.

Reflecting on these experiences, I realized that the asset-based approach and CBR Matrix were not just theoretical concepts but practical tools that guided my  efforts. They helped me focus on what already worked well in the community and find ways to build on those strengths.  One of the most significant lessons I've learned is the importance of collaboration and communication with other stakeholders, particularly social workers. Initially, I had limited knowledge of the role social workers played in the community. However, through working closely with them, I gained a deeper understanding of their contributions and the impact they have on individuals and families. For instance, during a home visit, I witnessed a social worker advocate for a family's needs, ensuring they received necessary resources and support. This experience taught me the value of interdisciplinary collaboration and the importance of communicating effectively with other professionals to achieve common goals (Rasminsky & Taylor, 2020).

Another crucial lesson I've learned is the importance of being outspoken and assertive in the community. As occupational therapy students, we often worked in teams, and I realized that being vocal about my ideas and concerns was essential to ensure that our projects were effective and met the community's needs. For example, during a reporting meeting with stakeholders at COC, I suggested an alternative approach to implementing a project for the stroke group, which led to a more effective and sustainable solution. The values that underpin our practice empathy, respect, justice, and collaboration cannot be overstated. In Marian ridge, I was constantly reminded of the importance of these values. Empathy was crucial in understanding the lived experiences of the individuals we served, allowing us to tailor our interventions to their specific needs and circumstances. Respect for the autonomy and dignity of each person ensured that our work was not about imposing solutions but about partnering with them in their journey towards better health and well-being. Justice, particularly occupational justice, was a driving force behind our efforts to address the inequities that marginalized communities face in accessing health services and opportunities for meaningful occupations. I learned to be an advocate, a voice for those who are not heard (Hocking & Whiteford, 2021).

As I prepare to hand over the projects we’ve worked on, I do so with a sense of pride and responsibility my goal is for them to continue benefiting the community long after we’re gone. I want to focus on creating sustainable programs that empower the community to take charge of their health and well-being. One of the most important roles of an occupational therapist is to educate and advocate. I plan to continue raising awareness about the value of occupational therapy and advocating for the rights of marginalized communities. I’ve learned so much from my peers, supervisors , and the people I’ve worked with (stakeholders). Moving forward, I will seek out opportunities for collaborative learning, sharing knowledge, and growing together with others in my field.

references

Dewi, A. F., & Pranoto, S. (2021). The power of collaboration in occupational therapy: Enhancing community health through teamwork. Journal of Community Health, 46(3), 451-459. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10900-020-00856-8

Foot, J., & Hopkins, T. (2020). A guide to asset-based community development: Key concepts and practices. Health Foundation. https://www.health.org.uk/publications/a-guide-to-asset-based-community-development

Hocking, C., & Whiteford, G. (2021). Occupational justice: Bridging theory and practice in occupational therapy. Journal of Occupational Science, 28(2), 143-156. https://doi.org/10.1080/14427591.2021.1907812

Rasminsky, J. S., & Taylor, S. E. (2020). Interdisciplinary collaboration in community health: The role of social workers in occupational therapy. Social Work in Health Care, 59(4), 270-279. https://doi.org/10.1080/00981389.2020.1753267

World Health Organization. (2019). Community-based rehabilitation: CBR matrix. WHO. https://www.who.int/disabilities/cbr/cbr_matrix/en/

[bensbooks]

Underrated 2019: Every Moment After

Eleven years after a shooting rocked the small town of East Ridge, New Jersey and left eighteen first graders in their classroom dead, survivors and recent high school graduates Matt Simpson and Cole Hewitt are still navigating their guilt and trying to move beyond the shadow of their town's grief. Will Cole and Matt ever be able to truly leave the ghosts of East Ridge behind? Do they even want to? As they grapple with changing relationships, falling in love, and growing apart, these two friends must face the question of how to move on—and truly begin living.

[lunarcovehq]

Efetobo Umukoro is a human that currently resides in Downtown and has been a Lunar Cove resident for 2 Days.

ITS THE END OF THE WORLD

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Male, He/Him

DATE OF BIRTH: January 22, 1989

OCCUPATION: Firefighter

FACECLAIM: Okieriete Onaodowan

AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE

SPECIES: Human

COALITION POSITION: Member 

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, EFETOBO UMUKORO

Trigger Warnings: Fire; Arson; Memory Loss/Amnesia; Injury; Death

The scar on his palm—twisting sideways and furling along the ridges of his fingers like the branches of some bare, thorny bush—first fractured his lifeline on one of those peculiar spring days when one could almost forget the winter had gone, when a bracing, salt-filled wind from the sea and the correct number of clouds conspired to make the little town of Lunar Cove unbearably and unseasonably cold. He came upon the baby bird when his sneaker paused above it, frozen, as if by some external force. Kneeling down, the boy, who had, by then, gone by Efe for most of his life, all seven years of it, scooped the creature into his hands and stared up at the tree towering before him, its branches swaying gently in the gusts still rolling by. 

He began climbing before he could really consider the practical concerns of such a feat, emboldened by a recent growth spurt that had finally placed him in the back row of that year’s class photo. And finding footing in the center of the tree, where its trunk split, he ascended, upward and upward, until, poised overhead, he was tucking the fallen bird back among its brethren—for better or for worse, he supposed. Efe himself had nearly made it all the way down again when he lost his grip, scraping his hand along the wood in an effort to grab onto something, and giving himself the strange, splintered mark, which he would carry into adulthood.

His father would click his tongue as he expertly bandaged his son’s hand later that afternoon, but really, the child had only inherited that protective instinct from the man himself, that deeply ingrained, pressing need, nestled in his heart of hearts to play rescuer, protector, hero to those still small enough to cower before bullies in the schoolyard. Dr. Umukoro had first come to Lunar Cove many years earlier, when he, as a young surgeon, learned of Shadow Lake Hospital, a far-away institution in dire want, from a peculiar colleague at a conference. Arriving in-town, the good doctor, shocked by its true nature, nevertheless, decided to stay. 

This place, cut off from the world at large, needed him, needed his skills; he had evidently been brought there for a reason. Thus, in full consideration of his oath, he remained. And perhaps Lunar Cove, then, was what he had needed as well. He married another doctor several years later, a human woman who worked in the emergency department, and together, the pair of them raised four children (and one dog) in a genuinely happy home at the very center of Celestial Hills.

Efe himself, their oldest child and their only son, largely did well at school—kept focused on his studies by the watchful eyes of his parents and guided by the admittedly pressing weight of their pristine public status as Coalition members. To step too far out of line, of course, would mean embarrassing his family name, and truly, that fate would be one worse than death, he knew. Popular and something of a natural leader, he scored high marks in class and excelled at sports, and by the time he entered high school, Efe had secured his own local reputation around town as a genuinely well-liked kid, the kind of young man neighbors could rely on to help with their groceries or teachers could count on to make a new student feel welcome.

Nevertheless, this new chapter also brought new challenges. At one time, most successes had come naturally to Efe, but by now, his classmates were beginning to blossom into themselves just as he was beginning to feel stagnant. The witches with whom he had grown up were discovering their inherent abilities, the Fae were beginning to test the limits of their supernatural speed, and tragic as it were, at least one werewolf, with whom Efe had once been close, had inadvertently triggered himself. In a move that would nearly ruin their relationship, then, the young wolf would lean on his enhanced durability and strength to snag Efe’s spot on the wrestling team right from under him, leaving Efe to play football (second-string) and bowl instead. Still, sobering as they were, Efe himself never quite held these realities against his friends, nor did he come to resent his humanity. But the very structure to which he had clung for so many years seemed to now be crumbling. And for the first time, his grades began to noticeably dip, never below a B-minus, of course, but his once pristine focus and secure sense of self had evidently been lost.

Efe’s parents decided to tighten their watch on him by making him volunteer at the hospital as he neared the end of high school, as if this experience could genuinely sway him toward a proper premed program. And in truth, Efe himself did not terribly mind the work; the gentle nighttime walks home after finishing his shift allowed him to clear his mind of the clutter of college application season. But it was on one of those very treks that he first came upon a fire burning in the already shattered husk of Shadow Lake. Hanging back, face flashing red and orange in the glow from his vantage point, he watched the smoke curl upward as the fire brigade quelled the flames. 

With his admission to his father’s prestigious alma mater rejected later that year, the young man, much to his parents’ chagrin, decided to take a year off from school to more properly work out what he actually wanted to do. Taking on odd jobs in addition, he began at the volunteer fire department at that time. And in the thrill of the endeavor, the bout of mysterious blazes out in Shadow Lake, he rediscovered that part of himself he had thought lost, that feeling of doing what he was supposed to be doing and doing it well. 

Efe was off-duty, however, trekking home from the hospital as he once did, when he came upon a former classmate, Reese Hawthorne, for the very first time, igniting a blaze by her own hand. He fled that night and lay awake, perturbed by the knowledge. Still, with the levelheadedness of daylight, he spoke up rather immediately. But in truth, no one quite took his word. His parents would not cross the coven, and his colleagues, satiated on their mundane diets of kitten rescues up to that point, perhaps found themselves drunk on the work Reese was providing. But thus also began the pair’s strange, passionate dance. The witch would light something up, and Efe Umukoro would appear to put it out. A push and a pull.

The young man did eventually confront her on his own when it seemed no one else would. He can recall, even now, making some quip about Bunsen burners in the middle school Chemistry lab, that he had found her suspicious even then upon seeing how she handled them. But he did not quite expect her to flirt with him, and caught off-guard, just as he had been when he rescued that baby bird, he acted without thinking. And he flirted back. 

The curious romance sprung from the peril of it all, the forbidden risk Efe had never before taken, bloated by adrenaline. He found in Reese an alluring, frightful sense of danger, and clinging to that notion, perhaps mistaking it for genuine love too soon, he fell for her, wildly and completely. Love itself had, at some point, crystallized into sincerity by the time he was on his knee holding up a ring one year later. A whirlwind followed. His parents disapproved. He did not care. There came a wedding and a house and a dog affectionately called Badger.

But then also came the question of children, and the passion that had once brought them together, now pulled fitful, fiery words from their tongues. They argued. And married bliss, or as close as they were going to get to it, flickered and fizzed until all that was left was an odd, sad sort of bitterness, a candle snuffed out and left smoking. Efe was not quite angry when he loaded up his car and drove away that one fateful afternoon. Resentment was not the feeling, no. Perhaps it was melancholy, then, this strange, yearning emotion that carved a hollow so deep into his chest, the sensation of hopes unfulfilled. The split had been amicable enough, mutually agreed upon, but this self-conscious emptiness, nagging and hungry as it was, he could not stand to live with. He could not stand his parents’ clicking tongues, or that ghastly hospital, or the splintered buildings of Shadow Lake, or the house he would not get to live in, or his left hand, where that scar from so many years ago licked at his ring finger.

He wished things had been different, he realized, and in a moment of earnest, intellectual clarity, he realized, all the same, that it was no one’s fault that they had not been. Efe clung to this singular notion as he passed through the Mirage, until it grew fainter and fainter in his mind’s eye. As he glanced in his rear-view mirror upon coming to its edge, his thoughts turned back to his little hometown, to all the perfectly average people who lived in it, to an average childhood and average classmates he could never quite catch up with, and to a marriage between two people that simply did not work out. Weird, he thought, as static took over the radio. Siren Sounds, to which he had been tuned, buzzed out for the last time, as if had never existed to begin with.

Drifting for a bit, then, Efe eventually settled in Chicago, where he made a proper career as a firefighter. By now, a decade or so after leaving Lunar Cove, he has a nice apartment, a good job, and a new relationship, the most recent and most sincere of several that had been fizzing out for many years. What was missing, perhaps, were the parents and sisters he had left behind so many years earlier, victims of his own mighty push for independence. Recently, a notable display of bravery at the scene of an apartment fire earned Efe recognition from the Mayor’s Office for bravery. But despite the man’s pleas, neither his mother and father nor his siblings were willing to make the trip for the ceremony. 

Irritated at this apparent rejection of his attempt to mend bridges, Efe did not truly understand until he was driving back to confront them. Passing once more through the Mirage, he felt the years all at once return. And in-town now on leave, staying in his childhood home that he long ago outgrew, he is trying to screw up the courage to leave again and reclaim the life he had been building, even if that life is only partially true.