#Unfinished fic

[summervale]

「Merriment」

Third-person reader insert! Y/N is the younger sister of King Robert Baratheon. Her house sigil is a stag, yes, but it seems she has a particular fondness for hounds.

Contains: Reluctant pining, kissing, mature situations Words:  2,311

UNFINISHED WORK: This was supposed to be a long, multi-part piece which is why it takes so long setting up! This was part one and is about halfway finished. Figured there's a lot of Sandor fans that might enjoy a small something cute <3

No husband and no responsibilities made for a very happy woman indeed. Small wonder she was all smiles and riddles and gayeties; she must, the commonfolk thought, be the happiest woman in all the seven kingdoms.

This was likely true.

She was forever laughing. There was a smile on her face always, it seemed, and everywhere she went she took merriment with her. Her ladyship took great pleasure in riddles and games and shows of mummers and fools, and King’s Landing had not hosted a tourney that did not have her there in the pavilions in many a year. She was a friend to all regardless of birth or station or reputation (within reason), and for this she was quite loved, but also quite resented. The resentment was paid little mind—turning a blind eye and smiling was much more fun, as it was often irksome to those who were loth to favor her.

Y/N Baratheon. Lady of Storm’s End, younger sister to Stannis and Robert, older sister to Renly. She possessed the same appetite for amity as Robert coupled with the mirth and grandeur of Renly. Of Stannis, it was said, they shared only a name. Still she insisted she adored all her brothers equally, “even the gloomy one.”

Much was afoot in King’s Landing.

King Robert had named Lord Eddard Stark new hand of the king, and Stark had arrived with a host of his own and his two daughters in tow. This was cause for celebration, and celebration was cause for a tourney, and where there was a tourney (or a celebration), Lady Y/N was to be found.

And she was found in King’s Landing quite a lot, of recent.

There was a rumor, often dubbed a vicious and untrue one, that though her house sigil may be the King's own stag, Y/N had a particular fondness for hounds.

The sun was two hours from setting when a host of black and yellow arrived at The King's Gate. In came banners that bore stags, and a spate of wagons bringing wines and cheeses and polished pears from Storm’s End. An impatient rider rode ahead of the rest, leaving behind a cry of protest as she thundered away, alone, up the streets of King’s Landing.

She arrived with a well-lathered horse and a swirl of her cloak. A party had time to gather in the yard of the Red Keep; a paltry welcoming committee with little time to prepare.

But the King was there—of course the King was there.

Had she not already been grinning, she would have grinned. “There’s my favorite brother,” said Y/N, dismounting and already forgetting her palfrey.

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!”  She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King’s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

 "Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could. 

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

Again he had turned, then, and didn’t stop to look back at her that time.

[syneilesis]

I forgot I started a sub!Rafayel fic when the beta version of the game came out but never finished it because I got derailed by the darker and angrier facet of Rafayel in his Abysswalker era lol

Anyway, I'm posting it now in its first draft (un)glory. It's supposedly smut but I never got to that point lmao so this is still relatively sfw

Rafayel keeps making incessant and silly demands of you. You retaliate by putting him in his place.

Today is a weird day. It's also a busy day, but that's probably why today is a weird day.

You look down and Rafayel looks up at you, silk ties snaking around his wrists and on the bed frame, firm and tight. Redness begins to take over his cheeks and the rest of his face and ears. His eyebrows are drawn down, as are his lips, but his eyes flare with something you can't identify right now, hot and unyielding and it stirs your gut, the embers in his gaze.

“Apologize.”

Rafayel's nostrils flare in defiance and his head whips to the side, huffing despite his being in the disadvantaged position. “Why should I? I did nothing wrong.”

His clothed hips touch the inner sides of your thighs, bare, and they graze the hem of your skirt.

Above him you sigh in frustration, originally not planning to arrive at this compromising position but unwilling to back out nonetheless.

“You strongarmed me into becoming your plus-one for that high-profile art gala and I got mobbed by a group of reporters asking me whether I'm your girlfriend! There were cameras! Videos rolling! And when I turned you weren't there to help! You'd already sneaked out! I literally had to run away—like a coward!”

Rafayel isn't fazed in the slightest. “You could have told them off in the first place. Didn't you say yourself that you're strong, Miss Hunter?”

The urge to roll your eyes burns so bad. Sure, Rafayel has his moments—plenty of them, to be exact. Nearly all the time. He's a brat, whiny and self-assured, but he isn't malicious.

+++++

Rafayel is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wooden ladder, hands above his head just pressed into the third step, bound by a silk tie with a knot that is firm and tight but doesn't bruise his paint-stained wrists. Bright crimson spills across his cheeks, his nose, his ears—his whole face as if overbaked by the sun, almost matching the color of his expensive formal jacket. It makes you want to tease him, tell him that he's no different from a lobster, but you hold back, because this isn't the time to say such cheeky words, not when things are only beginning.

His two-toned eyes follow your movements, his brows tugged downward, as are his lips. Every minute shift from him draws attention to his exposed collarbones and his chest, the first three buttons of his shirt opened and splayed like a recently bloomed hibiscus flower. Barefoot and seemingly helpless, Rafayel is a dash of paint against the plain white of the studio—striking like a lightning bolt.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He tugs his hands a little, and the ladder shakes behind him.

“Careful,” you warn, “you don't want the ladder to topple on you, yeah?”

“I can get out of this easily, you know,” he says, and you can hear the pout in his defiant voice. It's true, though. Despite his slender build, Rafayel is a competent fighter. In this kind of situation, his Evol is also an appropriate means to escape—and destroy.

“I know. But you're not going to do that.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

You step towards him, careful of the discarded papers on the floor, and stop when your feet cage his squirming legs. He freezes at the contact, craning his neck to meet your amused gaze.

“Because,” you answer, singsong, bending down to trace a finger along the dip of his collarbone, then further to his chest, tapping the mole on his left pec. He gulps at the touch, and you almost miss his shudder. If anything, he reddens more. “You want to know where this is going. You're curious, but you also don't want to admit it.”

[feelingthedisaster]

i love uncompleted fics

i love the hype for the new chapter, i love getting the notification of "x updated", i love the little chaos of finishing all my bussiness to make time to read it, i love the author telling us the readers little stuff about their lives in the notes (congratulations with graduation! a break up isnt the end of the world! what do you mean you went to jail????), i love theorizing about the future chapters, i love all the memes about the fic posted on parallel in author's tumblr while we wait for the next chapter, i love commenting theories or ideas and then the authors responds with that emoji or a "oh, you'll see" or "honestly, i have no idea what will happen", i love starting the freshly posted chapter, i love that bittersweet feeling of finishing it and realizing you dont know what will happen and wont know for a while but well, the author is probably suffering about that too

i love you wips, i love you writers of wips, dont allow all that hate to get to you, your fics are 100% worthy the time even if they arent finished, even if they are never finished

[take-taker-taken]

hi hi!! could you do a femreader x ministry taker forbidden romance type thing? something like our kingdoms are rivals/taker is rivals with our father, but we ended up falling for taker and find ways to meet with him. would be awesome if you could include smut! thank you 💓

Hellooooooo, lovely Anon! I’ve dipped in and out of this one ever since you sent it to me, as I don’t think I can do it as a one shot, so here is Chapter One. I have no idea what to call it as a title overall - if anyone has any thoughts on that, please feel free to drop them into the comments.

Awaiting Title

Chapter One - An Unexpected Visitor

You stare out of your bedroom window at the approaching carriage, pulled by a team of four majestic black horses, complete with purple bridles and deep, plum coloured plumes. The coachman pulls the horses to a prancing, neighing halt and you draw back away from the glass as a giant of a man emerges from the vehicle.

He pauses and looks up at the house, a severe expression on his face and you gasp and freeze when he’s suddenly looking right at you. His countenance seems to soften and you could swear you saw the corner of his mouth pull up into the tiniest hint of a smile. You’re completely bewitched as your eyes lock with his, but the spell is broken when he looks away and then you hear a loud knocking at the front door.

There’s a short silence and then some scuffling that you can make out even through your closed door and feeling slightly panicked you rush to open it, only to be faced with your elder brother.

“Get back inside,” he hisses urgently. “This doesn’t concern you!”

“What’s happening?” You ask, matching the whispered pitch of his voice. “Who is that man? What does he want?”

“I told you, it’s none of your concern - now stay there and keep quiet!” With that he pulls the door closed and must be holding it shut because you’re unable to shift it an inch. About ten minutes later you hear the front door bang closed and so you rush back to the window to see the giant striding back to the open door of his carriage. Your nose is all but pressed against the glass when he turns around and looks back up at you. He pauses and then turns around fully and then… he points at you. He’s mouthing some words that you can’t make out but you find yourself nodding and then he turns away, climbs into the carriage and the coach is leaving up the drive in a cloud of dust.

Who was he?

~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s raining… you can hear it against your window when it pulls you from sleep. You lay there with your eyes closed, listening, and then gradually come to realise that the sound isn’t regular. Intrigued, you slip silently from your bed and cross over to the window where you draw back the curtain just as the noise comes again. The crumbs of soil from the flowerbed below bounce off the glass and then you see him stood on the driveway. The gaslight on its tall pole behind him sets him into shadow but there’s no doubt that it’s the man who visited earlier in the day. Your eyes have grown accustomed to the dark now and you can make out some of his features but you don’t have time to contemplate as he raises a hand and beckons to you with a single finger.

You turn away and almost without thinking take your robe from the back of the door and then very quietly turn the handle and step out on to the landing. Taking great pains to make as little noise as possible, you make your way down the staircase and then you’re carefully drawing back the bolts on the heavy front door and turning the key. You pull the door open and peek around it as clearly there’s still a shred of sanity within you. He doesn’t advance and so you leave the safety of the house and walk towards him. You stop about six feet away and take in the sight before you. Your brain hadn’t exaggerated earlier - he really is a giant and if you stood next to him you doubt you would come up to his shoulder.

“I had to see you again.” He says, his voice a deep rumble. “When I noticed you at the window earlier today I was captivated - it nearly made me turn away from my business with your father.”

He’s dressed all in black with a heavy cloak around his shoulders, and he has long hair that is pulled back into a neat braid. The thought flits through your brain that it’s dreadfully odd for a man to have long hair… then you realise what he’s said and so you reply, “What is your business with my father?”

The man gives you an inscrutable look and then says, “He has some land that I would like to purchase but at the moment he’s… not very receptive to the idea.”

You pull your robe around you as a breeze whispers through and flutters the leaves on the trees and bushes.

“Forgive me - I know the way I’ve gone about this is far from ideal.” He says and removes his cloak with a small flourish. He takes a couple of steps that bring him startlingly close and swoops the heavy wool around your shoulders whereupon it trails on the ground.

“I’m sure if you approached my father, he would permit a more traditional meeting.” You volunteer as you smile up at him, but he shrugs with one huge shoulder.

“I fear not - our interaction was not particularly amicable. But I simply had to see you up close.”

“Where’s your carriage, sir? Or did you make your way here on foot?” As you stare at his chest, you’re dimly aware that all this small talk is quite ridiculous given the situation but what else can you say?

The corner of his mouth twitches in a tiny smile and he half-gestures behind him. “I left it out towards the road; nobody will happen upon it.”

You breathe in the scent of incense that hangs around the fabric of the cloak he’s wrapped you in. “What happens now?”

He reaches out and gently touches your hair and you feel as though you’re under a spell. Stood here in the cool night air in your nightclothes, with a stranger, wearing his cloak. Everything about it is wrong and yet you feel so at peace.

“I will return in two days, at noon; that’s the deadline that I gave to your father. Will you meet me at the road at half past eleven?”

You’re nodding ‘yes’ even as you frown and say, “Why have you given him a deadline?”

He doesn’t answer, but takes your hand and raises it to his lips, kissing it softly and you’re sure you can feel the skin tingling where his mouth touches. He gently turns you back around and ushers you towards the still ajar door, slipping his cloak from your shoulders. “Today is Tuesday. Come meet me at the road on Thursday and we can talk before I visit with your father.”

You move through the door and then quickly turn back, but he’s already striding away from the house and you know that you can’t call out. You quietly push the door closed and lock it up again before creeping back up the stairs to your room. You go straight to the window in case you can catch a glimpse of him but the darkness reigns and you can’t make out much at all. Still slightly chilled from the outdoors, you climb back into bed still with your robe on and turn on to your side. You close your eyes and bring the hand that he kissed up to your face and drop back off to sleep with your lips resting close to where his brushed your skin.

TBC

[greeniegaes]

Was looking through my various SVSSS docs and found like. 1k of trans SQQ being angry about periods.

So here’s that, unfinished and unrefined

When Shen Yuan originally woke up in the body of Shen Qingqiu the only thing on his mind was the terrible death he would end up suffering.

This only ended up with him moping for a week before being poked and prodded at by Mu Qingfan, the doctor trying to discern what was wrong with him. Yue Qingyuan was anxiously awaiting his prognosis nearby.

So, Shen Yuan decided there was more important things to do than moping.

He observed the conditions of his peak, fixing the hierarchy problems between his disciples, making sure all lesson plans and materials were properly set up for the hall masters. There was so much to acclimate to within the first month of his possession of his new body.

And his new body was different too. When he first woke up in his barely lucid state all he could remember was pain. Now that was most likely due to the fever and qi deviation he had. But the pain and the confusion had totally let a few things slip.

It wasn’t a sort of “oh where am I, what unusual world is this?” sort of slip. Shen Yuan was an avid novel reader, he had more respect for himself then to be confused when isekai’d. No, it was a very different kind of confusion.

He’d barely been a few sentences into his new life, barely able to sit up and hold his fan when he realized the very major change from this current life to his past one.

He didn’t have a dick.

Luckily the only person there to see the confusion of his lack of a -in his opinion key- body part was Yue Qingyuan.

“You.” The newly transmigrated Shen Qingqiu glared at the man sitting on his bed, his brain only half screwed on. “Why don’t I have a dick?”

The man across from him sighed, looking at Shen Qingqiu with a pitying expression. There was a tense discussion consisting of “I know you’re a man, don’t worry, Shidi…” and “you’ll be able to change your body when we reach higher cultivation” but it had all flown way above Shen Yuan’s head.

Shen Qingqiu’s body was originally born female?!? But he dressed like a man! Now, Shen Yuan had no problem with such a thing, several people accused him of being an egg and he had met quite a few trans people, but why? Why was Shen Qingqiu trans when there was no mention of it in the story. Such a detail had no purpose and Shen Yuan wanted his dick back!

Alas, no matter how much he questioned it he could only endure it. So Shen Qingqiu went on with his life, a little adjustment here and there but everything was mostly peaceful for a month

A. Single. Month.

Now Shen Yuan wasn’t the type of guy that didn’t think periods hurt. His darling mei-mei wouldn’t have allowed that at all. But this was worse than he thought. It felt like someone had a knife to his gut and would be twisting it all day. Honestly he was ready to keel over and die.

But alas, his life went on. He stayed standing through the lessons, making sure to be very careful not to snap at his disciples. It was hard to do that though. So many questions were asked, and he almost felt like the original Shen Qingqiu was an awful teacher because honestly how many things did he never explain.

The second day of it was worse though. He was half way through getting ready, a bit uncomfortable but overall okay, when suddenly it felt like he was hit by a truck. He could have isekai’d right there and started a new life from how much pain he was in.

This led him to hiding out in his bamboo house, laying on the ground.

Which led into a whole bigger mess.

Ming Fan had suddenly entered his house to ask about something or other, saw him lying face down on his flooring, and promptly went screaming for Mu Qingfang.

Which was not how Shen Qingqiu wanted his day to go. The man pushed himself up, hurriedly getting ready so that he wouldn’t look like he was moping about again. After long enough to get dress and slip calmly into his bed with a novel in hand Mu Qingfang shot into his room.

Shen Qingqiu was impressed the doctor could move so fast, he didn’t expect it.

“Mu-Shidi.” He greeted calmly, watching as a few of his disciples, perhaps a hall master or two and a few of the peak lords- including the leader- shuffling in or around the room. “I understand you may be concerned over things, but is such a stampede necessary?”

The doctor looked at him, grabbing his wrist which caused him to drop the book. There was the familiar feeling of qi channeling through him, checking out what was wrong. “Everything seems to be normal, I was told you had collapsed?” Ming Fan was off to the side, nodding his head up and down; tears were threatening to fall in his eyes.

It seems within the short time period of him taking over Shen Qingqiu’s body his disciples had become quite sticky.

“Nonsense, I’ve been okay in my room the whole time.” A few of the people looked around, trying to gauge the truthfulness of his statement.

Mu Qingfang frowned, focusing more on his qi trying to assess what was wrong. The sudden cool feeling traveling up his body made him want to retch, cringing of his arm in the man’s hand. Shen Qingqiu snatched his hand away, grabbing a nearby fan to weild.

“We are done with this, everyone get out!” He had tried not to snap at people for the month, but honestly he was at his wits end. He had ignored the constant fretting, the way his students huddled around him, the side eyes the other fellow peak lords made him. He didn’t want to deal with it anymore at this point

[luckykittens198]

Honestly, DCMK fandom is so old, that I remember this 1 unfinished fic that hasn't been updated since 2012.

Title: Fallout by Silversage

Location: ffn

Synopsis: A post "Raven Chaser" story. Because "The Raven Chaser" opened many doors…and Kaito worries. Animeverse/Movieverse.

I don't really remember about the story, but I remember the main plotline is Gosho boys got together to handle the Black org, and in the last updated chapter has them on the run.

Again, it's been years since I last read it, but I remember it was agreat fic

Another recomended fic is 'The Case' series by Mirror and Image. Again, it's one of the older fic in ffn.

1. The Case of Hidden Epidemic

Conan has stumbled across a mystery. This time the victims are much closer: the students of his elementary school. With Genta and Ayumi hospitalized, Conan will need to solve this case quickly. But then Ran gets hospitalized.

2. The Magic Bullet Murder Case

As always Conan stumbles across another body; and this time the prime suspect is this high school kid named Kuroba Kaito. Sequel to The Case of the Hidden Epidemic.

3. The Case of Haywire Heist

Kaitou Kid promised a heist to Hattori Heiji, and it's time to deliver. But Conan has been sitting on something and figuring out how to deal with it. When all collide at the heist, can things go well? No, of course not.

All three is finished between 2009 and 2011. Again, it's been a decade since I last read these fic. But I remember thinking, how did the Author write this??

A one-shot comedy. It's a must reread for me. Playing around with the corpse magnet joke, starring Conan and Heiji.

It's Raining Men, Hallelujah by Asuka Kureru (Askerian) ao3

[unhingedsquash]

which unfinished fic should I work on based off the last line i wrote before i stopped

This was definitely weird. After the strained cases he and Prosecutor Gavin had gone head to head on, the last thing he expected was persistent requests to get dinner.

Tamaki made a small cheer that sounded close to a whoopie!, but also like a French word he wasn’t familiar with, and Kyoya couldn’t help but chuckle as he stood up and followed the blonde, who was excitedly leading his spectacled friend through his home.

And then punched him in the arm as hard as she could. / “Ow! What the hell?!” / “Alright! Let’s get moving!”

Phoenix smiled fondly, his head lulling to the side to face Edgeworth. “This was very sweet of you. I can’t thank you enough,” he said.

And Joe offered her the biggest, dumbest, happiest grin. It was a cheap arcade keychain, but he felt like it was worth the entire planet. Because Sara Chidouin gave it to him!

[hothotpot]

I was digging through my notes app the other day and came upon this little snippet of a thing I wrote. Like the other little bit, it was meant for a Disco Elysium fic that I'm not sure I'll ever properly write, but I like it so much it feels unfair to keep it all to myself.

The fic had no real plot, and was really just a series of scenes of Harry and Kim flirting and eventually getting together, because I am a soft idiot. This would have been the end of the fic, so uh, spoilers I guess lol

Anyway, stupid Harry/Kim fluff below the cut!

"So are you my boyfriend now?"

Kim can't quite bite back the laugh that huffs out. "We're not teenagers, detective."

"But I don't think I've ever had a boyfriend before, Kim. I want you to be mine."

His plea is so plaintive and genuine, Kim can't help but be moved, however slightly. "Fine," sarcasm laces his tone as he answers, "we can be boyfriends. You can pass me notes between Civics and Maths, hm?"

The grin that breaks out across Harry's face sends an altogether unreasonable surge of warmth thrumming through Kim's chest. "Will you write back?"

"No, I will not. Unlike you, I take my studies very seriously."

But I will keep every single note you give me in a box beneath my bed, safe where only I can find them, and take them out and read and read and read them again and again, as often as I like - the thought runs through Kim's head completely of its own accord, accompanied by a mortifying burst of sentimentality, and he feels an insane sense of relief that it is only the tips of his ears glowing and not his lungs.

The relief evaporates, though, as Harry fixes his intense green eyes on his own, and the absurd thought that Harry has heard the thought occurs to him. It's impossible, of course, but then Harry raises his hand and cups Kim's jaw with a reverence that sets his pulse hammering in his ears, and Kim is certain that it's true.

"I think I love you, Kim." A breathless exhalation, wondering and amazed.

Kim laughs, and thank the Innocence Harry doesn't flinch.

"Shut up, Harry." The words are amused and fond, tempered with what, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, Kim does not dare admit the truth of.

But Harry just grins and pulls him into a kiss, lips soft and warm, mustache tickling his nose. Kim lets him, but only briefly, then pulls away and bats gently at the detective's shoulder.

"Go to sleep, lieutenant, it's late."

Harry lets Kim move away just long enough to set his glasses carefully in their place on the nightstand and switch off the light, before dragging him back to him with a strength that leaves Kim a little breathless, thick arms encircling slim waist and holding close. Warmth breathed against sensitive skin as Harry nuzzles into Kim's neck, lips grazing, and then a murmured "Good night, Kim."

"Good night, Harry."

[l3v11athanx]

hi dandys world fandom

shrimpo angst yayyyy

it is 1/2 of the way done but thought i might as well upload first chapter

[7077070707]

geto’s downfall (unfinished)

a/n — hi guys!! sorry for disappearing suddenly. i made this fic ages ago, the plot being geto and how the whole backstory arc would effect him and his s/o with a heavenly restriction (like toji’s) knowing how his views on those without cursed energy changed.

i grew disinterested with the fic and jjk overall (dw, the hyper-fixation comes and goes) but i still wanted to post what i had already written, so here you go. i may or may not complete it one day, but who knows.

the world is a cruel, unjust place. 

“riko… let’s go home.” 

“yeah!” as the young girl spoke her final words, instantaneously receiving a bullet to the head, oblivious and unaware. 

the scene was too sudden to comprehend – with one moment filled with a heartfelt conversation, and the next with the murder of an innocent child. 

geto didn’t even have time to react, his face still stuck in a pleasant smile before realising what just had occurred. with the boy’s body still and unmoving, his eyes followed the direction of where the younger girl had collapsed and took residence on her newly lifeless body.

her eyes lacked the warmth of a soul, as they stared into nothingness. her crimson blood oozed from the bullet wound on her head. it was splattered sporadically along the concrete floor, which was eventually to be forever stained with her remnants and what went down that night. 

“riko?” was all that he could muster.

he noticed a large man carrying a gun stalking into the light, yet he was confused as to why he couldn’t sense him or his cursed energy. as far as he was familiar with, the only person he knew that lacked the presence of cursed energy was y/n.  the man spoke some words but all geto could hear was the ringing of his ears and a slight buzzing noise. 

with no regard to what the man was previously saying, the boy asked one question, “why… why are you here?” 

“why…?” the unknown entity pondered for a moment, “oh, gotcha.” 

“i killed gojo satoru.”

“is that so?” an unforgiving fury envelops the raven haired sorcerer as he summons his two strongest curses, rainbow dragon and kuchisake-onna, “then die.”

the rainbow dragon bursts through the walls, scattering heaps of debris and rubble everywhere. it catches the man in its protruding jaw and soars across the air, sending gusts of wind throughout the chamber. 

the man hangs from the dragon's mouth and shoots a few bullets directed towards the sorcerer with an absurd level of pinpoint accuracy. 

at this, geto quickly summons a small curse between his hands to shield himself from the incoming bullets. he dispels the curse and soars downwards towards the destruction in a ravenous manner.

landing in the corridor, he abruptly spins and watches as the rainbow dragon fades away. the chiselled man rested a hand on his hip, with the other holding his gun at his side. he bore a wicked grin and simply said, “don’t be so impatient.”

he turns to the side and begins to take slow strides, explaining something that geto had no choice but to listen to with a furious scowl on his face. he matches the slow pace that the opposing man took and walks with him from a large distance. 

one thing the man says particularly catches geto’s attention. “...and since i have no cursed energy, i’m like an invisible man.” 

‘just like y/n then… so he’s bound by a heavenly restriction too, huh?’ he didn’t fail to notice that toji was as fast as shit — obviously due to the physical empowerments he was gifted in exchange for his cursed energy. the same stuff applied for y/n too, and he could see the uncanny resemblance. the way they both moved so effortlessly – as if they were one with the wind. judging from the man’s monstrous build and heavenly pact, he could already assume that he’d have a sinister and terrifying strength to him. another thing he and y/n had resemblance in. 

and it was true, he was an invisible man. geto wasn’t able to sense him, despite the fact the man was around 10 feet away from him. he should’ve fucking known. he has experience in dealing with those without cursed energy – his girlfriend – so why? why was he so fucking useless? an innocent child wouldn’t have lost a life today if he had attuned to his senses a little more.

geto was livid.

the man says something about how wielding a cursed tool reveals his presence, but geto already knew about that. y/n taught him most of the basics and what there was to know about her and her heavenly restriction. it was a curse and a blessing. 

he had enough of the man’s blabbing and raised both of his hands. his dominant hand took position in the form of a finger gun, with the other hand situating itself underneath the ‘gun’ as a form of support. his hand illuminated a bright blue and he aimed upwards to where the man was. a bunch of small, squid-like curses shot from the barrel of the ‘gun’ and crashed into the ceiling.

the sorcerer lowers his hands and stares expectantly at the area he shot. his eyes widen as hears a voice from behind him, “now, there’s more to this story.” again, he jolts and abruptly turns to the source of the noise. 

he points towards his open mouth and continues, “see, i keep a cursed spirit capable of storing objects around.” he begins his slow stride once more and geto follows the action, “so i usually put my cursed tools in it when i’m walking around.” 

geto locks a hawk-like gaze onto the man and the man reciprocates – but instead with a lazy, careless one. he was smirking as if he greatly enjoyed this whole endeavour. 

“now i know what you’re thinking… shouldn’t the cursed energy from the spirit make him no longer invisible?” the sorcerer remains silent. this was unfamiliar to him, and you’ve never tried anything like it. to find a cursed spirit that is able to hold an inventory of weapons is… not unheard of, but rare. and yes, he did wonder as to why the spirit didn’t reveal the man’s presence, since it was indeed a curse.

geto’s train of thought suddenly stops as he watches the man throw something up. he bore a look of deep-rooted disgust on his face as he witnessed the scene in front of him.

in his palm, lay a small, ugly curse drenched in slobber. 

“the spirit shrinks by storing itself within its own body.” the man says, holding intense eye contact with the young sorcerer, “then i ingest it and keep it inside my stomach.”

that’s all he needed to know in order to connect the dots; and for the rest of the rambling, he didn’t care. the longer he stared at him, the more bile raised at his throat. his anger was accumulating just from the look on his face. 

and at the very back of his mind, another source of anger derived from the chaos and damage he managed to bring – despite not having any cursed energy…

he knew it was wrong to think that, after all, his girlfriend didn’t possess any cursed energy either; and he loved her so dearly. however… he felt the phenomenon to be… unnatural. actually, it was unnatural. how is it possible for one to not bear the power of cursed energy be so destructive? 

suddenly, he felt disgusted. he shouldn’t be thinking that. y/n isn’t unnatural, for god's sake! she’s perfect, funny, and powerful. the hideous man in front of him is the one to be blamed. he’s the one who killed riko, the one who killed satoru… the boy swallows and tries to bury the thought at the back of his mind.

“...reveal myself to the six eyes…” 

the sorcerer had enough. “shut up!” he yelled, enraged, “it’s a heavenly restriction, i know that! and like us, revealing certain information can give you an advantage. i’m aware of that too!” 

geto didn’t want to hear about the heavenly restriction, he was well versed in that subject. what he wanted to know was how on earth the man knew about the entrance into the tombs. he begins to ask about it, but then a realisation occurs. 

‘heavenly restriction… enhanced senses, right? those with heavenly pacts are able to sense things the average human can not. we must have left traces like footprints, and odor. for fucks sake…’

it must have shown on his face – a grimace, due to his daunting findings, for the man opposite him bore a devilish grin.

“i see that you have the answer. humans leave many more traces than just cursed energy, ya know. i also see that you’re quite knowledgeable regarding heavenly restrictions. why is that?” 

“like hell i’d tell you. scum.” 

“could it be… that you're familiar with someone who bears the same curse as me? an acquaintance, a friend?” he drawled and his grin grew larger, “perhaps a partner?” 

his hand glows once more, and he launches a curse towards the large man. the rainbow dragon tunnels through the countless thin doors and soars upwards – not without capturing the man in its mouth.

once more, he summons a dozen small curses, erupting from miniature black holes in the sky. they project towards the rainbow dragon and the heavenly restricted man, appearing as though they were quantities of blue laser beams. 

the man soared in the air as if he belonged in the sky, effortlessly dodging and deflecting the hundreds of attacks barreling towards him with his weapon – not without a sinister grin present on his face. 

he flips backwards and lands on top of a roof, causing the bricks underneath to crumble from the sheer force of his landing. 

geto crouches down and summons another curse. a gigantic one, at that. it erupts from below his opponent, causing him to lose his purchase and soar into the air once more. he seemingly does a flip amidst the air – which unnerved geto, since there was no footing to pull a stunt like that.

the man lands onto the thick, old rope that was intertwined around the large tree of tengen’s chamber. he evades the barrage of attacks sent by the young sorcerer, as if were an animal relying on pure primal instinct. how could a human possibly be capable of this?  

he jumps into the sky and unsheathes his large sword, swinging it in the sky. suddenly, he’s splitting the rainbow dragon open, dragging his weapon through the tough scales of its hide, an act that is almost deemed impossible. it’s purple blood splatters everywhere, raining down of the world below it.

the sorcerer’s eyes widen, and he’s immensely taken aback. 

‘the rainbow dragon has the toughest hide there is! how the hell…?’’ 

to geto’s chagrin, he again couldn’t help but notice the everlasting similarities you and the man held. it was eerie. the sense of deja vu was strong, and geto felt lightheaded. he had been in this position before – with you airborne and elegant, deflecting his multitudes of attacks ever so effortlessly. of course, this battle was not taken in a serious manner – it merely being some sort of training regime.

he remembers the times you’ve been able to slash and hack curses that bore the toughest skin with the utmost efficiency, the resemblance with the man uncanny.

his thoughts beginning to intrude in his mind, he wonders if you would ever be capable of wreaking mayhem like the murderer before him had done. his heart rate speeds up and he feels sick, the disgusting thoughts invading geto’s mind and etching onto each of his brain cells. he pleads for these thoughts to go away, yet they don’t – and he is distracted.

the rainbow dragon tumbles and descends into the ground due to the massive injury it had suffered – with it practically being split open. rubble flies everywhere but the sorcerer and the murderer are unphased, gravely facing towards each other amidst the chaos that reigned upon them.

[divinemissem13]

Trick or Treat! ❤️

🤔 you'll have to decide if this is a trick or a treat because it's from a Trektober prompt I started writing then remembered that Brenda and Sharon aren't Trek-related and so I never finished... maybe never will. But I do like this part...

Sharon is bored. She usually pays better attention in meetings like this, but this one really could have been an email, and in any case she literally wrote the policies they are being lectured on now. So she lets her mind wander… across the table to the blonde deputy chief. Brenda, who abhors paperwork, is nevertheless very studious when she wants to be. Like now, pen poised to write more notes in her little notebook, watching the lecture over the tops of her thick rimmed reading glasses, chewing on her bottom lip as she concentrates. It's adorable. Sharon likes to imagine that this is what Brenda was like in college, or CIA training. She wishes they had known each other then. Sharon is bored and Brenda is adorable and everyone else in the meeting appears to be completely absorbed in Pope's long-winded version of things… and Sharon has an idea. Underneath the table, she slips her right foot out of its shoe. If she angles her body just a little bit more towards the front of the room, she should just be able to reach… there! Sharon's toes flutter against Brenda's calf and the blonde squeeks in surprise, a sound that she quickly tries to cover with a coughing fit. Pope glares at her, as if she is coughing on purpose just to interrupt him, until she stops, apologizes, and gestures for him to continue. Brenda glances sideways to Sharon with a scolding look. Usually, it would be Sharon throwing those looks at Brenda and the captain is actually quite enjoying the role reversal. She only raises her eyebrows subtly in response and waits for everyone's focus is back on Pope before she tries again.

[thepathnottrekked]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock Additional Tags: Humor, Pre-Slash, College AU Summary:

Written for the prompt: ok so like imagine an alien landing and doing the whole “take me to your leader” spiel, and you’re just like “aight” bc aliens are cool af, but the problem is the president is on the completely other side of the country, so you have to go on a cross country road trip with said alien

---

"My name is Spock,” says Spock. He stares at Jim’s hand until the Human finally drops it back to his side. “What do you want in return for your compliance as my Human hostage?”

"The privilege of punching President Trump in the face?” Jim suggests.

[foundintheforestbyyou]

Little baby ficlet about Eden first witnessing you in the forest

(I just got into Degrees of Lewdity and my brain has been rotting over Eden... I needed to put something to paper! May or may not finish...)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been watching you for a while now. At first he had caught a flash of your hair amongst the greenery of his woods while he was out on his regular rounds. You were carefully picking your way through the tangled and unkempt brush. Another kid wandering too far in the forest. They’re lucky if the wolves aren’t already on their trail. He had shaken his head and spit onto the ground in mild disgust of another human this far out in the forest. This close to him. Not to mention that the noise you made as you bumbled through the brush only served to decline his chance of bagging any sizable game for the week. You were a pure nuisance. Like a tick digging in his skin. He grumbled. There were better spots to hunt for game, away from novice foragers or lost kids, whichever one you were.

He re-adjusted his rifle over his shoulder and eased himself silently into the deeper reaches of the forest. He didn’t expect to see you again. One trip this far had cured most fools of venturing into the verdant dark. Most.

Unlucky for you, you seemed to be a different variety of fool.

To be continued... (Maybe...)

[miccimocha]

It's only been like 2 hrs but I'll post the unfinished fic. I also uploaded it in ao3, so you guys can also read it there whenever.

If I ever get the motivation to write the rest, I'll post it here first.

MY GOODBYE

John Dory Centric

...

John Dory felt tired. That was the main feeling he was currently experiencing. He doesn't know from what exactly, he just knows he is.

He was currently sitting on one of the chairs inside Rhonda, staring off through tbe window. He saw a bunch of little trolls playing and running around without a care in the world.

This made him think about his brothers. JD remembers how they used to play hide and seek in the house, hiding in the most peculiar places. There was this one time where Clay hid inside the washing machine and it took hourse for them to find him. He felt the sense of nostalgia.

John Dory turned his gaze away from the window and walked towards the clue board that Branch made. It was filled with pictures back in their Brozone days. He used to look at this very fondly, but now he just felt bittersweet about the whole thing. Sure it was fun, it was thing that he did with his brothers, but it was also the very reason why all of them broke up.

He's the reason why they all fell apart.

The eldest could never forgive himself for what happened. He won't even be suprised if his brothers' still hated him, they probably just didn't want to say to his face.

John Dory took a photo from the wall. It was a group photo of him and his brothers, the day of their very first performance with Branch. He couldn't help but smile a little at the memory.

He put the photo down and went to open a chest full of things he had gathered over the years for his brothers. There were birthday gifts, christmas gifts, and even letters he wrote for each and everyone of them.

John had been thinking about giving his brothers all of it, but he never found the right time to actually do it. Or maybe he's just a coward.

He sighed and walked away from the box. There was pause, the silence was loud. Then, he went back and carried the chest to the front.

"Come on, girl. I gotta deliver some packages." John Dory started the engine and sped into the direction of Branch's Bunker.

The old troll knew that neither the youngest or the rest of his brothers were at home. They were all currently out, visiting Bruce's family at Vacay Island. It was also an excuse for a family vacation and bonding time. Altough John was tempted to go, he declined Bruce's offer when it came up. His brothers looked disappointed, he felt guilty about that, but he didn't change his mind.

He knew that if he came he would just bum everybody out and the mood will just go down. He didn't want to risk it, as much as he would love to hang out with his brothers.

John Dory begins to think on what could have been if they- if he hadn't left. If he wasn't a selfish prick who pushed around his brothers. If he hadn't put on all those pressure about being perfect onto his brothers. Maybe they could've been happy. Branch wouldn't have been alone. None of his brothers would have the insecurities they had now. It was his fault, it always has been and it'll always will be.

And John Dory knew the truth about it all. He knew that it wasn't his brothers who weren't perfect. No. It was JD, himself. He was too full of pride to actually admit it back then, but it was true. He pushed his own defects onto his brothers, and because of that, they all fell apart.

So, now, he's going to get rid of the problem. Himself.

<__>

Once John Dory arrived in front of Branch's Bunker, he got out of Rhonda with the chest. He stopped right at the "Go Away!" mat and hesitated a little bit. Eventually, he put down the chest on the ground, beside the entrance. He pulls out a pen and paper from inside his hair and began to write.

|

|

"Dear Bros,

I know this seems strange, but this chest is full of presents I had for you all, from the day I left until the day we reunited. Please open it, I swear this isn't a joke.

I also just want to say sorry for all the things I had done. I know it isn't much, and it wouldn't give back the lost time that passed, but I just want you guys to know how much I love you.

All those years I've spent in the wild, there wasn't a day I didn't think of any of you, even if I tried not to...

Love, your eldest brother:

John Dory"

|

|

The penmanship was not the best, but it was still readable. His brothers would understand it. He hopes.

He sticks the letter on top of the chest. Once done, he walked over to Rhonda, his face turning into one of guilt. "Hey, Rhonda, girl. I-..." He took a breath and tried to steady his breathing. " I'm...going to be away for awhile. Or- Well, not really 'awhile', but you know...away."

Rhonda makes a sound of confusion and fear, not understanding what he was doing, but was clearly worried about him. Being with him for all those years, she learned to pick up on his moods and emotions. Right now, Rhonda felt concerned for JD with the amount of sadness he was giving off.

John Dory smiled sadly. "Yeah, I know you're concerned girl, but I promise it's ok." He hugged the critter. "Just stay here, bud. I promise, I'm coming back. I just need some time for myself right now."

Here he was again, breaking promises.

Once JD let go of her, he patted her for the last time and walked away. As much as Rhonda had wanted to follow, she couldn't disobey him. Besides, he promised her that he'll come back. He'll never lie to her. She trusted him.

..............

Yeah, that's basically it. But, again, I'll post the next part here first before ao3 when I get to it.

[new-revenant]

Have an unfinished fic! It was supposed to be a monster au thing, but whatever. I don’t know what I was thinking anymore. I don’t really like this that much, but it isn’t terrible. Putting it under the cut so I think about it less lol. It’s 2,372 words, not that bad.

“Day 3, July 13, 2004. I have been…dead for three days, hence the ‘Day 3,’ you know?” Danny solemnly chuckled, sadness seeping through his voice. Why was even doing this? For the sake of his sanity? Must be something like that. For his sanity, he continues.

“Us Fenton-Nightingales have monster-hunting in our blood. Although, my parents only believe in ghosts, not all those other magical creatures. But my parents also thought that ghost were monsters from another realm, so guess what-they know jack SHIT!

“Heh heh, ‘jack,’ that’s my dad’s name,” He paused, closing his eyes before inhaling sharply, continuing his meaningless spiel. For his sanity, he speaks into the recorder.

“I died, I died…three days ago, and now I’ve somehow fled to a town FULL of MONSTERS. And they were so nice, so nice because they think I’m one of them. They’ve let me live-live, ha-in a house that they couldn’t find a buyer for since I guess there aren’t too many of them living in the damned town!”

“So now I’m staying here. A not-quite-living not-quite-ghost boy with monsters. A monster hunter living with monsters.”

“My name is Daniel,” -he paused, he sighed, he continued- “Daniel Vladimir Fenton-Nightingale. And I’m half ghost, half human, and full on confused about just about everything I guess. Signing off!“

        ☁︎Two Days Earlier☁︎

Danny knew he was about to be doing something stupid. It would not be the first time he’d do something stupid. But this time, this time he was prepared. He had looked over the blueprints and notes for his parents’ machine thousands of times, he knew what it was supposed to do, and he knew that his parents failed.

A portal to the realm of ghosts, right in their basement. Their life goal, their lives’ work. And it failed. Jazz, his sister, took them both out to get some fresh air and groceries once it did. Danny engraved the looks of despair they bore as they dragged themselves out of the house into his mind.

Danny was smart. He had mostly straight As in school, getting only Cs in math. God he hated math. The Fenton-Nightingales-or just the Fentons-were a family of hunters, of geniuses, and he was no exception. Two heads were better than one, so three heads were even better. He could-no, he should help. He was going to make them happy.

Danny noticed the flaws in the wiring, in the circuits, in the paneling. They were minor, barely noticeable even to him, but even small holes can sink a ship. So he put on a hazmat suit-and took off the giant sticker of his dad’s face on it-and set out to work. It didn’t take too long, and Danny managed to fix every single thing he could find. He had worked with machines with his parents as soon as he learned how to solve those putting-the-right-shape-in-the-right-hole puzzles. He had worked with his parents with hunting ghosts, he knew how they worked, how they acted, how they faked human emotions to gain sympathy. He was born for helping his parents with this machine. And he would fix it no matter what it took.

So Danny turned on the portal again, waiting for something to happen. Seconds passed, nothing did. He sighed, and sat down on the floor. But he did something, and he would help even more when his parents came back. It could be one of those fun bonding moments between them all. He was sure even Jazz would love to help them, wanting to make their parents happier as much as Danny did.

Taking his hazmat suit off, he carefully and neatly put it back into the storage he got it from. Danny didn’t know what to do now, his parents wouldn’t be back for another hour at the very least.

So Danny was going to do something even more stupid-going inside of the portal. Since it didn’t work, maybe Danny missed something that he could fix later. The portal was spacious, going back several yards and being more than twice his height. He was awestruck at it all, loving every moment of scouting around the machine.

Then he saw it. A lone wire sticking out of the paneling. Without any thoughts in his head that weren’t focused on helping his parents, he took the panel off, and with his left arm he grabbed the wire and connected it to another.

He never turned the portal off.

The next thing that Danny remembered after moving the wire was his senses being invaded by an agonizingly bright green, by the smell of his own burning flesh, and by his own pained screams. Then he was on the ground, that green light pooling at his feet.

Danny could only blink. Danny tried to breathe, before quickly realizing a stomach churning fact-he didn’t need to breathe. He always had a feeling that his parents’ theory that ghosts were actually monsters from another world were a bit…off. And now he could see the truth.

Danny Fenton, the son of two ghost hunters, was now a ghost. He had an idea of what this meant. He could be next. No, he would be next. His parents wouldn’t even think he was their son, wouldn’t even think twice about ripping him apart. He tried to scramble to his feat, but instead ended up hovering a few feat above the ground. He was upright though, so that was a plus. A small, small plus.

A second plus was that the portal was on. It worked, his parents’ machine worked and Danny made it work. It only costed him his life. Danny started to laugh, laugh at how he was now the very thing that his parents hated. It was a crazed, depressed laugh. A laugh that echoed throughout the basement. It quickly turned into a scream, a shriek, more like. He barely registered the tears coming down his face as he mourned his own horrifically ironic fate.

But Danny had to move on, move on for his own twisted survival. Wading through the air, Danny went over to flip the switch for the portal, attempting to turn it off, failing to not pass through it multiple times before the green, swirling mess of the portal disappeared. He heaved out a sigh of relief. His parents would come home, and they would try to turn on the portal again, and then they be happy. He looked in the portal, a ghost of a smile on his face. He saw the panel he took off on the floor, and put it back without a second thought. Only after a lot of spinning around in the air and failing multiple times to even pick the stupid thing up.

Then Danny thought about something-where was his body? His body wasn’t there, not even any ashes. Oh god, it probably fell through the portal. But if it fell through the portal, why was the panel still there? Suddenly, outside of his control, Danny gasped, a breath of air coming out of his mouth, like he was out on a cold winter day. But it was mid-July and he was dead. Danny looked around and saw something-blob ghosts, many of them surrounding an ectopuss. That’s when he learned that ghosts can have adrenaline.

Danny zipped to one of the tables in the basement, grabbing the Fenton Thermos on it. Turns out, it was much easier to move as a ghost when you ignored your legs. The thermos was a ghost catching device that his parents were working on, that they were almost done with. Danny pointed it at the ectopuss, which now noticed him, shrieking at him. Danny pressed the capture button, half expecting it not to work. And it didn’t. He passed it to his left hand to examine it further, before seeing that his fingers were charred, with lightning-shaped scaring starting from his palm that went up his arm, probably going even further across his body. A lightbulb went off in Danny’s head, and he pointed the thermos back at the ectopuss as it scuttled closer to him. Danny pressed down the capture button yet again.

His scar lit up green, and he could feel it from the left side of his face, his chest, and back down to his arm. A beam of circulating blue light erupted from the thermos, sucking in both the ectopuss and all of the ghost blobs. Then the cap closed with a snap, leaving Danny alone in the basement lab. He hovered there for a moment, stunned.

Danny quickly came to a conclusion as to what to do now. He obviously had to leave. His parents couldn’t know that he was a ghost-that he was dead. Danny flew up the stairs, flew up all the stairs to his room. He grabbed a travel bag, focusing on making himself more solid as he did so. It worked, and he was able to shove a bunch of clothes in it. He didn’t think he would actually need any of it, but he’d rather have his parents think he had ran away.

Actually, that was a great idea, he should do that. He grabbed another bag and put some miscellaneous items in it, like toiletries, a headband, a voice recorder, and an unopened bag of glow-in-the-dark stars. He was going to put them all around his room eventually, but now that was never going to happen. Danny even put one of his goggles in there, the lens being the same pale blue his eyes were. But were his eyes still blue now? 

Usually ghosts didn’t look much like humans, typically having green, blue, or blueish-green skin. But as Danny looked at his hands, they looked...more human-like. His skin did look a bit tanned, a bit burnt, but it didn’t have any green or blue coloring to it as far as he could see. Maybe a very, very slight green tint if he stared hard enough.

Maybe he could try phasing through the wall to get to the bathroom. His parents probably would’ve put up something in the walls to make sure ghosts don’t-and holy fuck they didn’t Danny just went straight through it. Why didn’t they have anything to stop ghosts from phasing through the walls?! Wait, was that even possible? Danny didn’t dwell on that for too long, trying to just focus on looking at his reflection. His black hair was now a snowy white, his once white shirt with red accents now black with blueish-green accents, and his blue eyes now a bright green. His lighting scars were glowing the same green, albeit very faintly, reaching all the way up his face to just below his left eye. Danny himself was emanating a very faint white glow, which was the most normal ghost thing that was going on, but it’s not like he even knows what’s normal anymore.

Danny groaned, dragging his hands over his face, scowling into the mirror. His eyes and face were stained with his tears, and while looking at his reflection just a bit more, he noticed that his hair was longer. He had a bit of a mullet now, and his bangs almost completely covered his face, even though he could see through it perfectly fine. Another lightbulb went off in his head, remembering something. He went back to his room, picking up a book. It was an encyclopedia about ghosts that his parents did not write but he loved anyways. Flipping through the pages, he found quickly found what he was looking for.

“‘The Banshee,’” Danny read the passage aloud, “‘an Irish spirit that foretells the death of a family member by wailing, screaming, shrieking, or keening.’ What is keening? Whatever. ‘They are typically perceived as a young woman or an old hag, with pale skin, long hair, and a long dress, ’” Danny skimmed the rest of the page until he found something else that caught his eye.

“‘In some Irish mythology stories, the Banshee is the ghost of a young girl that suffered a brutal death,’“ Danny muttered. Would he…would he count as a Banshee? He was definitely similar in some aspects, especially with that brutal death part. Would dying in the portal count as a brutal death? Probably. 

Danny groaned, he was going to think about this later. Him being a banshee or not wasn’t  as important as booking it out of here. He stuffed the book and the working Fenton Thermos he used into his bag and closed it. He needed to go now, before his parents came back. Before then, he grabbed a spare piece of paper and a pencil, racking his brain for what to write. Soon enough, he figured out what to do.

Dear mom, dad, and Jazz,

I can’t stay here any longer. I hope you’ll understand one day. I hope I’ll be able to come back.

But I need to leave. I’m so sorry. I fixed the portal and I’ve seen things no one should ever see. I love you all and I’m so sorry.

With love, Danny

Danny sighed. Maybe he should just come clean and tell the truth. But that would be risky, and Danny could barely write without his hand slipping through the pencil. He’ll come back one day. He had to. And he had to leave.

Danny phased though the walls, carrying his bag with him. Now he knew that he could make objects intangible along with himself. But where would he go? Then, he remembered an old folk tale that his parents told him.

Amity Forest, a place where once someone goes in, they are never seen again. Monsters were said to eat those inside, or that the trees came alive and feasted on your flesh. Jazz had told him that those stories were just that-stories, used to prevent kids from getting lost in there. She was always a sceptic, but there was definitely a chance the stories could’ve been true. So that’s where he’ll go. It was nearby, so it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. With that in mind, he took off towards Amity Forest, clueless and hopeless as to what to do next.

[binghe-malewife-goals]

I'm so sad, so many good Jayvik fics are never picked up again,,,,

That being said, please read this Modern AU Ghost Jayvik fic, it's so incredibly fun:

Breathing Life into Ghosts