#and several other things around the house.

[smallgodseries]

Sometimes education isn’t enough.  Sometimes you can study and study and try and try, and never quite cross the last bridge between where you are and your heart’s desire.

Sometimes you need to tell the perfect little lie to get there.

Once upon a time there was a small god of goldfinches named Yucan who wanted nothing more in the world than to be a god of toucans, to manifest himself as a big, beautiful, tropical bird that people would stop to ooo and ahh over when they saw it in the trees, something impressive.  It was a good thing to be a god of songbirds.  There weren’t as many of them as there had been before cats became quite so popular as house pets, and the ones remaining needed all the divine intervention they could get their wings on.  He appreciated their attention and their worship, but he wanted, so very badly, to be more than his nature was allowing him to be.

So he hatched, over the course of several slow decades, a plan, and one night, with no warning whatsoever, his faithful woke and found him gone.  He had abandoned his divine duties, flown the coop, left the nest, and no one could find a single feather left behind!  All the little birdies were distraught…but not for very long, as little birdies have short memories, and there were other gods of songbirds around to serve.  If it wasn’t quite the same, well, nothing ever is, not even following the same god from one day to another.  They adjusted.  They adapted.

And far away, a very small god with a very big dream put his plans into action. He donned a false face, he told everyone who met him that he was the god of endangered tropical birds, and if no one had ever seen him before, well, some of those birds were very endangered.  Deforestation and poaching, don’cha know?  So many dangers to evade.  So many fledglings to protect.  So he lied, and lied, and pretended, and did his best to live up to his own lies.  He protected those who came to him, he spread his wings over the nests of species unknown to science, and he tried, and he lied, and he tried.

Until one day, the mask would not come off when he went to go to nest.  One day, he noticed that his wingspan was greater, and he no longer heard the prayers of songbirds, but of the birds he had claimed…and of more than them. Of frightened high school drama students and would-be figure skaters, of novice computer programmers and new-made lawyers.

They had their own lies to tell.

And Yucan Tu would be with them every step along the way, singing goldfinch songs in their ears and spreading his wings to defend them from the risks of their own actions.

He is a god of falsehood, yes, but also of sincerity, and of effort.

[d-z20]

What We Have Left

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: After surviving the Witches' Road, you and Agatha find solace in caring for each other as you navigate the aftermath—her haunted by nightmares and you recovering from near-fatal injuries. (canon-divergence)

Warnings: physical hurt (R), emotional hurt (A), comfort

Words: 1.4k

A/N: Another request fic :) It took me so long to figure out how Agatha and Reader could survive without taking away from Agatha's character arc so it's as close to canon as possible.

AO3 | Master List

After the chaos of what happened with Rio and Billy, you don’t know exactly how you survived. The last thing you remember is the weight of magic swirling violently around you, the air crackling with danger. Agatha had been ready to sacrifice herself, a final act of redemption that would have consumed her completely. But something had shifted in the moments before her fate was sealed—your desperate magic, unpredictable and wild, surged in response to her intent. In a flash, it felt as though time bent, reality warping around you both. A surge of energy, as if the universe itself had decided you were both not yet finished, had pulled you from the brink of destruction.

But it had also sent you flying backward. 

You’d crashed into a jagged outcrop of stone, your already fragile body sustaining more injuries. A deep wound had opened along your side, nearly severing you in half, and your chest felt like it was caving in with each strained breath. It wasn’t just exhaustion; it was the real fear that you wouldn’t make it. You were too close to death, the darkened edge of your vision creeping in, when Agatha’s hand in yours had pulled you back from that final brink. You weren’t sure how, but it felt like she was holding you together in those final moments before you slipped into unconsciousness.

—

Your injuries keep you from being able to get upstairs, so you spend your days and nights on the couch trying to recover. Agatha promises to stay close, swearing she’ll sleep in the armchair beside you. But every night, you wake to find her pacing instead, her movements restless and agitated, her silhouette framed by the faint light above the stove.

The house is quiet tonight, save for the rhythmic sound of Agatha pacing in the next room. The soft creak of the floorboards betrays her unease, a subtle sound that feels much louder in the stillness. You know the routine by now—she doesn't scream out or cry, but she can’t seem to stay still. She’s trying to outrun something, her breath coming quicker, hitching in the air as though there's a monster that won’t let her rest. The nightmares are worse tonight. You can feel her anxiety through the walls—a tension in the house that makes it hard to breathe.

You lie back on the couch, a thin blanket draped over your legs, shifting carefully to avoid pulling at the bandages wrapped around your ribs. The dull ache is persistent, a reminder of what the Road has taken. What it has demanded.

“You’re awake.”

Her voice startles you, and you turn your head to see her standing in the doorway. She looks dishevelled, her hair wild and her lips chewed raw. Agatha Harkness, once a picture of control and sharp wit, seems smaller these days. Her sharp, calculating eyes are clouded now.

“So are you,” you reply softly, watching as she crosses the room and lowers herself into the chair beside you.

She looks at the floor, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “I didn’t mean to wake you. The dreams... They’re worse tonight.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing hers gently. “You didn’t wake me. Couldn’t sleep from the pain anyway.”

Her eyes flick to your bandages, her gaze lingering on the blood seeping through them. Her face tightens in frustration, but there’s something darker beneath the surface—a flicker of panic in her eyes. Her hands tremble as they hover near your side, as though she wants to help but is afraid to make things worse. She’s breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling with each uneven inhale. “You’re still in pain.”

“It’s manageable,” you lie, though you know she can see right through you. She always does.

Agatha stands abruptly, her movements sharp. “Let me change the dressing. It’ll help.” She doesn’t wait for you to agree, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with the first aid kit.

She kneels by your side, her hands surprisingly gentle as she helps you sit up, unwrapping the bandages with practiced precision. Her fingers linger on the jagged cut running along your side.

“This one’s healing slower than the others,” she mutters, more to herself than to you.

You wince as she cleans the wound, but you keep your focus on her face. Her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line. She is concentrating, but you can see the tremor in her hands.

“Agatha.”

She doesn’t look up. “Almost done.”

“Agatha.” Your voice softens. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Her hands still. For a moment, the only sound is your breathing, uneven and shallow. Then she shakes her head. “It was, though. I led us there. I put you in danger.”

“And we both survived,” you counter. “That’s what matters.”

She finishes rewrapping the bandage in silence, her hands lingering on your side before pulling away. She sits back on her heels, staring at the floor.

You reach for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She hesitates, her eyes flickering toward the window as if searching for an escape. But then her gaze softens, and she looks back at you. “I see them, you know,” she says quietly. “In my dreams. The ones we lost. Lilia, Alice, Mrs. Ha—Sharon... I see them; I hear their voices.”

Her voice cracks, and she quickly looks away, but not before you catch the glint of tears in her eyes.

You lean forward, wincing as pain flares in your ribs. “They don’t blame you, Agatha. None of them do.”

“How would you know?” she whispers, her tone tinged with bitterness. “You can’t know.”

“Because I know you,” you say firmly. “And I know you did everything you could.”

Her expression crumbles, and for a moment, she looks so much younger, so much more fragile than you’ve ever seen her. The indomitable Agatha Harkness, finally undone by the weight of her own guilt.

You cup her face with your hand, your thumb brushing away a tear that slips free. “Agatha,” you murmur, your voice soft. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

“And what about you?” Her eyes open, sharp and searching. “You’re the one who nearly died, and you’re still acting like you have to take care of me.”

“I want to take care of you,” you say simply.

“I’m not sure I deserve it,” she murmurs, her voice cracking. Her hands shake slightly as she tugs at the hem of her sweater, the fabric clutched too tightly in her fists as if trying to steady herself. She won’t look at you, but you can see the tremor in her jaw. It’s a subtle thing, but you know that she’s fighting against something much bigger than just guilt. There’s a panic beneath it, a fear that maybe she can never escape what happened, that the person she is now—the one who’s failed so many—is someone who doesn’t deserve forgiveness, or love, or even peace.

“Too bad,” you say with a weak smile.

Agatha’s hand comes to rest over yours, holding it against her cheek. “You’re a stubborn witch,” she says, a hint of her usual wit breaking through.

“Takes one to know one,” you reply, your smile growing.

For a long moment, the two of you stay like that, the silence between you no longer heavy but filled with something softer.

“I didn’t actually know what I wanted from the Road,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Agatha’s eyes open, and she looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I wanted knowledge,” you admit. “Or power. Or maybe to finally understand myself.” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “My magic’s always been... all over the place. Never strong enough in one area to fit anywhere. Protection spells don’t hold long, potions are hit or miss, divination’s a disaster... I thought the Road could give me something to make me belong.”

“And did it? Since Billy’s maybe made it real and all that,” she asks softly.

You nod your head. “Yes. It gave me you.”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, you think you’ve said too much. But then she leans forward, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss so gentle it makes your heart ache.

It isn’t a kiss born of desperation or passion. It’s something quieter, something fragile. A shared promise that, no matter how broken the two of you might be, you’ll face it together.

When she pulls back, her hand lingers on your cheek. “I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs.

“You do,” you say firmly.

For a long moment, she’s silent, her lips pressed together as she absorbs your words. You can almost see her mind racing behind her eyes, calculating the weight of your reassurance. Her expression shifts just slightly, and for the first time since the Road, you see a flicker of something like peace in her gaze—a brief, fragile relief that she doesn’t have to bear the whole world’s weight on her shoulders alone. It’s like she’s finally starting to believe it. Then she exhales a shaky breath and stands, pulling the blanket up to cover you more securely.

“Get some rest,” she says softly. “I’ll be here.”

“And you?” you ask, catching her hand before she can pull away. “Will you sleep?”

Her lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile. “Maybe.”

“Liar,” you tease gently.

She sighs, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll try. For you.”

She stays by your side that night, her hand clasped in yours as you drift into a fitful but comforting sleep. Whatever the Road has taken from you, it has left this: a bond forged in fire, unshakeable and enduring.

[therandompagesblog]

SKZ Pack Chapter 7

Trigger Warnings: mentions of pre-rut, mentions Christmas

Three days later Chan had healed perfectly and was up around the house doing his normal duties. He was grateful to be surrounded by his wolves and his beautiful omega who he wouldn't leave alone. Chan couldn't, she was finally his and he was hers, so there was no way he would leave her alone. He would spend hours cuddling up to her, despite the whines of the other wolves. Chan did not care. He had also given them all the go-ahead to mate with her when they were ready or when she was ready, most importantly. This sent Jisung into a slight panic because as much as he was excited, he was nowhere near ready and the other wolves could see it. Jisung had been caught several times taking a peak through the doors or watching the way the wolves would kiss and caress her. He was silently but creepily taking notes of the way her body reacted. Minho had even scolded him the other day for watching Chan bury his face in their little wolf's wet saccharine pussy. Did he stop? No. He was doing it again, but this time watching the way Minho kissed her. Minho was more of a virgin than him and it annoyed Jisung because she even gave the elder a reaction. The way her ankle would wrap itself around her other ankle as she got excited. "You are a pervert," Hyunjin shouted as he smacked the back of the beta's head, causing Minho to glare angrily and Y/N to stand awkwardly in embarrassment.

Hyunjin crossed his arms in utter disgust at his shameless behaviour. Jisung was desperate for her, but he couldn't quite get her where he wanted her to be, there was always something distracting her. "You need to stop," Minho growled, turning his back to clean the rest of the dishes. "Sorry." Jisung whispered and scurried off somewhere. It did make Y/N a little self-conscious but it also didn't. She wished he was more confident in himself. "I've got your own debit card so you don't have to worry. It's linked to mine but I'm waiting on Chan to let me take you to get your own one." Hyunjin said causing Minho to cross his arms as he watched him hand over an envelope. Y/N opened the envelope to see her name written across the bottom. Y/N Bahng. The name startled Y/N, but not in a bad way. It made her stomach tingle. "Why does she need one? She's not going shopping alone, ever." Minho sulked as he crossed his arms when Hyunjin sat on the stool placing his hands on the island. "Because Minho-ssi we are not taking her freedom away. She has a right to have her own things, just not a job." Hyunjin stated which caused Y/N to snort. Y/N was far too domesticated and hated working. She had tried it once as Jackson's secretary but she got so bored. She hated phoning people and filing things. "Does Chan know about this?" Minho asked. "Yes because he's been setting her up assets so she doesn't have to worry about things." Hyunjin agued. The two wolves went back and forth about the reality of this. Why? Minho wanted her at home so he could spoil her but Hyunjin wanted her to have freedom with finances. Neither one of them was listening to each other. "Am I allowed to have a say in this?" Y/N asked. "No." The two shouted as they continued to argue.

Y/N shook her head at the two wolves and decided to go and see her alpha in his room who was getting changed. "Oops. Sorry." Y/N said as she covered her eyes. She didn't mean to walk in on him. "Hi, baby," Changbin called out as he wrapped his arms around the omega's waist before slamming her into Jeongin's door. Y/N giggled at the beta and kissed him affectionately, his tongue sliding into her mouth playfully. "What do you want Bin?" Y/N asked. Changbin shrugged his shoulders with a smirk. "Nothing, baby," Changbin smirked, his finger nudging her chin. Y/N had noticed the actions between the other wolves had changed when she became mated to Chan. They were all more protective of her or incredibly needy. Hyunjin, Jeongin, Chan and Minho were the protective ones who became hyper-aware of her feelings. Seungmin and Changbin were much more sexually needy, especially Seungmin who was still threatening a punishment after she had him alpha-ordered. Jisung and Felix were more lovingly affectionate but it was tough for them as they themselves were not ready to mate, yet. They were still undecided. It was nice for Y/N but sometimes it felt suffocating and they noticed that. They were more vocal about her distress and scolded the wolf who was being too overwhelming with her.

Jeongin opened the bedroom door, causing Y/N to nearly fall and Changbin to growl at the alpha. "Y/N could have hurt herself." Changbin chided. "She's fine, but you're not fucking on my door," Jeongin growled. His anger radiating off of him alerted Y/N's wolf to see if he was alright. "Jeongin are you alright?" Y/N asked as she went to reach out for him but he avoided her touch but gave her a sharp nod. "I'm going to the gym." Jeongin declared when Chan came out. "That's fine. I was going to take my little wolf shopping for proper clothes." Chan answered with a smile as he grabbed his jacket. Changbin pouted and asked Chan if he could join, which he didn't detest. Chan was quite happy for someone to join him as it meant more eyes to protect there soul mate. "Baby?" Chan whispered as he pulled her closer to kiss her mark while she was putting her shoes on. "Jeongin's having a pre-rut. He gets quite angry before it happens, but we'll talk about it later alright." Chan stated. Minho: Someone left in a mood and knocked the plant off the table. Seungmin: It wasn't me. [Insert picture] Chan shook his head as the group chat started to argue. He didn't want one of them to get on the wrong side of Jeongin. Not when Jeonin was probably feeling a mixture of emotions considering their mate was fully mated Chan: It was an accident. Minho: Next time pick it up. Chan rolled his eyes before putting his phone in his pocket.

Y/N, admittedly felt nervous about going out, since the last time she did, caused Felix to kill San. She couldn't help feeling nervous and wondered if she underestimated Wooyoung and he would return. Chan noticed her anxiety and promised he would not let go of her once. Chan even promised her they would leave as soon as she wanted to, but Y/N wanted to be brave as she looked around the shops. Y/N looked around the shops nervously while Changbin tried to suggest things but Chan shook his head. Chan wanted her to buy things she liked, not what they wanted to see her in. Y/N appreciated that and picked out some graphic t-shirts, and trousers along with a couple of jumpers now that the weather was getting colder. It felt weird that Y/N got to use her own card but she kept forgetting the pin number, to the point she had to phone Hyunjin twice who told her to write it in her phone. Overall, Y/N did enjoy her time, she felt really happy with Chan and Changbin. She was even happier when she found Christmas items which caused the two wolves to groan. "Baby. It's November." Chan stated, like it was the most obvious thing. "When do you put your tree up?" Y/N asked. "As soon as Chan and Minho let us. It's normally the second week of December." Changbin huffed. "That's ridiculous," Y/N argued. "What's ridiculous is you buying Christmas items now," Chan argued. "Don't be a sour wolf. Enjoy it. Embrace it ." Y/N sang. "I'll embrace it when it's December baby. You're not getting it." Chan crossed his arms but Y/N shrugged and bought it anyway stating it was Hyunjin's money anyway. Chan shook his head and agreed to it as long as he didn't see it in his house until December, which Y/N accepted. Y/N loved Christmas. It was her favourite time of year and she always celebrated early, despite her mother's grumbles, back then. Y/N and her brothers used to decorate their cabin while trying to convince the other wolves to decorate the main hall. They had a certain tradition. Decorate the cabin. Drink hot chocolate with whatever alcohol they could find and watch Krampus, the shitty horror film they watched every year for no reason. Luckily for her Hongjoong allowed her to keep some parts of the tradition but it was quite an odd Christmas for her, which was why she was super excited for this year. Y/N knew she was safe and knew it would be a fantastic Christmas, but all she had to do was get the Grinches to let her put the tree up.

Taglist for the iconic readers:

@galaxy4489 @reallychaoticwoo @leezanetheofficial @mbioooo0000 @jisungs-iced-americano @maybeimmia @hwangrfrnd@wolfo2027 @kayleefriedchicken @leamueller920 @borahae-reads @jennibahng @cookiesandcreammy @jutdwae-flower @danceonmyheyday @jc003 @hpnsfwaddict @linocz @galaxy4489

[rypnami]

summoning you

characters: leander prewett x house neutral gn!mc word count: 1991 warnings: none! summary: after losing one too many rounds of summoner's court to them, leander becomes suspicious of MC's alleged skill at the game. a/n: for @selenedarling, i LOVED your prompt! i hope you like! this wasn't beta-read but its fine we ball!! ao3 link

“Oh, not again.” MC stomps their foot in frustration as their blue ball slowly rolls off the Summoner’s Court board and thuds into the grass below. Only one of theirs remains on the board, directly in the centre of the 20 point mark. On the other hand, the three red balls are scattered across the board- two on 20, one on 30.

“Aha! I win! I win! Take that!” Leander bounces up and down, throwing his hands in the air. He grins over at MC. “Er, sorry. You, uh, played well, too.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, cheeks going a bit pink. 

If it were anyone else, MC might have cursed them into next week, but they can’t bring themself to be very annoyed at Leander. To be quite honest, he’s cute when he’s excited, and he doesn’t get much more excited than when he wins at Summoner’s Court. “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll beat your ass next time, just you wait.”

Leander snickers. “You always say that, and you always lose. Er. Sorry. Again.”

“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” MC flicks their wand, resetting the board. “Ready for another round?”

“Um, can’t. Have Herbology soon. It’s really good weather today, would be a shame not to take advantage of it for the plants.” He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it a bit. 

The sun is shining, and there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. Leander is right, it’s perfect weather for tending outdoors, especially with winter only a couple months away. Now is as good a time as any to give the plants some last days of sunshine. Suddenly, MC finds themself regretting having opted out of Herbology this year- it seems like Summoner’s Court is the only time they get to be around Leander anymore, and it’s quite frankly not enough. Letting him win over and over is all well and good, but they’d like to do something with him that doesn’t involve being dishonest, even if it’s only a white lie.

“Sounds like someone is afraid of a challenge,” they tease. 

“Wh-what? No. Well.” He blushes again, looking away. Merlin, where does he get off being so adorable? MC will never understand it. “Perhaps, but I really do have class.”

“Which you’re going to be late for if you don’t hurry up.” Samantha Dale says loudly from beside the game board.

The pair of them jump. “Bloody hell, where did you come from?” Leander gasps, clutching at his chest.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past several minutes, actually. Nice to know you were paying attention.” 

“Ah, who can blame us? We were in the midst of a gripping competition.” 

“I'm sure. You.” Samantha points at Leander. “Come. I will not be late because of you!”

MC frowns. Hmph. What’s she so eager about anyway? “Why don’t you just go ahead?” 

Samantha stares at them. “Because whenever I go it alone, Violet McDowel ends up sitting next to me, and I would rather limit how long I’m around her, frankly. Prewett is a step up, I suppose.”

“Gee, thanks,” Leander mutters, hopping down from the wooden platform. “I feel so loved." He spares MC a last glance, a subtle flush creeping up his neck. “Er. See you later?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They are not jealous as they watch Leander walk back to the castle with Samantha. It’s perfectly normal and platonic to feel itchy and mildly ill watching your good friend spend time with someone else. Not at all indicative at all of any underlying feelings that MC has definitely not been suppressing since the better half of last year. Nope, just normal everyday things to feel. Definitely. Not like they have a claim on him anyway. He’s perfectly free to hang around whoever he wants, even if it makes MC want to blow up a goblin encampment, just to feel something else. 

⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

“MC really is something,” Leander says conversationally. “Great at everything. Except for Summoner’s Court.”

Samantha gives him a strange look. “Yeah… funny, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Well, yes.” They both take their seats next to each other at their potting stations. “You really don’t find it strange that they practically excel in all their classes, they won every Crossed Wands duel for the second year in a row, and also was champion of Summoner’s Court last year? They beat Professor Ronen at his own game, literally.” 

Leander has gone a deep shade of red, so he busies himself poking at the leaves of his Mallowsweet plant in a pitiful attempt to distract himself. “That doesn’t-”

“They stopped a rebellion, destroyed a criminal empire in Hogsmeade, and saved the whole school from a goblin invasion, but they can’t beat you, of all people, at Summoner’s Court?”

“Hey!”

“Just saying,” Samantha shrugs. “It’s all a bit odd.”

As much as he’d like to argue, he knows Samantha has a point. It is odd. MC has never lost at anything else, ever, to the point it’s almost supernatural. From the day they first came to Hogwarts, surviving a dragon attack and then defeating a troll in the village circle, they’ve never been anything but extraordinary. How would they keep losing to him? He’s never been very good at anything at all, especially compared to MC. There’s a voice in the back of his head, almost always whispering that he’s not good enough.

“Oh, Merlin,” He groans, putting his face in his hands as the pieces fall together. “It’s pity. They’re letting me win out of pity because I’m terrible. For the love of-” Leander has never been so embarrassed in his life. It all adds up though, doesn’t it? How could MC ever fail, if not on purpose? Is he really so pathetic? How in the world hadn’t he noticed before someone else pointed it out? His older sister always does tease him for not being the most observant, and he always thought it was just that- teasing. Unfortunately for him, it seems like she couldn’t have been more correct. 

“That might not be it,” Samantha says, gently patting his shoulder and looking mildly distressed. “I- perhaps they really aren’t very good! Probably, er, got rusty over the summer holiday, right?”

It’s appreciated, but her words do little to help. They both know damn well MC is throwing the games on purpose, but the question for him now is why? Why in Merlin’s name would they want to lose to him? 

He’s determined to find out. Grabbing his Mallowsweet in its hand-painted terracotta pot,he gets out of his seat with it. “I’m going to take Mortimer outside for some proper sun.”

“I believe you,” she says flatly.

Leander sticks his tongue out at her as he struts out of the Greenhouses with the plant. He might not be good at Summoner’s Court, but he does know plants, and he knows how much Mortimer likes to feel real sun on his leaves. Would MC think it’s weird that he gives his plants names and personalities? Is it weird? Why does he even care? 

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” he mutters to the plant. “One way or another.”

He shoves open the castle doors, and spots MC still loitering by the Summoner’s Court board. There’s no other challengers, yet there they are, sat on the edge of the platform and kicking their feet. The way the sun shines down on them, making their eyes sparkle just so… it feels like a whole swarm of lacewing flies have taken flight in his belly. Glad he’s got Mortimer for emotional support (although taking a moment to cringe that he thinks of a plant as support), he walks over to them quickly, before he loses his nerve. 

“Well, look who it is,” MC says with an easy smile, which does not help the flip-flopping of his stomach. “I thought you had Herbology.”

“I did. Er, I do.” Leander clears his throat. “Plants prefer, erm, real sunlight though, and Mortimer here really likes when the weather is so nice, so…” 

MC tilts their head. “You name your plants? That’s sweet.”

“Y-yes. Er, that’s not, erm, the only reason I came back out, though. Um.” Just spit it out, you idiot! “Are you- have you…” He squeezes the pot to his chest, suddenly feeling foolish. Merlin, but he must look like an idiot, holding a plant and hardly able to get a real word out. “Have you been letting me win? At Summoner’s Court, I mean?”

“Uh.” MC’s face seems to go a bit pale. “Um. Would you be particularly upset if I have been?”

“I…” Leander sits next to them, shifting the pot so it rests in his lap. “Not especially. I’d just like to know… why?”

They shrug. “You always seem so happy when you win, you know? Thought I might let you have a few victories.”

“But so many times in a row? You haven’t won a single round in weeks!” 

A silence stretches between them, slightly awkward. “I…” They chew their lip and don’t meet his eyes, which is wholly unlike them. “I dunno, I thought if you kept losing, you wouldn’t want to play anymore.” To avoid looking at Leander, they stare at his plant instead, picking off some of the withered leaves. “I miss spending time with you, is all. We hardly have any classes together anymore, and with Crossed Wands already over for the year, it feels like this is the only place we can really be around each other.”

What what what what what what what WHAT.

“W-we do have some classes together…”

“It’s not the same, though.” They stop fiddling with Mortimer and glance up at him. 

Leander forgets how to form words for a moment. “I- I suppose not.” 

“I…” MC takes a deep, steadying breath. “I really like you, and being around you, and you’re not like anyone else I know, and I just… wasn’t sure how to ask you to… spend time together. More time together.”

“Could’ve just said that,” Leander says with a light chuckle, although it feels like his chest is constricting. They like him? And being near him? How on earth is that possible? “But I do appreciate winning.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” They elbow him, and he almost drops his plant. “Take that, I win every time, you lose!” They attempt to mimic his voice. Actually, it’s not a bad impression. 

“I really like being around you, too.” 

Now MC is blushing as well, something Leander never expected to see in all his life. Honestly, it suits them. “So, then… would you maybe want to go to the Three Broomsticks tonight? Like… as a date?”

He wants to jump up and down and say yes yes yes a million times yes absolutely as if you even have to ask, but…

“I would really love to, but I can’t tonight, I have to take care of Percy. But you’re welcome to join me in the Greenhouses… as a date. It could be fun!” A first date involving plants sounds like a grand time to Leander.

“Percy?”

“He’s a moonflower. They only bloom at night, but they’re good for potions and such, so… only if you want!” The burst of confidence has already faded, and the tiny voice is back, telling him that it’s just more pity, that MC doesn’t really want to be with him, of all people, and that his idea for a date is stupid. He tells it to shut up.

“I’d be more than happy to. A greenhouse date sounds lovely.” MC gives him that easy smile again, making his knees a bit weak. How are they so amazing? “You know, I always thought of the moon as a woman. Not a man called Percy.”

“Well, yeah, but Percy isn’t the moon, he’s a moonflower, there’s a difference.” 

“Oh, shush, you.��

[discordiansamba]

"running errands for your grandfather, aki?"

'aki' gave the shopkeeper an awkward smile. he'd started to get used to people calling by that name, but it still made him feel dishonest every now and again. he was pretty sure the actual owner of his borrowed name was dead, but he didn't have the heart to tell the blind old man who'd mistaken him for his grandson that. so he'd just kind of... hung around.

it wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

...it was also extremely unsafe to be zuko right now.

he'd barely escaped from the fire nation with his life. he'd spent so long hiding his earthbending from the rest of his family, but it had been bound to come out eventually- and when it had, his father had been quick to disown him and label him as a bastard. posing as a member of the royal family was punishable by death.

(he didn't know if it were true or not- he couldn't imagine his mom doing that. and where would she have even met an earthbender?)

zuko had done the only sensible thing and broke himself out of prison. he'd snuck onto a merchant ship bound for the earth kingdom colonies- and upon arriving, was greeted with a wanted poster of his face. so he'd fled, deeper and deeper into the earth kingdom until he'd arrived in the small town he'd lived in as akiyoshi for the past three years.

"you're such a good grandson," the old woman said, "-i wish mine was half as thoughtful as you."

of course. he was basically taking advantage of the old man's misunderstanding. the least he could do was try and be helpful around the house. if he hadn't lived for several months on the run, he'd probably be more annoyed at doing household chores, but it was amazing what not having a roof over your head for awhile could do for a person's humility.

...and he kind of liked grandpa kenzo anyways.

adjusting the basket with his shopping in it, zuko aki made his way up the hill to what had basically become his house. it was a modest home, with a workshop in the back. grandpa worked as a potter, using his earthbending and the unique senses it gave him to master his craft despite his lack of vision.

"grandpa!" he called out. "i'm back!"

"oh, aki!" grandpa called back. "i'm in the workshop! come here!"

taking off his shoes, he set down his shopping, putting what needed to be put away in the icebox before he went to find the old man. he was sitting at a potter's wheel, carefully molding something into shape. he'd gotten an order for a tea set the other day from a noble in gaoling. it wasn't far from here. he'd deliver it for him when he was done. maybe he could see toph again.

there was no denying the man was a master craftsman. he'd been teaching him, but he still had a lot to learn if he wanted to be anywhere near his caliber. which was... not a future he'd ever imagined for himself back at the fire nation palace, but there was something undeniably relaxing about working with clay.

probably just because he was an earthbender, but still.

it wasn't just pottery grandpa had taught him either. he was skilled earthbender in his own right. they said that the original earthbenders were the badgermoles- and they were blind too. he'd helped teach him so much about earthbending, opening up a whole world to him that had formerly been closed off.

his earthbending had once been a source of fear for him. something he knew he desperately had to try and hide- the brutish excuse for bending that the people they were at war with were supposed to possess, not a prince of the fire nation. but now?

now he kind of loved it.

(maybe it would be okay to let zuko rest. it had been three years. if his past was going to catch up to him, it would have done that already...

...right?)

earthbender zuko would just be shun zuko getting mistaken by a blind potter for his dead grandson and then just. never leaving. he can't break this old man's heart. he ends up learning not only his craft but also a lot of other earthbending tips and tricks from the old man whom he genuinely starts to think of as his grandpa at some point.

(spoiler alert: the old man knows full well zuko isn't his grandson. in fact he doesn't even have a grandson. but the scrawny, clearly starving and definitely abused refugee kid will definitely stick around if he pretends to think otherwise.)

...and then he gets drafted into the earth king's army. well. isn't this ironic.

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Six)

Summary: She had tried so hard all her life to be the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, in hopes that maybe someday, someone would love her. But that day had never come, and now it never would. Because who could ever love a dirty, broken thing like her? She had never been a person, only a piece of art—beautiful and silent, to be enjoyed and admired, but easily replaced. She had been traded from her father’s private collection to her husband’s, and he had knocked her off the gallery wall, had smashed her frame and ripped apart her canvas, destroying her value and leaving her with no sense of self. Who was she, if not the pretty, proper little thing the men in her life could show off and gain approval for? Who was she? Word Count: 3942 Warnings: still no smut (but Ghost has explicit thoughts), non graphic mentions of past abuse Notes: This chapter is pretty fluffy/funny actually! It's one of my favorites that I've written. Triple asterisk (***) denotes a POV change as usual, dash asterisk dash (-*-) is a time skip but not a POV change AO3, Masterlist

There was no food in the cabinets of the house, nor of the next five—though there were several other infected that Ghost had to kill. But in the seventh, they got lucky.

Lelia practically cried when they opened the pantry in the basement to find a shelf fit to bursting with canned veg and soup. She opened a can right then and there and devoured it like he had the buck, desperation in every swallow. He’d tried to stop her, to get her to slow down, but she wouldn’t listen, dancing out of reach every time he tried to clumsily take her spoils from her. Of course, she had thrown it all back up not two minutes later.

Ghost awkwardly held her hair back as she heaved, careful not to touch any other part of her, no matter how badly he wanted to rub her back soothingly.

When his dove finally stopped retching, she straightened up with a groan that sounded like one of his, her small hands clutching her belly. He reluctantly let go of her hair—or tried to. His stiff fingers got stuck in a tangle, and when he began to move his hand away, it pulled on it, startling a yelp from Lelia. He let out a panicked, apologetic gurgle, and tried again to free his fingers—only to pull her hair once more. This time, she whimpered, and for one delusional second, he thought it sounded like one of pleasure.

“Simon,” Lelia gasped, hands reaching up to grasp his own. He jumped at the sudden warmth, fingers twitching, wanting to curl around hers and soak up their heat. “You’re going to pull my hair out if you're not careful. Just— just let me do it.”

Ghost obeyed, going still as he simply savored the feeling of her skin against his. She carefully collected each strand of hair from between his fingers, sometimes grasping the cold, stiff digits and guiding them out of the bigger tangles. It took several minutes, and those minutes were the very best of his undead life.

He couldn't help but hold onto her hands for a few seconds even after she was done. She looked over her shoulder at him with a raised brow, thankfully amused and understanding rather than disgusted. She was so kind. She was far too kind.

“Did they lock up again?” She asked him. He groaned out a no but it sounded like nothing and so she took it as a yes, just like he knew she would. She gave him a sympathetic look and squeezed his hands lightly and—oh. He— he felt that.

He stared at her in awe as she twisted awkwardly around, her hands still in his. He knew he was being selfish, stealing her body heat when she needed it more, forcing her to touch him… but he could feel it. Not the softness of her hands, but the warmth and the pressure when she tightened her grip. Unbidden, he thought of another part of her that could give him the same sensations…

Ghost quickly let go, feeling guilty and terribly ashamed with himself. He kept having these dirty thoughts about her, and that would have been bad enough back when he was alive, an old man creeping on an innocent young thing like her. But now? When he was dead and decaying? It was foul. He was foul.

“Better?” His dove asked, oblivious to the disgusting images of her in his mind, of her beneath him, on top of him, on her knees, bent over a table—

He turned around with a noncommittal grunt, putting his back to her. He grabbed the rucksack they’d found in house number four, and began swiping the cans of food off the shelf into it. Several missed and fell to the floor, but he ignored them, not wanting to risk catching sight of Lelia if he went chasing after them.

Of course, it couldn't be that easy.

“You’re making a mess,” she scolded lightly, with no real heat behind it. He wished there was. He deserved her censure. “Let me do that. I’m not feeling nauseous anymore. Though if we stay in here much longer that might change.”

It did smell quite bad, the dust and mildew overpowered by her puddle of sick. But as always, Lelia’s sweet scent was the most prominent to him, delicious and tempting. The vile part of his infected brain that he couldn’t seem to shut up wondered if eating her out would be enough to satisfy his hunger for her.

He ignored just how enticing the idea was.

Ghost was silent as Lelia took over packing up the cans, hanging back, but he did take the rucksack from her once she’d zipped it up. She gave him a surprised but grateful look, eyes wide and a little smile on her face. He wanted to kiss her. But his fucking lips had rotted off, because he was a walking gods-be-damned corpse.

He was all out of sorts just from her holding her hand, like he was a virgin touching a tit for the first time. If his blood was still pumping, his dick would be hard as steel in his trousers. It was pathetic. And if his little dove knew, she’d run screaming for the hills.

For once, he was glad he couldn’t talk. It made it that much harder for her to tell that something was wrong.

***

Lelia walked next to her zombie as they searched the rest of the house for warm, sturdy clothes that fit her—a surprisingly difficult task—sneaking worried glances at him every few minutes. Something had upset him, but she wasn't sure what. Was he still embarrassed about the drool incident? He’d seemed to put it behind him, after they’d left that first house. She wished he could talk so she could just ask him…

They didn’t find satisfactory clothes in the next few houses. Simon had vetoed the pretty dress she'd wanted to bring with them—”I’ll only wear it inside, Simon, I promise! Just look how beautiful it is!”—pointing at the full rucksack to show they had no space for it. Lelia had eventually given in and put the dress back with a sad sigh, and they'd continued their search.

The sun was setting by the time they found something Simon didn’t growl disapprovingly at, but at least he no longer seemed so bothered, anymore.

The clothes—and the room they’d found them in—looked like it had belonged to a young teenage girl going through a very intense emo phase. Her jeans were skinny enough that they didn’t immediately fall off Lelia’s hips, and her shirts were incredibly tacky, full of what Lelia assumed to be band logos. She wrinkled her nose when Simon shoved one with overlong sleeves and thumb holes at her, aghast.

“You want me to wear this?” She asked, disbelieving. “It has thumb holes, Simon! Thumb holes!”

Simon’s face almost always looked blank, but right now, she had the distinct impression it was because he was trying not to laugh at her. She huffed, but didn’t protest any further. She did complain, though.

“A fashion travesty,” she mumbled under her breath, not caring if Simon heard her. It was strange. She usually didn't complain—complaining always made things worse, in her experience—but she felt safe with him. It made no sense—he was a zombie, and he'd admitted to wanting to eat her earlier that same day—and yet it was true. Simon, her undead companion, made her feel safer than anyone else in her life ever had. “I understand that it's the apocalypse, and options are limited, but thumb holes…”

When she returned from the toilet after changing into her new clothes, Simon held out a black leather jacket with studs on the shoulders to her. She physically recoiled. And to think, she thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“Absolutely not,” she said instantly. He shook the jacket in her direction, and she crossed her arms stubbornly, turning up her nose at it. “I said no, Simon! That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”

Simon rolled his cloudy eyes, and then gestured at his face and grunted disbelievingly. She didn’t understand what he was saying at first, and she looked at him in consternated confusion, before it dawned on her.

“That jacket is far uglier than you,” she replied honestly. Though Simon couldn’t be described as handsome, she’d grown used to his visage in the last few days. Ironically, seeing his sunken, colorless face, with its permanently bared teeth, broken jaw, and milky, white eyes brought her comfort, now, since she knew it meant that she was safe. That she wasn’t alone.

A face that was now looking at her with a distinct air of skepticism, despite its lack of expression. She could just tell—she was getting better at reading into the slight narrowing or widening of his eyes, his body language, and each noise he did or didn’t make. It was still impossible for him to communicate more complex ideas to her, but she usually understood his reactions to her own words.

“I’m being serious!” She replied to his pointed silence. “Leather jackets are vulgar. I would never be caught dead in one.”

Simon growled, stepping closer and shaking the jacket at her more aggressively. She made no move to reach for it, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest. Her zombie growled again, louder this time, closing the distance between them and draping the jacket over her shoulders. She let out a noise of protest, but one quelling look from Simon had her shutting up. He was very close, close enough that she could smell the ever present scent of rot and death that clung to him. It was worse now than it had been after he'd first cleaned himself back at the cabin—likely because of whatever animal he'd eaten earlier—but not nearly as bad as it was when they'd met. Besides, she had started to get used to it. It wasn’t pleasant, but it no longer made her nearly gag every time she caught a whiff of him.

Undistracted by his scent, all she could think about was his proximity. She’d known he was tall, but he’d never been so close to her that she had to crane her neck to look up at him, even when their hands had been locked together back in the basement.

Inexplicably, she found herself blushing. Though his hands had been cold and rough, and he’d not actually been holding them of his own free will, they had cradled hers so gently, fitting perfectly around her own. It had felt nice, and she wanted to hold them again. She was just so starved for gentle touch. She had been her whole life, with parents who didn't love her and a husband that found joy in her suffering.

And how ironic was that? That a zombie was the first person in months—years, had it not been for the occasional shoulder squeezes from her governess Ulyana when Lelia did particularly well at something—to touch her with no intent to hurt her?

Spurred on by the memory, she uncrossed her arms and slid them into the sleeves of the ugly jacket, looking up at Simon hopefully for his approval. Another thing she had been denied constantly, growing up. She had never been good enough for her parents, no matter how well she did in school or how perfectly she behaved. She had tried so hard all her life to be the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, in hopes that maybe someday, someone would love her. But that day had never come, and now it never would. Because who could ever love a dirty, broken thing like her? She had never been a person, only a piece of art—beautiful and silent, to be enjoyed and admired, but easily replaced. She had been traded from her father’s private collection to her husband’s, and he had knocked her off the gallery wall, had smashed her frame and ripped apart her canvas, destroying her value and leaving her with no sense of self. Who was she, if not the pretty, proper little thing the men in her life could show off and gain approval for? Who was she?

She didn’t know.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever known.

Suddenly, she felt cold fingers brush against her cheek, and she was pulled out of her spiraling thoughts. Simon was looking down at her with what she could swear was concern, and he groaned softly, head tilted to the side in question. It was then that she felt the wetness on her face. She was crying, and she hadn’t even realized. And now Simon was gently wiping away her tears.

Her eyes grew hot and she could feel a sob building in her throat. She resisted the urge to lean into his kind touch, sniffling as she reached up to scrub at her face harshly.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed. Simon tugged lightly at her jacket, like he was trying to carefully pull it off, clearly assuming that was what had made her so upset. She let out a wet laugh, though there was very little humor in it, and shook her head, gently pushing his hand away. She hoped he didn’t notice how she let her fingers linger against his for a few seconds longer than necessary. “It’s not the jacket. I just—I was thinking about something sad, is all. I’m sorry I worried you.”

***

Ghost felt like an arsehole.

The second his dove had looked up at him with those big brown doe eyes of her all shiny and wet, his undead heart broke. He’d never meant to make her cry—he just wanted her to be safe and warm, and the jacket he’d found would help do just that. The tough leather would protect her from glancing bites, as well as conserve her body heat. He hadn’t expected her to put up such a vehement protest at the thought of wearing it, though he supposed he should have. She was clearly used to the finer things in life, and her style was quite feminine. He remembered the look she’d had on her face as he’d presented her with the hiking boots he’d found back at the cabin, and she’d had to leave her dainty ballet flats behind. She’d seemed sad, then, but also relieved—though he figured that had more to do with the painful looking blisters on her feet than approval of his fashion sense.

Nonetheless, he hadn’t been about to give into her—admittedly adorable—pouting. He’d draped the jacket over her shoulders, and had been trying to figure out how he could get her arms into it without crossing any lines when she’d shrugged it on herself. For a second, he thought she’d come to her senses—and then he’d seen the tears.

Instinct—human, this time—had kicked in at that moment, and he’d reached up to tenderly wipe them away. The distant look in her eyes had disappeared, and it almost seemed like she’d leaned towards his touch before she’d pulled away, but Ghost knew he had to have imagined that part.

He let out noise between a groan and a gurgle at her apology, waving a hand dismissively as he tried to communicate that she had nothing to be sorry about. He was the one who should be apologizing—he’d clearly touched some sort of nerve, to remind her of something that made her cry. He only wished that he knew what it was. He only wished that he could ask.

They didn’t spend much longer at that house, using the last dredges of daylight to search the one next door. And it was a good thing they did, because they found a half empty water cooler in what appeared to be a home gym. Lelia, who hadn’t had anything to drink since they’d run out of boiled stream water, was overjoyed. Though thankfully, she did listen to him this time when he warned her to take it slow.

Ghost handed over a can of veg, then rolled up one of the yoga mats on the and shoved it into the backpack. If Lelia had to sleep on the ground again, which he knew she would, the mat would make it a little less uncomfortable… or so he hoped.

When his dove finished eating and had drunk her fill, she reached over and tugged the zip he was having so much trouble with closed. He grunted, half annoyed, half grateful, and she patted his hand soothingly. It made him jolt, that shock of heat, and as always, he struggled not to grab ahold and pull her as close as physically possible. She seemed far touchier today than usual—though that wasn’t saying much, as she had only ever briefly brushed her fingers against his hands before when removing his wet gloves—and he wondered if it had to do with him running out on her earlier to hunt. Like she was trying to show him that she did want him around, that she was glad he’d come back.

Or maybe she was just in a good mood now that they’d found food and water.

Yeah, that seemed far more likely.

“Do you think they’ve got toothpaste here? I’m sure my breath smells something awful.”

Ghost jerked his shoulders up in a shrug, but when she moved to stand, he did too. He straightened from his crouch with a creak and a pop, muscles locked from rigor mortis protesting the movement.

He followed Lelia into the toilet, her hulking, undead shadow, and his eyes crinkled a bit in a smile as she crowed happily over finding a mostly empty tube of toothpaste. She put some on her finger and began to brush her teeth with it, wisely forgoing the dirt covered toothbrush next to the rusting tap. When she was done, she turned to him, reapplying the minty smelling paste to her finger and holding it up to his mouth.

“Your turn,” she said, but lightning quick, he grabbed her hand, stopping her. She jumped, but didn’t pull away, just looked at him with those big brown doe eyes of hers. He grunted, shaking his head as he gently pushed her hand away from his face. He could feel drool collecting in the corner of his mouth again. He was floored by just how much she trusted him. He knew she had very little survival instincts, but even she had to know better than to go sticking her fingers in a zombie’s mouth. And yet, she’d been about to do just that. And he had no idea if he’d be able to stop himself from trying to bite down the second he tasted her hot, sweet flesh on his tongue.

He clumsily grabbed the dirty toothbrush—he was already dead, what were the germs going to do? Kill him?—wiped it off on his tactical vest, and then handed it to her with a pointed grunt.

“You want me to brush your teeth with this?” His dove asked, cute little nose wrinkled up in disgust. He would have nodded, but he could still feel the drool on his chin, and the last thing he wanted was a repeat of earlier. So he just continued to stare at her until she gave in with a sigh. “Fine, then. But sit down. You’re too tall.”

You're just short, he thought but couldn’t say. Instead he let out a grumbly huff of laughter, and then sat down on the closed toilet seat. She stepped closer so she was right in front of him, and his gaze was perfectly level with her small, perky breasts. The shirt he’d found for her clung to her tightly, accentuating the slight curves of her chest and waist. She was far too skinny, ribs showing through the fabric, but she was still beautiful.

He started to drool again.

She wiped it away on her sleeve, mumbling about thumb holes apparently being good for something, and then gently—more gently than he ever remembered being touched in his undead life or the bits of his actual life before that—cradled his broken jaw in one of her small hands. He blinked up at her slowly—not out of an actual need, but out of shock—and let out a strangled groan. She paused, looking at him in concern.

“Did I hurt you?” she said, wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it still caused you pain…”

She moved to let go of him, and he lightly grasped her hand again, bringing it back to his jaw. In truth, he could barely feel it. Just a scant pressure and her addictive heat. But it was the fact that she was willingly touching such a destroyed part of him, and so tenderly, that undid him. She was… ethereal. Everything that he had ever been denied—softness and warmth and light and kindness. He didn't remember very much of his old life, but he knew enough that he had never experienced something like this—like her—before. Her existence was proof of heaven. He just didn’t understand what an angel like her was doing down on earth. Especially after it had turned into Hell.

And he certainly didn't understand why such a pure being would deign to touch a wretched monster like him.

He should have moved her hand away, should have stopped tainting her with his undead skin. But he was selfish, and so he just shook his head, tilting it back a little to look up at her.

His dove smiled at him, caressing his broken jaw sweetly for a second. His eyes went half lidded in pleasure, watching her as she carefully brushed his teeth.

“Your breath smells even worse than mine,” Lelia said with a little giggle, even as she grimaced in disgust. Somehow, she made the expression seem adorable, and her pure laughter took the sting from her words. She was teasing him, like she would a friend. The thought made his eyes crinkle slightly in a smile. She was being playful, and it looked good on her. Everything looked good on her, but happiness most of all.

His dove took her time cleaning his teeth, growing quiet as she focused. He could feel bits of flesh and fur unsticking from between his blackened gums, and he knew it must have disgusted her from the little wrinkle of her nose, but she didn't complain. She just let him spit into the sink before applying more toothpaste and continuing her task.

“There we are,” she said nearly fifteen minutes after she’d started, finally removing the brush from his mouth for good and letting go of his face. He mourned her touch, but her bright eyes made it a tad easier to bear. “Minty fresh.”

Ghost groaned quietly in thanks, and she wiped her hands off on a towel—he’d drooled quite a bit during the cleaning process, but she hadn’t even flinched—before yawning. He stood up, gently nudging her towards the door with his elbow.

“Yes yes, it’s bedtime, I know,” she said playfully, nudging him back. She looked excited. “There's a king mattress in the master bedroom—it will almost feel like home.”

Ghost huffed a laugh as he walked her down the hall. He took up his post outside the door, and her hand brushed against his as she slipped past him and into the room.

“Goodnight, Simon,” she said quietly, giving him a sweet smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, she was gone, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.

And once again, he was alone.

[write-it-motherfuckers]

I haven't got much of an update to give you all right now, however I do have an apology gift for you. It's not the best shot since I had to take it at an awkward angle, but it's the only clearish photo I have right now.

I would like you to meet Bug, during one of his rare non bitey moments while we were waiting for his littermate to get checked out. I unfortunately don't have any images of Bunny, his sister, as she is exceptionally anxious and chaotic, but she is just as cute, I assure you. Though I may be biased.

Thank you again for all the patience, support, and understanding. I will update you as soon as anything changes.

Stay safe Darling ones 🖤

[megumi-fm]

.

[bernaue]

I had 1am scribblings last night because of this! <3

This might need trigger warnings. I'm not sure. So just in case…

TW: relationships, possessiveness, dysphoria, paranoid gf?

---

Something felt off. Hiccup couldn't describe how, but it didn't feel right. It was always there, an itch he couldn't get rid of.

Being near Toothless made it bearable, and flying made it inconsequential. But when they were apart, it slowly crept up on him like a shadow.

Astrid didn't understand it, but she said he looked freer flying with Toothless and gave him a peck on the cheek whenever he mentioned it.

She'd even offered to sneak into his house at night when he'd mentioned Stoick, his dad, was making Toothless sleep outside.

She looked a little upset when he'd said it wouldn't be the same. Not that it mattered, Toothless was actually sneaking through his window anyway.

---

Hiccup was creeping towards Astrid when he was interrupted. Stormfly had landed in front of him and hissed, something about trying to steal her human.

Toothless was quickly there, hissing right back at her for threatening his soul-bonded.

Hiccup let out a chirp of his own. "Dragons don't own humans! Astrid my chosen mate."

Stormfly hissed again. "My rider! My human!"

And that's how Toothless ended up between two dragons when Astrid turned around, trying to stop her dragon from shredding her boyfriend.

"Hiccup!" she exclaimed, "What on Midgard are you doing?"

He looked at her shyly, the blush on his cheeks highlighting the scales growing around his eyes. "Um, I wanted to surprise you? My scales grew some more, and Toothless says maybe I have enough on my hands to forge without gloves now…"

He trailed off under her glare. It soften as she stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, but what do you mean by Toothless says?" she asked, glancing at their two dragons still staring each other down.

Hiccup sighed and pulled back out of the hug to look Astrid in the eyes. "So you know how I've been changing…" He watched her nod. "It seems I can hear them, all of them."

Hiccup could see the gears turning as she stood in front of him, arms possessively wrapped around him.

Her voice seemed to crack as she spoke, "So how long have you and Toothless been a thing?"

"What?"

Her tone became harsh as she asked, "How long have you two been dating, or do dragons skip that part?"

Hiccup opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to comprehend the question. He stumbled over the words that finally came out, "What? How is that a question? We're not.. Eh? I don't. Why would we be in a relationship?!"

welp. a tumblr post made me absolutely feral and so i kind of wrote a 2800 word microfic in like 3.5 hours, have this utterly unedited short little thing about a therian dragon rider and her dragon LMAO

Every step towards the stables eased the weight on her heart, allowed her to breathe just that little bit easier. Concern radiated across the bond as she approached, but no words were exchanged. They both knew she’d be there soon enough.

Her keys clinking together were almost deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent hallway, sending her heart racing as she carefully and slowly unlocked the gate. This late at night, there was nobody needed to guard the entrance to the stables – after all, who would be stupid enough to try and break into a building filled with sleeping dragons?

There was a spike of amusement over the bond at that thought, and a smile involuntarily tugged at the corners of her mouth as she slipped inside, locking the gate behind her.

It wasn’t long after she approached the familiar archway, a curtain of beads drawn across it. It was quite massive, as was necessary for a creature of her mounts size, the top of it some four or five times taller than her arms could reach.

She thought she could hold out for longer, hoped that she could at least put on a good face despite the turmoil that the dragon would so obviously be able to feel over their bond, she didn’t want to cause worry.

As she pushed through the beads, parting them with a hand she could not bear to look at, she called out.

“Fa-hir—” Her voice immediately cracked, hitching on just stating her companions name.

The beast was a blur, yanking her off her feet and into an embrace before she could even so much as breathe.

“Oh little hatchling,” the dragon rumbled, “What is hurting you?”

Fahir was warm, and so so much larger than her. From her vantage point, in the creatures arms and on her side, she could only truly see its silver underbelly. In moments, however, its golden snout was pressing into her hair, gently nuzzling her in a way that made the tension melt from her body.

She buried her face into the dragons chest, skin against scales, as she allowed herself to indulge in the bond. Her view of what constituted her became fuzzy, indistinct, blurring and mixing with that of her companions. If she closed her eyes she could almost… she could feel the scales on her skin, the wings shifting nervously, the tail gently wrapping around the soft little things leg in her arms—

“Amara.”

Amara opened her eyes, her vision still taken up entirely by the underside of the dragon holding her. Despite all her swirling negative feelings, she couldn’t help but smile at hearing that name.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, only to be cut off by a snort from above her. The scent of raw beef and smoke tickled her nostrils as the breath washed over her.

“Do not thank me for using your name, little thing, I won’t allow it.”

Nobody else knew to call her by that name, nor to even think of her as ‘she’, but Amara knew that the performative ease with which the dragon presented her acceptance was, in of itself, part of the intended affirmation.

Another gentle nuzzling brought her out of her own thoughts.

“Speak, little thing. Why run all the way here so quickly, and in so much pain?”

Amara could simultaneously hear and feel the dragons words, being as close to her chest as she was. The vibrations of her speech resonated in her bones, causing her brain to rattle around pleasantly in her skull.

It did little to help her answer the question, however.

Her mouth flapped open and closed as she attempted to find how to describe the ache in her soul, to attempt to put words to the vague feelings that haunted her evenings and tore at her heart. It was only when she looked up, into her companions eyes, that she finally began to speak.

“I just- I- Being so far from you, from the bond, having it be so weak—”

Amara caught herself, taking a breath as her eyes drifted downwards and away from Fahir’s snout.

“It reminded me of all the ways in which I’m not like you, and- that… hurt.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt concern swell over the bond, curling up within the dragon’s embrace. Fahir’s voice was a sad growl that Amara felt in her chest, the dragons snout ever so gently pressed into the back of her neck.

“Oh, dear hatchling, I am so sorry.”

The tightness of the dragons arms was slowly replaced by her tail. It advanced from Amara’s ankles, coiling around her in an affectionate, possessive embrace.

“It’s nothing you need to apologize for,” Amara mumbled into Fahir’s scales, “It’s just- well- inevitable when I’m like this. Just because I want to be like you, doesn’t mean that reality can’t have sharp teeth when it reminds me of what I actually am.”

Fahir’s warning growl sent goosebumps prickling over her spine as the dragon tightened her grip around her rider.

“Amara. What have I told you about saying such things about yourself?”

She squirmed uselessly within the dragons coiled tail, letting out a noise of protest before quickly giving up. She’d had this sort of confrontation many times before, she knew she couldn’t escape unless the dragon let her.

… Amara hoped the feelings associated with that thought weren’t too transparent over the bond.

“You told me not to, Fahir, as you wouldn’t accept me being in denial, but—”

“No. No buts, or ifs, or interruptions. I won’t have them. I know what you are, little thing, and I won’t hear otherwise. Especially not from you.”

Amara couldn’t help but feel her exasperation rise as she shot back at the beast.

“But look at me!” She managed to wrench an arm free from Fahir’s grip, and waved it in front of her snout, “How does this at all resemble a dragon? How does any of me? I don’t have scales, nor claws, nor wings- I’m just human, Fahir, as much a-as that might- h-hurt – It’s the truth. It’s just…”

She trailed off as a massive claw was pressed to her lips, stopping her outburst in its tracks long enough for her to realize she had tears in her eyes. Again.

“Did you come to me tonight with the express purpose of harming yourself, Amara?”

The dragons tone was dangerous, a low no-nonsense growl that made her head spin and her hair stand on end. The claw wasn’t removed from her lips, and so she was made to speak around it.

“N-no, I- um, I apologize, Fahir,”

“Hush. You need not apologize to me – I was not the target of those statements.”

The claw migrated to beneath Amara’s chin, and tilted her head up until she was looking down the dragons snout and into her vivid blue eyes.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you, hatchling?”

What poured over the bond was almost oppressive – utter confidence in her words, a demand for her attention, a piercing request for her honesty… Amara wasn’t certain that if she opened her mouth she’d be able to form actual words.

Instead, she gently nodded her head – Fahir had told her before, even if she hadn’t been able to believe it. The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, I am going to tell you again.”

A second claw joined the first, this time softly tracing her cheek. A hint of adoration zapped Amara over the bond, of utter possessive affection, and it took all of her will not to let out some manner of reaction.

Fahir’s voice lowered until Amara felt it almost entirely in her chest, resonating in her skull and making her teeth rattle in their sockets.

“I see a dragoness, still perhaps unable to step out of her shell – fleshy and human in appearance it may be – but burning so bright and clear that I cannot fathom how anyone else could be so blind as not to see it.”

Amara let out an animal whimper, melting into the embrace as Fahir squeezed her for a brief moment, claw now tracing her jaw.

“It is how I’ve seen you since I first laid my eyes upon you, little treasure, and if I could somehow force you to see it too I would in a heartbeat. However, I cannot, not in a way that won’t stick unless you believe me.”

The claw under her chin dug in just a little bit, enough to remind her of its sharpness but not enough to draw blood.

“Do you remember what I told you when you asked why a dragon as old as I would stay here in the stables, allowing a stranger to ride me, when by all means I had the strength to leave if I wanted? When all the other dragons here are children who still yearn for the thrill of fighting and battle?”

Amara let out another incoherent noise, causing Fahir to break character to chuckle.

“Use your words, little thing – this I’d like to hear you say yourself.”

It took some effort to reorganize her brain, as scrambled as it was, though Amara somehow managed. The process and concentration involved only seemed to amuse Fahir further, if the feelings over the bond were anything to go by, which made it all significantly harder.

“Y-you said that you being here was a choice,” Amara murmured, averting her eyes, “And that you could leave if you chose, but that you staying here was evidence of my being interesting enough to keep you in one place.”

The dragon hummed in satisfaction, right before the claw once again applied pressure to the underside of Amara’s chin once again, and the amusement quickly fell away.

“So then,” Fahir growled, “Do you think that I am coddling you? That I am lying to you, when I say these things? Do you think I’d have any reason to?”

Amara let out a sharp exhalation, thoughts running through her brain at a rapid pace. So many of them ended up in some form of denial, only to meet the surety of Fahir’s words and confidence over the bond together and be overturned.

“No.”

The pressure of the claw under her chin released, coming forward to join the other in gently tracing down the side of Amara’s neck.

“No objections? No buts or ifs, hatchling?”

“No, Fahir. Thank you.”

Finally, then, did the veil of seriousness fall away. Warmth and adoration flooded the bond, and Amara was pressed tightly into Fahir’s chest, where her long neck met her shoulders.

“Perfect,” the dragon hummed, “Thank you for indulging me, little thing, and you are welcome.”

Amara smiled even as she buried her face into the dragons scutes, closing her eyes. However, it wasn’t long before that smile wavered.

“I’m sorry you had to do this with me again, Fahir, I just- well, you know how I feel better than I do a lot of the time,”

Amara melted underneath the gentle nuzzling from above, the dragon letting out a content rumbling noise.

“Do not apologize, little thing. Your doubts are deep-rooted. Though I may need to remind you on occasion, each time they become a bit looser I’d think.”

Amara simply grunted in response, allowing herself to relax into the dragons chest as Fahir gently laid them both on their side once again. The beast was warm, and comfortingly so. Her size meant it came nearly from all directions, quickly allowing one to relax into the tight embrace.

After a few moments – or a few minutes, she always found it hard to tell in times like this – Amara stirred.

“I think I’m going to leave, Fahir, but thank you for your help.”

Wordlessly, the dragon unravelled from around her rider, allowing her to stand up and brush herself off.

“This was an immense help to me, I- yes. Thank you.”

Amara felt stiff, giving an uncomfortable bow before turning to leave the room.

Her companion was oddly silent, simply watching her as she somewhat awkwardly shuffled over to the exit, lost in her own swirling thoughts.

It wasn’t until she felt the tugging sensation around her ankle, when she was just at the archway, that she realized that Fahir had not actually fully let go of her.

The dragon yawned theatrically, tapping the end of her snout with a claw.

“No, I think not, little thing.”

The grip around her ankle tightened.

“Pardon?” Amara whispered hoarsely.

Deviously slowly, the dragons tail began advancing up her body.

“I don’t think I’m going to let you leave, Amara. Not until you actually want to, that is. Did I ever tell you that you were being a disturbance to me?”

“No but- ah—"

Before she could finish her rebuttal, she was yanked off her feet and back towards the dragon.

“Hush, hatchling. You want to stay, yes? Be honest.”

Amara averted her eyes, nodding.

“Alright,” Fahir purred, “Then you are staying.”

She let out a noise of protest, but was quickly silenced as Fahir began drawing her claws over her scalp.

“What have I said about your desires, treasure?”

“That dragons claw at what they want with all their might, and don’t deny themselves,” Amara mumbled as she was reduced to putty beneath the dragons attention.

“Indeed. I think I’ll soon have it ingrained into you well enough, and you’ll be happier for it.”

Fahir hummed with satisfaction as Amara so easily yielded under her touch. Soon enough, however, the dragon yawned in earnest.

“Mm, may I try something with you, Amara?”

She blinked away the haze she’d been under, looking up at her companion.

“What is it?”

A claw traced its way along her jaw as Fahir let out a contemplative growl.

“The bond helps comfort you when you’re feeling particularly disconnected from yourself, yes? I could feel you sink into it when you first arrived.”

Amara nodded, if not hesitantly then embarrassedly.

“Then I would like to try something. Please, relax.”

Then, almost as there was a mental hand grasping hers, Amara felt herself being pulled. Gently and ever so slowly, she was led across the mental link she shared with her dragon, and the edges of her being became fuzzy and indistinct.

She came to the threshold that had already been her comfort prior, the extent to which she was able to sink into Fahir’s side of the bond. Once again, the phantom sensations of wings, of scales, of claws, all began to form. Ghostly and indistinct, but very much present.

The pulling almost seemed to stall at that point, as if allowing her to acclimate – or, rather, to receive contrast for what occurred next. The pulling became a tug, and suddenly she tumbled, and the phantom sensations became so very real.

Amara gasped with Fahir’s lungs, feeling them expand as she breathed in so much more than she was ever used to. Her wings shifted, stretching to the edges of the room she was in. Her wings, her lungs—

Her eyes were sharp in the darkness, what had previously been gloomy and indistinct becoming sharp and bright. The moon played against her golden hide, glinting off each individual scale.

She could feel a draft play over her scales, and shivered despite the warmth emanating constantly from her core. It was so completely alien compared to how it felt against skin.

And then there was the little thing in her arms, sleeping so soundly. The little dragoness, as seen through Fahir’s eyes, curled and wrapped up in her tail. Little treasure. Amara wanted to cry.

She had never felt comfort like this, had never felt right like this.

Fahir’s voice spoke gently in her mind.

“Is this comfortable, little one?”

Amara nodded, only realizing as she did it that she was still being given the reign over Fahir’s body. The chuckle came mentally, and yet was familiar nonetheless.

“I am so, so very happy, little treasure. Now, let us rest.”

Slowly, Amara could feel herself being brought out from being in control, and with it came the reminder of her fatigue. She had not slept at all that night, and it had already been late when she’d come to Fahir’s room in the stables. Rest… Rest sounded good.

Mentally, Amara allowed herself to nestle against Fahir within their bond, a mirror of them in physicality. In this in-between space, she could both feel the dragons chest rising and falling behind her back, while also feeling the sensation of that breathing as if it were her own.

She drank in the hybrid sensations greedily and deeply, allowing herself to truly relax for perhaps the first time in her memory.

Amara slept, and Fahir curled up protectively around her.

[purpurussy]

.

[thekamukuraproject]

Oh to be old (like 30) and be so undeniably in love and changed by your other half that the line of where you begin and where he ends is too blurred to distinguish

[loderlied]

mmm essay about sally and kid gort in the tags (cw for child abuse, mentions of suicide, animal cruelty and a murder attempt. i always hope i don’t have to say this but just in case: i don’t excuse or condone any of her or gort’s behaviour at all.) this is literally not even touching upon everything i have to say because i hit the fucking tag limit lmao. NOBODY READ IT’S BAD BRAINSTORMING I JUST NEEDED TO GET IT OUT SOMEHOW

[all-pacas]

wait because i've fallen deep into the weeds (ie: am thinking way more about this than the writers did BUT EVEN SO)

Stacy says that Chase met with the brother "last Thursday." That was the day Chase got himself sued. House aired on Tuesdays: The Mistake aired on November 25th, 2005. Flashbacks aside, no one changes clothes in the episode; the episode spans a single day. It's also generally established that episodes take place the week the episode airs, spanning several days. So we can assume Hunting began on the day it aired, Tuesday, November 22nd. (I know I am going full Pepe Sylvia on this, but this is fun for me.)

So, here's the useless deep dive into Hunting's timeline: (tl;dr: Cameron and Chase had their meth hookup the night before Chase tried to get himself sued.)

TUESDAY the 22nd: Day one. The team starts work on Kalvin's case; House visits Stacy that day, hangs around her house, and finds Steve that evening. Outfit reference.

WEDNESDAY the 23rd: Day two. First thing in the morning (it's the first scene we see of the day), Cameron visits Kalvin and gets coughed on. She partakes of the hospital showers and wears scrubs for a while, before changing into a turtleneck of sadness to search Kalvin's hotel room. It's at this point Chase invites her out for drinks, although she doesn't accept (or decline). They return to the hospital to report their findings to House. Chase is wearing a blue button down with an ugly tie and suit jacket. Cameron returns to Kalvin, who tells her about how great drugs are. House ducks over to Stacy's again, but when he returns to the hospital it's still the same day, no one's clothes have changed. Kalvin tells Cameron to try drugs, and House leaves the hospital for the day to lurk at Stacy's again. Cameron invites Chase over — he's wearing the same blue shirt, although hilariously he's untucked it to show he's off the clock — for sex.

THURSDAY the 24th: Day three. Cameron has a meth hangover. Chase is actually dressed sort of casually here too — or, more than he usually does: he's skipped the tie and hasn't buttoned his shirt all the way. No one can accuse him of being a sharp dresser but he actually does usually to always wear a tie; I kind of like the implication that, you know, he got dressed in a hurry, too.

This is also the day that he got Kayla's brother to sue him. In the flashback in The Mistake he's wearing the same blue shirt as he was on Wednesday, but a different tie, in that scene. On the other hand, we see Chase briefly in the locker room with Cameron in Hunting and then he vanishes from the episode until the final scene (where he's shirtless), so, you know, I could buy that Chase just threw on yesterday's shirt and grabbed a random tie (it would explain the light blue + emerald green combo he has going) for clinic duty. This is the final day of Kalvin's case: we see Cameron with him briefly — it is night time — at the end of the episode, still in her Meth Turtleneck (although she's put her hair up). (Hmmmm something about Cameron wearing her hair down when on meth, literally.)

btw if nothing else this adds an insane layer to chase's story that he was hungover, that he'd been up half the night drinking, because, again, this is the day after he was up half the night having a meth hookup, and cameron currently is hungover out of her miiind

Never realized I until I binge watched this time that the episode where Chase and Cameron first have sex is the episode before his dad died. Once again I must ask if he’s doing okay (he’s not) and can time loving people without making me wonder if he’s displacing daddy issues

It's actually even more nuts! Because in The Mistake, they give a timeline; Stacy actually gives us dates. The Mistake aired, for context, November 29, 2005. Episodes last multiple days usually, but we know from holiday episodes they tend to take place around the air date. (Hunting aired November 22nd) So according to Stacy:

Cursed aired on March 1st, 2005. In the episode, Rowan tells House he has about three months. This turns out to be an overestimate.

Kayla first showed up to the clinic May 11th, 2005. This puts that case right between Love Hurts and Three Stories in the episode order. This is also just a couple weeks after the whole Vogler debacle. Chase was very much on House's shitlist for most of that spring, only seeming to get off it around Kids, after a last hurrah of bullying.

Kayla leaves the clinic, and returns the next day for a planned followup. This is when Chase gets the phone call his dad died, so Rowan Chase died either the 11th or 12th of May.

Everything goes wrong with Kayla, but she gets a liver transplant and lives three more months before being diagnosed with (her brother's) cancer. Chase is doing follow ups and seems to be pretty close to her and the family at this point: she's filling him in on her kids, he's someone they trust. This would be around August. Once the cancer is diagnosed, Chase says Kayla dies "a week later." So probably still August, maybe September. Presumably, the hearing is still scheduled, but Chase seems to be doing okay. His dad's been dead a few months, Kayla and her family like him. He's made a mistake, but he's dealing with it.

Chase continues to be her brother's doctor and point of contact. And this is where it gets good. "Last week," Stacy says, the brother suddenly decided to sue. A week before The Mistake, Chase finds out Kayla's family (who he likes!) has to move and has no money and in a fit of self-flagellation, he lies to her brother and provokes him. He has to provoke him. Chase actually works pretty hard at it:

SAM: Ever since the operation I've been on disability and there's the mortgage so… moving out of state somewhere cheaper. Anyways, thanks. [they shake hands, Sam is not at all mad at Chase.] CHASE: [as Sam is leaving] I killed your sister. I misdiagnosed her ulcer. Killed her. SAM: Shut up man. She liked you, just— CHASE: [not meeting his eyes] I was hung-over when she came back to see me. I'd been up half the night drinking, had a headache and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Couldn't have cared less what your sister was saying about her stomach pain. [Sam kicks a table or something, makes a mess. Chase flinches.]

He really has to try to get the brother to hate him! He puts in a fucking EFFORT! And it's at that point the brother decides to sue and destroy Chase's career, because Chase feels guilty and wants the family to get the money and not have to move.

And again. This was a week ago. What else happened a week ago???????

I am insane about this. Absolutely insane. Cameron, quite possibly, tells Chase he's not a good guy the same exact day Chase had already convinced a man who liked him that he was in fact a bad person. Of course Chase immediately fucks her (and falls in love with her). Of course

[ask-thearchivists]

heck ya, join this archive and you have the chance to possibly meet the last living titan.

The Copyist: I really would rather not. You have to understand what this sounds like when you make these suggestions to us. It sounds like you want to make it possible for us to die. It sounds like you are suggesting we allow ourselves the possibility to be murdered. Stop it.

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

I love learning ASL it’s so good. Makes me happy to learn it. I’m so glad my university has classes for it with professors actually steeped in Deaf culture.

[2024skin]

Mom called me a shitty roommate today bc after months of her telling me to rent a uhaul (too young to do so) and then flaking out on me whenever I asked her if we could it on x day, I gave up on trying to get my bf's heavy TV and dresser and ordered a mountable tv, instead of buying more storage totes so that I could add to the ever increasing stack of totes in our guest bedroom