#brand but you know the one. and oh my god the bristles on that. i literally could not use it. i had to go back to the brush i got in rehab

[thetangibleghost]

For all my tumble friends that have trauma and/or sensory issues with tooth brushing and have considered using an autism toothbrush but are worried about their ability to clean I'd say: get one!

They don't clean as well, but brushing your teeth is better than not brushing them at all. And after a year of using mine I was able to go back to a regular toothbrush and I can just like. Use it now. I don't dissociate anymore, even when it's unpleasant cause I'm using bad tooth paste or a weird brush it's just. Bad. Not like... It was. Lol.

[salvadoerena]

hey! this is chance & here’s week 3’s prompt. share an excerpt that you’re very proud of from any of your wips.

Here's a lil excerpt from the first draft of The Liar, The Witch, and the Nimrod with more of it under the cut because I can't stop myself lol:

His thoughts were interrupted by the (unfortunately) familiar scent of citrus and seabreeze. Annalise stood frozen before him, eyes crinkled in mirth. Behind her, James was standing, gently prodding the banana plant. Lucas bristled.

“What in the goddamned Hell are you—”

“Doing here?” James answered for him, grinning with his too many teeth. “Nothing really, just passing through.”

“Like hell you are!”

James pouted in mock hurt, hands clasped over his chest.

“Oh you wound me, Tobias,” he said. From where his hands were clasped, a cascade of color seemed to bleed out against his shirt. Lucas stared, uncomprehending, as the colors coalesced into a deep burgundy before settling on pitch black. It began to drip to the floor. James grinned. 

“Literally.”

Rather than be horrified, Lucas watched the blood drip, drip, drip down with impassive eyes before he found himself sneering.

“Good,” he bit out, “Now what the hell do you want?”

James rolled his eyes and stood up straight once more before he removed his hands. His chest continued to bleed.

“Well for starters, for you to come up with a better repertoire of expletives,” he said, the continued before Lucas would interrupt him, “But really, I was just passing through. When I saw our dear old witch and her ex-familiar were moving house I thought great! It’s got good craftsmanship; it would make a wonderful place to live.”

James’ blood had slowly coated the forest floor and Lucas felt bile rise up his throat when he realized they were all ankle deep in it. If it was an illusion, it was a damned good one. Did he necessarily feel threatened by it? No…but just because he didn’t feel threatened by the dogshit he stepped in didn’t mean he liked it.

“Aint you got a realm of your own?”

“Well yes, but I do like to have a physical base of operations too, you know,” James replied. He once again grinned with his too many teeth. “Besides, humans don’t tend to do well in my realm long term, and I don’t want my end of the bargain to expire that quickly…especially considering how well you have been fairing.”

“The hell—” Lucas cut himself off when he saw James’ shiteating grin. He ground his teeth, cleared his throat, and tried again: “What on God’s green earth are you yappin’ about?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” James huffed as an overly enthusiastic splurt of blood shot out from his wound, “He and I have a very…complicated relationship at the moment.”

“Can’t see why,” Lucas replied, sarcastically. “Now don’t change the subject.” 

James rolled his eyes. “You’ll be curious about that later, Tobias, I know it. Nevertheless, did I forget to mention? The longer you’re out of my realm, the harder it is for you humans to remember what transpired in there.”

“I remember things just fine,” Lucas countered. “Crystal clear, in fact.”

“Oh do you now?”

“Yep.”

“Alright then,” James smiled and waded over to Lucas, his legs sloshing through the jet black ichor. Lucas instinctively tried to take a step back, but he seemed to lack the same freedom of movement in the rising tar that James had. The creature wove his way around Annalise picking up Lucas’ hand as he did so, and held it up to Lucas’ face. The muck dripped down, revealing his birthmark—his brand, Lucas reminded himself. James pointed to it.

“Tell me: what is this?”

“That’s my birth—I mean that’s a brand,” he corrected. Damn, hadn’t he just reminded himself? James laughed.

“Okay, so it is, but what is it. What do you see? What does it look like?”

“What do you mean, ‘What’s it look like?’ I saw it clear as day! It’s a…It was a…”

Lucas squinted at the offensive mark. He remembered seeing it in James’ realm, remembered how stark it appeared next to his skin, but now…

Now it was as nebulous as it had ever been. Even when he tried to recall the memory of what it was, all that came to mind was what it had always been: some strange birthmark that made itself at home on the center of his hand. Lucas shook his head.

Brand, brand, not birthmark, but a brand.

“Mmhmm,” James confirmed to himself, “And do you even remember what we bargained for?”

“Uhhh…Information and…and breaking their contract,” Lucas muttered, panic slowly beginning to form as he realized…he couldn’t remember what he had given up.

By now, the blood had risen until it was up to Lucas’ chin, further muddying his thoughts. Somehow, he still managed to see James perfectly clearly, as though his blood carved a space around him just for Lucas’ viewing displeasure.

“Hmm, you don’t, do you?” James laughed and pat Lucas on the cheek, leaving a sticky residue behind.

“Well, better hop to it then! Remember: You’ve got seven years to fulfill, Tobias, or I come and collect my collateral,” James warned. Before Lucas would ask how he was supposed to fulfill his end of the trade if he couldn’t even remember what he traded, James had placed a finger to Lucas’ lips.

“A good question there, my friend. And I, of course, am legally bound to oblige: Either figure shit out yourself, or come pay me a visit sometime in Seraetia. It will all come flooding back to you, then,” James said, then removed his finger from Lucas’ lips. The tar kept his mouth sealed. He was even so gracious as to puppeteer Lucas’ hand back to the boxes so they wouldn’t fall.

How. Nice.

“Well with that, I best get going. Lots of redecorating to do!”

“Lucas?”

At the sound of Annalise’s voice, James, along with all the corruption he had spewed out, vanished without a trace.

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Goddamn, I hate that thing,” he muttered. He took Annalise’s hand and brought it up to his lips. She blushed at the kiss, but absolutely preened at the sheer romanticism of it.

“You certainly know how to make a witch feel young again, Charmer,” she said. Lucas gave her a halfhearted grin. It quickly morphed into a fully bashful one when she took out her handkerchief and began rubbing at his cheek.

“Hold still, dear, you have a stain right here.”

“Well gee, thanks. Didn’t realize you were my Ma,” Lucas joked. Annalise gave him a playful pinch on the cheek, then took her handkerchief out and examined it. She frowned. Lucas, curious now, leaned over and looked at the stain, too. A black, sticky thing that he knew would not wash out anytime soon, slick as motor grease.

Carefully, Annalise folded her handkerchief into a small square. She drew a rune on it with her fingernail, and dropped it. It burst into flames and was ash by the time it hit the ground.

“I assume Chaos was here?” she asked, coolly. Lucas nodded.

“Yep.”

“And he spoke to you?”

“Yep.”

She frowned more.

“He can’t leave very well alone, can he?”

“Nope.

She sighed.

“Well then, enough thinking of that thing. Let’s be on,” she stated, finally.

[ineedibuprofen]

“This is a stupid idea,” Jason says, uncomfortable in the wooden chair.

“Shut up,” Thalia says, “This is a great idea.”

“This was Percy’s idea. Therefore, it’s a stupid one.”

Percy indignantly frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “Hey! That’s just mean. Discrimination, I say. I’m literally neurodivergent and a minor, it’s not my fault. Besides, my ideas aren’t really that bad.”

Jason and Thalia both snort at the same time and – that’s a little rude, honestly, because Percy has saved their asses how many times, thank you very much? They were just being jerks. As usual. Percy flips them off.

He watches as Thalia reaches for the plastic, black bottle, the stupid on-brand Splat! hair dye. Percy tried to tell them that Splat! actually sucked ass, a fact he knew because of a long story involving Connor Stoll and coconut-scented conditioner, but of course, they didn’t listen to him. It feels a little bit like a cosmic joke; A child of Zeus helps a child of Jupiter get his hair dyed while a child of Poseidon watches… What could possibly go wrong? Thalia puts some of the coloring in a little purple bowl with a handle, mixes it with the synthetic-bristled brush, and then grins.

“Ta-da. The first step is finished. Now comes the fun part.”

Jason’s “blonde, luxurious locks” (according to Leo), were currently sectioned with foil, uneven strips that were waiting for the sucky-ass hair dye, and, yeah, okay, maybe this was a bad idea. It would’ve been a good idea if Thalia knew what the fuck she was doing, and maybe Percy never dyed hair before but his mom worked at a barber shop for two years when he was nine, and he used to spend nights watching her do this. He at least had more experience than Thalia, who clearly didn’t know shit.

Jason looks like he’s having a great time, all tense shoulders and tight muscles and squeezed eyes, an apron around him and tied at the neck, his fingers tapping the chair’s armrest. He looks a bit like a cat who’s just been sprayed with water, or maybe Nico on a regular basis. Percy would’ve laughed if his blonde, luxurious locks weren’t on the line (okay, so maybe Leo was right. He definitely didn’t have to know that.)

“You’re doing great,” Percy says and it sounds like a joke even to him.

He meant it sincerely, mostly, but every time he hangs out with Thalia anything he or she says always sounds half-assed or sarcastic, and he can’t really help it. Jason kind of glares at him in the reflection of the mirror, the thick black and blue gloop mixing, despite Thalia’s weak efforts to keep them seperately.

“I literally hate you.”

“Aw,” Thalia faux-coos, “At least he cares enough to have an opinon.”

“Both of you. I literally hate both of you.”

Percy and Thalia laugh (cackle), the latter so much so that it messes up the dye job (even more, impossibly), and she ends up smearing it across Jason’s forehead and mixing all of the colors (which was probably inevitable anyway). Jason yells at Thalia for what feels like the next hour, and Percy can’t stop laughing or interrupting with stupid comments and Thalia feebly protests and fails miserably at her only job. Percy almost doesn’t feel like a child of the Gods, for a moment, feels almost normal. Weird.

In the end, when their finished and they’ve stained every possible surface either black or blue or a wierd grayish purple color, Jason’s hair looks a bit like a bird who just ate blue food coloring has taken a dump on Jason’s head, and it’s permanent dye, and he’s adamant against bleaching it, which means he’s stuck it with for the next who knows how long. This is apparently bad news, according to Jason, but according to Thalia and Percy it’s the funniest thing they’ve seen in a long time. They’re about to get tons of blackmail photos and showing it to their friends is gonna be worth every one of Jason’s oddly creative insults.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Percy laughs, “Bro, you look so bad."

Jason flips them off again as he and Thalia high five but, really, what can he do? He's the one with the bad dye job.

jason grace ABSOLUTELY deserves to go through a hair-dye phase and fuck you all who disagree

[erodasfishtacos]

HSLOT PHILLY

Like, comment, share, and come talk if you enjoyed the fic.

I write for free - so if you would like to support my work, you can donate here.

-

Harry is predictable.

He falls into the same patterns during every tour since he was on the Up All Night with One Direction.

The excitement that comes with the first couple of shows begins to fade as he starts his world wide tour that doesn’t end for nearly eight months.

His constant adrenaline wears off and his exhaustion from not having toured in two years settles deep in his bones.

YN senses it from a mile away, has nearly eleven years experience dealing with her jet-lagged, exhausted, and stubborn husband.

It hits the day of the Philadelphia show, they got in late the night before, and YN always set her alarm for seven thirty in the morning to workout.

Ninety-five percent of the time, Harry got up with her and they either did a jog around the new city or they took advantage of the in-hotel gym.

Four percent of the time, he would whine and tug the comforter over his head, whimpering, “M’too tired, baby. Stay in bed w’me.”

And then the one percent, which was today.

The alarm emits a low, constant beep that rouses YN, in the time she takes to rub her eye and come back into reality - Harry hisses with a sharp edge, “Turn tha’ fuckin’ thing off.”

She bites her tongue at his tone, reaching to turn it off but she can already tell what day they’re going to have.

YN slips out from under the covers and automatically gets a comment from her husband, it another whiney demand, “Cover m’feet, y’too the blanket off them.”

“Yes, your majesty,” YN replies reproachfully, rearranging the blankets before quietly moving around the room to change.

“Stop makin’ so much noise.”

“Turn off tha’ light.”

“S’too early f’this, d’you not care that m’tired?”

She chooses to ignore the remarks, hoping that he can sleep off the attitude.

When YN is about to leave, he grumbles, “Y’need to kiss me goodbye.”

Harry purses his lips for a soft kiss, not moving a muscle, and after that - she leaves to head down to the gym.

YN is required a body guard, definitely when she isn’t with Harry or a group of people, and she decided not to follow those rules today.

She had her TPWK water bottle in hand, a cute workout set on ***, and her AirPods tucked in her ear with some Spice Girls playing.

It’s only about twenty minutes into her exercise, a light jog on the treadmill, that a young girl slips up beside the machine.

YN is kind, stopping the belt to smile for a selfie before the girl scampers off and she resumes her run - music blasting.

However, what YN didn’t know, is that fans had found out early in the morning which hotel they where at and a hoard was rushing towards the small gym.

It’s not even ten minutes later when a swarm of fans in rushing into the work area, lining up around her machine with their phones flashing and recording.

She tries to be nice, “Hey! Uh, I’m just trying to workout. I’m sorry, but no pictures please.”

Then there is loud protest and people shoving each other, begging and pleading for a selfie or for her to sign something - all because she was Harry’s wife.

There is literally no exit to escape to, so she relents and anxiously calls Frank - one of the body guards - to come retrieve her.

-

The whole way back up to her hotel room, Frank is lecturing her about safety and how she could have gotten hurt.

And when he scans the keycard for her hotel room, she feels her stomach drop because Harry is sat against the kitchen counter.

His brown locks are rumpled and going every which way, just in his briefs that are low on his narrow hips, and absolutely irate expression on his face.

“Are y’fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Harry snaps, brow furrowed and jaw clenched - his arms were crossed tightly against his chest.

“Good morning to you, sunshine,” YN mutters, shutting the door and kicking off her tennis shoes to the side.

“Don’t,” Harry replies sourly, “Please explain t’me why I get woken up by Frank to be told y’getting mobbed in the gym? And y’didn’t to call him.”

YN bristles at his tone, giving him a pointed look as she steps further into the room, “It’s not a big deal. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Y’right about that, y’weren’t thinkin’. It is a big deal, y’could have gotten hurt - shouldn’t have t’babysit m’own wife,” Harry huffs, stomping back over to the bed and sliding back under the covers.

“You better watch your tone-“

They’re interrupted with a knock to their door, Harry throws the covers over his head and leaves YN to open the door.

It’s Jeff, who barges in with a coffee in one hand, “Come on, H. Did you forget? You have soundcheck early today and then you have to meet with FullStop to review the details of that new merchandise contract.”

“No, move it,” The popstar groans, muffled from the heavy blankets over him, and his manager and wife give each other a knowing look.

“We can’t. Get up, we need to leave in fifteen,” Jeff replies casually, unbothered as he sips from his to-go mug.

It has Harry dramatically ripping off the covers and getting out of bed, as he charges off towards the bathroom, he shouts backwards, “Wish someone would have fuckin’ told me! Like m’manager or m’wife!”

“Oh my god, here we go,” YN groans quietly to Jeff, snatching up the few things she needs for the venue as well as Harry’s and shoving them in his duffle.

He comes out a few moments later, dressed in running shorts and a vintage Queen shirt - going to tug on his Nikes without a word to either.

But in true Harry fashion, even when he’s mad, he’s still a gentleman. He slips the duffle off his wife’s shoulder so she doesn’t have to carry it.

“Thank you,” She murmurs but he avoids eye contact, being the first to open the hotel room and trudge towards the awaiting car.

It’s a quiet ride, Harry looks out the window with a deep frown and puffy eyes - eyes heavy from the lack of sleep.

Usually, he’d be curled into YN - snuggling as close as possible and asking for her to pet his hair to soothe him.

Not today. But he does have his hand on her thigh.

There’s already fans at the arena and Harry doesn’t acknowledge them - keeps his head down and walks quickly into the private entrance past the barricades.

When a irritated fan screams, “Asshole! We waited all night here for you!”

YN watches as Harry goes to turn, to say something but she pushes him forward through the door to prevent him from doing something he’d regret when wasn’t in a foul mood.

They manage through the long hallways, filled with bustling tour crew, and everybody there to make the show happen.

Sound check isn’t as fun as it usually is, the band stays low-key when Harry does exactly what he needs to do and nothing more.

And after the merch meeting, Harry has reached his limit apparently.

He was so tired, so fucking moody that he couldn’t deal with anymore human interaction.

YN has to step in when she gets a text from Harry Lambert.

Come get your husband. Sarah’s Kitchen.

She sighs, excusing herself from hanging out with Jeff and Glenne - she can hear him from the hallway and now she’s finally get irritated.

“I asked for that specific brand. It’s literally one of the only things I’ve asked for on this tour.”

YN takes a deep breathe before stepping in, there are crew trying not to stare as Harry complains to Sarah about something unimportant.

“Harry,” She says flatly, “Come on.”

He snatches his water bottle and follows his wife out without another word, trailing behind until they end up in his dressing room.

“You need to stop. You’re being a literal nightmare today,” YN tells him, watching him as he digs in the duffle.

“Where is m’charger? Did y’not pack it?” He ignores her words.

“I must have forgot. Harry, I know you’re tired but you can’t be treating everyone like-“

Harry pushes back the bag, seething for no reason, “I’ll treat people however the fuck I want!”

“You’re acting like a spoiled popstar right now,” YN replies, attempting to stay level-headed and calm with him.

“S’my show! M’tour!”

“Yes and everyone is here to support you and you’re treating them like shit. Including me, I’m your wife - the one person in the world that’s here for you no matter what and you’re being downright mean.”

“Y’so fuckin’ sensitive,” Harry mutters angrily, digging around to try to find a charger in a different bag.

And…that stung a bit.

When he doesn’t get a response, he looks up and notices how her demeanor had changed - it brings him back to reality for a little bit.

“I’m not going to stay here and be talked to like that because you don’t feel good. I’ll leave you alone because you are being insufferable.”

“Bab-“

YN is already out the door, storming back to Sarah’s kitchen to apologize for her husband’s diva behavior and everyone shrugs her off - knowing it’s not her fault.

She is sat down with the band and a few others when her husband saunters in, he doesn’t look at anyone else as he walks up to his wife.

“Baby, can I talk to you?” He mumbles, his warm hand coming to cup her shoulder.

“Harry,” YN says back, they’ve been together for so long that those words are all she needs to say for him to formulate a response.

“Come nap w’me please, need you. I’ll apologize t’you,” Harry says, his palm encompassing and big on her.

“Harry,” She repeats.

The crew looks on in amusement as Harry huffs, he lifts his head and speaks loudly to the room at once, “I apologize for my behavior. I have no excuse for getting upset like I have been today. I hope you guys can forgive me.”

Everyone assures him that they forgive him, most of them have dealt with actual spoiled celebrities and Harry was just having a bad day (which still really wasn’t that bad.)

“Okay, come on, bunny,” YN agrees, satisfied and can’t help but smile a bit when she stands up and Harry automatically intertwines their fingers to hold her hand.

The sofa in his dressing room folds out to be a bed and they still had hours before the show.

Once they’ve locked the doo and settled down on the mattress - they’re both laying on their sides, facing each other.

“M’sorry, darlin’,” Harry whispers, “I haven’t been very nice t’you today. I was just upset about the gym thing and just being so tired.”

YN hums, combing throwing his fluffy curls with her fingers as his hands explore over her hips and belly like always.

“You always get like this every once in a while on tour, like a little spoiled popstar,” YN says softly, no sharpness in her tone, “You also need to be nice to your wife.”

“M’always nice t’my wife,” He mumbles childishly, leaning forward to nip at her chin, “I am sorry, know tha’ when I act like that it embarrasses you.”

“You’re better than acting like that,” YN reminds him, allowing him to tug her into his warm, now bare chest, “I’m never gonna let you turn into some fame monster. You’re gonna stay the kind, funny, compassionate person I met when I was young.”

And when YN doesn’t get a reply, she glances to see Harry’s eyes shut, mouth slightly parted as he breathes rhythmically and his entire face relaxes as he sleeps.

“Still my boy,” YN murmurs lovingly, nuzzling before letting sleep overtake her.

-

[deadlynavigation]

Don Your Masks

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Cahir x Reader

Warnings: Discussions of war, swearing, implied smut, sickening romance

I do not own The Witcher. Pls don't come after me.

Do not plagiarize, copy or translate any of my works or their assets.

It’s evening, the purple and blue tones painting the wide room. The soft pastels try to combat the tense atmosphere, but there’s no use- when you and Fringilla butt heads, there’s no stopping it. 

 

“Even with all the troops you're suggesting be deployed, there’s no way we’d be able to breach the borders.” You speak behind clenched teeth, eyes fluttering shut with the weight of her stupidity. What Fringilla is trying to plan will never work, but of course, you are the one to bear the frustration. Ah, the balance of life. So precious, yet so rare. 

 

“I have confidence that we will be able to make it work. And if all else fails, we can rely on the White Flame to guide us.” Fringilla straightens her back, thinking intimidation will force the plan’s carry. However, it does the exact opposite- you wanting to defy her more as the reverence that enters her voice sickens you. She’s been this way since she joined Nilfgaard’s forces. Even you weren’t this bad when you joined, but the witch is still at it, treasuring your leader like he’s a fucking god. 

 

“Oh yeah? Where was he when we lost so many at Cintra? When we stormed the gates of that city the other day, watching each other drop dead and having to step in their blood?” You lean your elbows on the planning table ever so nonchalantly. Flames lick at your pupils with building rage. “Where was he?” 

She’s stunned, but she hides it well. If you weren’t scrutinizing her gaze, you would have missed the flash of fear and doubt. But she might as well have worn her feelings on her sleeve with that glance. 

“We both know this won’t work and the Flame isn’t going to do a damn thing,” It’s treason to speak like this, but to hell with them all. “So here’s what we do. You leave the planning to me and Cahir, and we’ll leave you to do your magic shit, hm?” Fringilla bristles before rolling her eyes, and nods. She must have remembered your stance in this war (far above hers). 

“Thanks ever so much for your cooperation.” With that, you swiftly turn and stride to the door, only to be blocked with a dark shadow. 

“Commander,” you say, dropping your head in greeting as you sidestep Cahir. The corridor greets you with a blast of freezing air and a bloody, unwelcoming aura. As any room in this place does. 

Your steps echo off the walls, filling the empty spaces left by the dead. Even now, their souls constantly haunt you, suffocating you, branding you with guilt and anguish. Anguish that, even now as you walk alone, needs to be buried in the depths of your heart. It’s still a weakness to feel. 

So, for now, you surround yourself with war and verbal dueling with Fringilla to blot out the absences in these corridors. Which seem to have another pair of footsteps travelling down them, if the soft footfalls of a boot-clad person are any indication. Your eyes light up when you consider who they belong to. 

Sure enough, you’re correct, and as soon as you turn down a secluded hallway, you’re greeted with a flash of black and hands behind your head. You’re cornered, but you could care less. 

 

“Commander,” You whisper, breath hitching at his closeness. 

“Captain,” Cahir responds coarsely. He moves his hands from the stone behind your head to your hips, where his hands adopt a rough grip. 

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

 

“I think you know.” He responds, and you do. Through the lust crowding your mind, you recall his dark gaze in the war room, pupils wide with repressed desire. Your control of the situation must have sparked something. 

However, you haven’t forgotten the incident at the battle in Cintra. So, you shall play. 

“Do I? I don’t seem to have any recollection of what I could have possibly done-” You’re cut off by a deep kiss, Cahir attacking your lips with fiery passion. 

 

“Y/n,” He groans in annoyance. 

“No, say it,” You tilt your head in a playful manner, causing your lover to sigh and shut his eyes. Head bowed, he mumbles something. To hell if you know. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing. We’re going.” 

“That’s cute. What did you say?” You know damn well what was uttered. 

 

“I’m sorry. We’re going.” Cahir finally manages to speak in normal tones, if a bit disgruntled. However, you don’t argue with the leaving part. You’ve been in this situation before, and it always ends the same way- either yours or his chamber’s bathing room doused in raw passion and water. 

And so, you allow the man to lead you to his room by a hand settled on your lower back, enjoying the raging fire contained to a miniscule touch of covered skin. 

<>--<>--<>--<> 

It’s got to be past midnight. You and Cahir are drenched in sweat,the black sheets tangled around your bodies. The animalistic hunger is gone, soft love left in the wake of it. With this peaceful atmosphere, far different from the one that clouded the room just minutes ago, comes a sort of soothing, a sense that nothing could go wrong. Not with Cahir snuggled next to you, and certainly not with him drawing random shapes every so often on your hip. 

The serenity is only interrupted by your feather-light kisses and occasional spoken thoughts. 

“When do you think our next mission will be?” You ask after receiving a soft kiss. Not exactly pillow talk, but it’s a topic that’s been plaguing you since your talk with Fringilla. 

“I don’t know, but you certainly look like you’ve been through one.” Cahir whispers. 

And though a blush spreads across your cheeks and your body heats (sparking a chuckle from Cahir), it’s true. Love bites litter your neck and chest, not to mention the inside of your thighs. Your messy hair is spread across the pillows, and your face is thoroughly flushed. It feels that way inwardly as well, the cramps and soreness kicking up from your long session of lovemaking. 

“Piss off,” you mumble, nuzzling into his neck. At this, Cahir laughs outright, his grip on you loosening. You use this opportunity to the fullest, slipping out of the bed and yanking a shirt off the ground. 

“Wait, my love-” He cuts himself off with a snort. You sigh and roll your eyes, guiding the shirt onto your body. It smells of leather and broodiness- this definitely isn’t your shirt. Your glance down only confirms your theory. 

Not much time is spent dwelling on if you should trade it for your own attire. Cahir has calmed and paraded into the bathing chamber, slipping his arms around your waist from behind as you stare at the mirror. 

“I meant no harm, dear,” He murmurs in your ear. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder. “Especially not since you look positively breathtaking in this clothing.” 

It’s hard to resist your partner’s charm. But somehow, miraculously, you manage to keep a firm mental stance. 

“Oh, come now y/n, you must know I meant nothing. It was in the spirit of playfulness.” He stares at you from his mount on your shoulder. 

“All right then,” Cahir sighs dramatically when he gets nothing from you. “I suppose I shall leave you to your own thoughts.” 

Damn him, you think. He is well aware of your love outweighing your stubbornness (though not by much). “Cahir, wait,” you say in a dejected tone. 

“Yes, my love?” He turns with a shit-eating grin, looking like an animal ready to pounce. 

“I am well aware of your joking manner when it came to the aforementioned topic.” Your eyes flutter shut in annoyance. Gathering all your strength and discarding your pride, you force the next words out of your mouth with a great struggle. “May we... go back to bed?” 

“Hm?” There is no way he’s letting you get away with this. What kind of forgiving, supportive lover would do such a thing? 

“May we return to bed?” You almost yell this time, fed up with his incessant teasing. 

“Of course, dear.” Cahir sweeps a hand out to help you back. You, in petty fashion, ignore and sidestep it completely. Only after a silent scoff at the gesture. 

Chin held high, you walk slowly back to the bed. The black sheets are still a hopeless mess. You don’t know what you were expecting. 

The tangles of fabric don’t seem to daunt Cahir, however. In your time filled with looking disdainfully down at the uncomfortable ruffles, he has found his way to your back. His hands slide onto your hips in one smooth motion, prompting a muffled gasp from you at the sudden contact. 

“Keep the shirt, dear,” Cahir behind you says, a devilish smirk crawling onto his lips. “I prefer it on you anyways.” And with that, you’re shoved onto the bed- greeted, when you settle, with the look of a starved man. 

And you are oh-so-willing to relieve his hunger. 

Written by DeadlyNavigation

[candlemouse]

ronodin’s dye job

POSTED under “Not Like Other Unicorns”

slay so this one is basically Ronodin is is a natural blonde and he dyes his hair black. it’s pretty much just a chill fic, kind of like my other fic “Fablehaven fortnite” in that it’s a bit of an absurd premise and is mostly based on character interaction. I’ve written a good 1000 words of it but I’m not quite sure how to end it

here is a snippet

“Ronodin, you’re literally Bracken now,” Seth guffawed.

“Why did both of you say that?” Ronodin threw up his hands, forgetting he had the brush in his hand. A glob flew off the bristles and straight onto Kendra’s hair. “Oh, Kendra, I’m so sorry—”

She merely scooped it off with her glove and used it to slick a few strands of hair. “Now I’ll have a dark streak. Does this mean I’m a dark unicorn now?”

“Yeah, Ronodin, did you dye your hair before or after you corrupted your horns?” Seth teased. “Did the blonde just not go with your brand anymore?”

“Out,” Ronodin pointed.

“Oh, you know what, Kendra?” Seth hopped up on the counter next to her. “I bet Bracken knows.”

“You—shut—I hate you.” Ronodin finally settled on. He turned back to the mirror. “Now, can someone get the back?”

“I can,” Kendra hopped off and grabbed the brush. “The back of your head?”

“Yeah.”

Seth’s phone rang several times before his call connected. “Bracken, you’re covering your camera.”

another one

Ronodin pressed the end call button.

Seth pulled his arm back. Betrayal painted his face. “Dude.”

“As much as I love our little rendezvous in this bathroom, I will not allow childhood stories of me to leak to the press.”

“Ronodin, what press? What are you even talking about?” Seth threw his arms up. “I could have gotten a juicy story about you and you took this from me. Honestly, this might be a deal breaker. I don’t even—” Seth pretended to sniffle. “I don’t even know if we can be friends anymore.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“Well, how young were you when you dyed your hair?” Kendra asked. She had returned to her seat on the counter.

“You already know my answer has no value to you,” Ronodin peeled off his gloves. “We do not have the same concept of age.”

“Oh my god, he was definitely a pre-teen.” Seth pretended to press an ear radio like a news reporter. “This just in, Ronodin is not like other unicorns.”

honestly if u guys have any other ideas I could prob polish it up and publish it soon (soon as in 3 days - 3 years)

peace

[edgelordfucker]

A preview of a WIP Belosxreader sfw fluff fic with the working title of 'date out' that will be changed

So far I have the bones of this one 80% sketched out at 6k words with the need for ligaments and scene joinery, and, of course, flesh. Tentative ETA would be... maybe another month or two? Maybe less. Oh, there is gratuitous swearing.

The waiter comes to stand by the table. He sets the frappe and the cake in front of you, and the kouign-amann and the iced black coffee in front of Belos. 

“Thank you!” you say brightly.

“Yeah, you’re very welcome; let me know if you need anything else,” he says with a smile, before he walks away.

With a look of the utmost amusement, you slide his food and drink over to him and he passes yours over to you.

“I appreciate that he thinks I’m too femme for bitterness,” you say.

“Too delicate by far. What’s next? Chipping your polish?” he replies. You snicker, and then consider him.

“You know, I think you’d look cute with your nails painted.”

“Thank you. What color?”

“Hm...” You study him seriously. “You know I love you in blue... I think white would be a bit too much, and it’s a bitch to keep up with. Gold would be nice. Ooo, black! And we could be matchies.” You reach out for his hand, and he gives it to you. You slide your tiny hand up his palm to thread your fingers between his. “I like you,” you tell him with a tender sincerity. Belos feels his face heat up, and looks towards the street.

“You’re alright,” he replies.

“Pfft! So mean. You know,” you say, slipping your hand away and leaving his rather cold, “one day, I’m gonna be dead-” His stomach drops. “-and you’re going to be fuckin’ malingering in your coffin, or draped despondently over a chaise lounge, or whatever, and you’re gonna look back and think, ‘Man, I really should’ve told my beautiful girlfriend that I liked her back that one time we went out for coffee five-hundred years ago.’”

“Firstly,” he replies, gleefully latching onto this quibble, “that’s not what malingering means.”

“What does it mean?” you ask, as though he’s just given you a terminal prognosis. 

“It means to pretend to be sick, or something like that, to get out of having to do something.” 

“What?” You hit the ‘w’ with so much emphasis that it sounds like an ‘h’. “I’m going to go live in the woods.” He snorts. “Oh, god. Belos, do you know how many times I’ve used that word to describe lingering in, like, a fucked up or evil way? Oh, my god. I have to abandon society. I have to leave.”

“You couldn’t wait to do that until after I’ve had my cake, could you?”

“I could be persuaded by someone who likes me,” you reply.

“Eat your pastry,” he retorts.

And then, from another scene a little later on:

“Oh my god,” you whisper. A chill goes down his spine. “You have merch?” There is a note of terrible glee in your voice, and he knows, in much the way a field mouse does when the first cold breeze of Autumn kisses their whiskers, their little black eyes bulging out of their eggshell skull, that harvest time has arrived and the thresherman will come threshing with his scythe no less sharp than Death’s, that he is about to be mercilessly bullied by a woman who is literally half his size, and there is nothing that he can do about it.

 Belos considers picking you and physically removing you from the store, books be damned, but you are already touching things.

“There are little Belos stuffies? Little Belos pencils? You are on a lanyard?” your voice warbles like a bouncy ball tossed onto a xylophone. He has an explanation for this, he does.

“It wasn’t my idea-” he starts, which is a lie, but sounds better than, ‘Yes, darling, I did decide that selling mass produced twelve inch soft sculptures of myself was a great way to secure the hearts and minds of my people.’ You cut him off.

“No, no, I love your brand. Very patriotic, my love, very ever present. Are you in the PSAs? Are you on the milk cartons?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “You have things like this in the human realm, surely.”

“Fifty years Emperor merch? No, we don’t.” There’s a derisive note to your voice. Belos bristles. This is the closest the two of you have ever come to directly discussing his rule, and this is the closest you’ve ever gotten to telling him exactly what you think about his Empire. 

“Really?”

“Well, we do, but the people who get more than, like, a t-shirt or a bumper sticker for a specific politician tend to be... less than stable.” Your eyes catch, and you gasp. “You are a little cup?” The mug you pick up is in the shape of a cutesy caricature of himself, and you hold it between two hands like it’s something precious. 

“Put that back,” he whispers, trying to take the mug from you. You take a step away, holding it close to your chest.

“Please don’t put your hands on my boyfriend, sir.” There’s a beat.

He says your full first name, and he means it.

“Belos,” you reply. You tip your head and look at him with that infuriating grin, close lipped and so, so, so smug. Without breaking eye contact, you fish a stuffie from the table as well.

“You’re not getting those.”

“We’re a triad.”

“I’m telling you no.” You put your head on one side. Belos is a big enough man to realize when he’s made a tactical error.

“So, like, do you hate the Emperor, or something?” you ask loudly, with innocent eyes, bringing the cup and stuffed him up under your chin. Heads start to turn. 

An outraged voice calls, “Does that guy hate the Emperor?!” from the depths of the shelves.

He’s going to strangle you.

“Fine.” He stalks towards the checkout.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[heli0s-writes]

pagan poetry*

A/N: Hey-o! After nearly 3 months of being a complete disaster, I ... did a thing. Very much my usual brand of filth. Thanks for sticking around as I continue to navigate this impending sense of oblivion!! 1.6k words of bangin’ Bucky Barnes. Yeeeeeeahhh.

Title is from this song, by Bjork. 🖤

Warnings: Smutty smut and heathen shit, what else is new with Helios?

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Steve asked if you were religious once.

It was an off the cuff kind of question, prompted by something you can’t remember now—silly banter over drinks and a background party, perhaps. Both grown weary of entertaining a crowd of strangers, etiquette spent nearing the night’s end. You’d shrugged lazily and prefaced that it’s hard to shake an entire childhood of indoctrination but now, by resolute choice, you aren’t.

You lied. You’ve never been more devout.

It was easier than getting into all the semantics, anyway. Where would you start explaining that you now spend more time than ever at worship? Not in the middle of Tony’s so-called “small” get-together of “only” seventy-five people. Certainly not a place to admit to Steve that your knees supplicate more earnestly than the most pious of priests, your throat constantly pouring the sweetest profession of faith—the name of the most divine.

Even if the two of you were somewhere more private, and he was at least half as drunk as you were, it’s a bit blasphemous, Steve, that you fuck Bucky six ways to Sunday and call it religion.

It’s a hard desire to curb when he looks like that. Bucky’s built like a god— his arm the kind of weapon you’d happily split your tongue polishing. Strong, powerful legs. Broad shoulders like lovingly carved marble, worked between the hands of a Renaissance master, tapered sharply down to his wasp’s waist.

His hips. Lord, you could dedicate eternity naming every last inch of his hips.

Such a pretty boy. How he makes you hungry to sin.

“Bucky,” you whisper, enthralled again when he steps out from a quick shower. Smoldering and glorious, and you’re Joan of Arc constantly being descended upon by a burning archangel. Some random night, like any other night, and you’re overtaken again. Hazy with orange glow, the billowing mist makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then, you feel… hm.

Wet.

He cautions the way you chew on your lip, eyes twinkling brightly because what else is new. You? Turned on? Bucky could be brushing his teeth and you’d start climbing him like your personal jungle gym.

“Sweetheart,” he begins warily, adjusting the towel on his hips—those beautiful, beautiful hips. “One more dinner with us swinging in late and they’re gonna stop inviting us.”

You nod along dumbly, deaf now and set on a singular mission. Crawling on your knees, you reach Bucky halfway as he tries to put an end to your pilgrimage. Tries because your palms are fast over the damp fabric, fingers threading through warm fibers before landing flat against his abs, feeling up to his chest, murmuring stupidly, always so shocked at his everything. You graze up his wrists, his forearms, making paths of taut muscle.

“How bout after dinner?” His thumbs gently brush the swell of your breasts before he holds you back, straightening your spine when you arch into him. “Promise I’ll give it to you good later.”

“Give it to me now?”

He laughs. “You really gotta work on your negotiation skills…”

“Huh… Lemme try again: give it to me… right now?”

Bucky groans in equal measures of exasperation and exhilaration when you fall back on your knees. A few more half-hearted baby, quit it, ‘m serious, and then he gives up completely.

“Steve’s gonna get himself in a mood.”

“Steve’s always in a mood.”

Wilted protests quickly disappear into the hollow of your cheeks, licked away by your clever tongue. He grips the back of your neck firmly, tilting your head the way he likes best, eyes flicking down to meet yours before they close. He keeps you there a little longer, his toes curling into the carpet with each bob of your head.

“Yeah, you’re—always in a mood, too—uhhm—“

And you hum in agreeance, but the sound only vibrates into his skin, making him groan louder.

Bucky’s voice is slurred, as if half drunk. “Can’t hear— mm— you, sweetheart…”

So you make something up to give him what he wants, that buzzing of your throat on his cock, and his thighs tighten in response, the hand on the back of your neck reflexively scrabbling to your shoulder with a hard grip.

It’s a bit counterproductive of you to be so sloppy, considering that Bucky’s freshly showered and cleaned up— the scent of his brisk body wash strong and harsh in your nose— but fucking him like it’s your job allows some insight to what he likes, and it’s easily this:

Dirty, filthy, drooling wet blowjobs. The messier the better and the faster it gets him there. Your radiant Right Hand of God, but goddamn is he a little devil himself.

Bucky’s growling by the time he hauls you toward the bed, depositing your thrilled skin on the mattress firmly. Red lips meet yours with force, plush and full, nipping at the corners of your wet mouth like he’s kissing back every trace of him. He presses on across your jaw, up and down your neck. His voice is husky sweet and breathy in your ear.

“You bad, bad girl.” And you start curling yourself into him, nodding for more. One of his hands is working himself, the sound of your spit slippery in his fist. “You got me all messy again.”

Your skin feels blistering and freezing at the same time, chills racing to your fingertips tightly hooked around his biceps. The outfit you put on for a nice, quaint dinner at Steve and Sharon’s too heavy now, too constricting, but he doesn’t let you take it off.

“Every morning and night not enough dick for you, is it?” Bucky brushes your hands away, taking hold of your chin and peeling your head back until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown wide, the only thing left of his irises are two thin rings of barely there blue as he scans your face. Your brain is short-circuiting, hanging onto every syllable, every purse of his cherry lips.

He switches on and off like a light. Beautiful, soft, thoughtful one minute, all force and darkness the next. You faithfully take it all, every facet of him. Your angel boy. Your wicked soldier.

Joan of Arc was only hallucinating, but she wasn’t half as lucky as you to have conjured something half as astonishing as Bucky. Gorgeous strong jaw, bristles along his chin and cheek scrubbing noisily against your lips as he kisses you. His mouth— open and wet, sloppy against yours— hardly landing right and you’re toeing delirium by the time his fingers slide up your shirt.

Bucky pushes you down into the sheets, rucking up your skirt until it bunches around your waist. “We’re in a rush, remember?” He tucks two fingers into the elastic of your panties and yanks them to one side. Just enough. In a rush. Your thighs meet with a determined shimmy of his hips— those incredible hips— and then you’re full, so full of him.

The blood in your ears crashes against reality and bends it all sideways. Not religious like that, but since the first time you’d touched him, you’ve been cocksure if heaven were real, it’d be this. It’d be him.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Bucky promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your addled brain, the tell-tale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of where he’s connected— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time to it like a trained toy.

“Bucky,” you mewl, “Buck.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

He takes the back of your neck again, lowering his body over yours, faster now. Deliberately reckless and the entire bed is rocking, springs squealing under his pace.

“Oh my god,” you smash your brow into the junction of his shoulder, hanging on by a thread as he drives into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

His grip is tourniquet tight, thumb moving to the middle of your throat, pressing ever so slightly until your breath feels trapped under the swirl of his fingerprint. The curtain of his hair hangs over your face, blocking out the room going blindingly white. Your eyes shut tightly, opening only for a second to catch him panting over you, burning hot, his features flickering from utter control to trembling pleasure to something akin to frenzy.

Your vision shuffles like a deck of cards. His hands are everywhere. Eyes devouring every inch of your skin. There’s a million of him taking a million of you to a million more pieces. You shatter then, clawing his back and arms, singing like a fucking choir the infinity of his name.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. He makes your days holy. The altar of his body. The sacrament of his sweat. He breaks you apart into something luminous.

Religion. Not religion. Your heathen soul—whatever tiny fracture you may have—all his, forever. Now, tomorrow, at the end of the world.

So, when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished dinner, as predicted, over an hour late and in terrible disarray, Steve crosses himself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Sam clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.” 

All you can do is duck your head and grin.

[samwpmarleau]

Robb/Rhaenys + their first big fight? Headcanon or short fic 😊

Kinda turned into a prequel to this.

If she’s honest, she was spoiling for a fight.

It’s not the first time she’s been to Winterfell, which perhaps is part of it — the resentment has been building for quite some time. She hates this damn place. She hates the cold, she hates the wet, she hates the pitiful excuse for sunlight, she hates that even though Father’s long dead, it’s all a constant reminder of what happened.

Oh, she bites her tongue in public, curtseys to Lord Stark and crows over Lady Catelyn’s beauty, because that’s what’s expected of her as a princess, as sister to the king. But gods above does she wish she could express what she really thinks. It doesn’t help either that Mother seems genuine in her desire to move forward, or that Aegon wishes to keep the peace, such as it is. She feels alone in her anger.

And so, when finally she can’t take it anymore, she excuses herself — politely, ever so politely — from the feast and strides across the yard to the stables. The horses, at least, listen to her grievances without judgment, and the methodical brushing of their coats is calming. Of course, only belatedly does she realize she hadn’t brought a cloak with her, clad only in her woolen dress, but she would rather run herself through than go back into the Great Hall.

The master of horse is there, as is his duty, but one look from her has him bowing, then seeing himself out. She really hadn’t intended to glare at the man, for he has done nothing to her, but it does produce the result she wanted.

She plucks a bristle brush from the tack box and walks over to the stall of the horse she’d been given for the duration of her stay, a striking bay mare. “Well met, sweet girl,” she murmurs. “Do you mind if I keep you company?”

She takes the horse’s soft whinny as assent and begins to brush her. The horse doesn’t need it — the master of horse clearly takes his duties seriously — but brush her she does nevertheless. It works for a while, the repetitive motions entrancing despite the chill, but naturally, Winterfell has to yet again ruin things.

Or, more specifically —

“Princess Rhaenys,” greets Robb Stark, heaving open the stable doors with a blast of frigid air. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Oh, do you?” she snaps. “Well, you are.”

In the deepest depths of her soul, she knows she oughtn’t be so vicious towards him. He’s as innocent as the master of horse, as her, in all of this. Seven hells, he wasn’t even born until nearly everything was over and done with. But his name and his House brand him the enemy, and so she must treat him as such.

What needles her even further is that he rarely, if ever, seems bothered by her words. It’s infuriating.

Like now, for instance. Instead of taking the hint, he closes the doors and holds a lump of fabric out to her. It’s her cloak. “You left this behind. Thought you might want it.”

“Think again, my lord. I want no such thing from you.”

He rolls his eyes and steps closer, in one quick motion draping the cloak around her shoulders before she can stop him. As if on cue, her body shivers in relief as the dense furs begin to thaw her out.

“Is this supposed to endear you to me?” she asks. “Am I supposed to fall over myself in gratitude?”

“No, but I don’t think a thank-you would be out of order.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing. Certainly not for something I didn’t even ask for in the first place.”

“Very well. I’ll take it back, then, if you’re so adamant.”

He holds out his hand expectantly, a smirk playing about his mouth. Her desire to get him to leave and her desire to not be frozen stiff wage war with one another. Indeed, she almost gives in. She almost takes the hit and keeps the cloak wrapped snugly around her. But her pride is a force to be reckoned with, and she will not be bested by Robb Stark of all people.

Gritting her teeth against the renewed onslaught of cold, she throws the cloak back at him. “There. Now, off you go.”

Robb looks at her incredulously, then laughs. “You are quite something. You’d give Arya a run for her money when it comes to being obnoxiously stubborn.”

She’s not sure how to take that, considering she actually likes Arya. “It’s useful to be uncompromising. Defends against people who would see me as prey.”

“You think I see you as prey?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Everyone does. Between my sex and my blood, I am ripe for the picking, or so thinks every lord I come across.”

“Surely not every lord.”

“Enough of them.”

The conversation is getting uncomfortably close to hitting her where she’s vulnerable, and she hadn’t wanted a conversation in the first place, so once more she straightens her back and sets her jaw. “Are you quite done? I came to the stables to attend to a horse, not entertain an ass.”

Robb turns to leave — without a bow, she notes — then stops in his tracks and whirls back around. “I’ve often wondered when precisely it was that I offended you,” he says, “and yet I remain bereft of an answer. I can conceive of no such reason to deserve your rancor.”

“Your existence offends. I need no further reason than that.”

“I rather think you do.”

She takes a step forward, refusing to back down. “Frankly, my lord, I do not care what you think.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Fine. If you won’t leave, then I will.” She tosses the brush at him; he lets it fall to the ground.

She had really, truthfully, expected him to let her go, to let her have the last word. Instead, he grabs her wrist and yanks her around to face him. “Rhaenys, just stop.”

“You dare be so informal?” she hisses. “It’s princess or Your Grace. You have no right —”

There is a look in his blue eyes she doesn’t recall seeing before, darker than determination. “Then I suppose I have no right to do this either.”

She has no chance to wonder what he’s talking about, for in the next moment he slides his hand into her hair and covers her lips with his. They are soft and insistent and warm, and for a reason she cannot explain, she doesn’t knee him in the groin or push him or stab him with the knife she always keeps on her. No, she stands there like an idiot and lets him kiss her.

(Gods have mercy, Robb bloody Stark will forever be her first.)

It is when she starts to kiss him back that she comes to her senses and all but leaps away from him. Her words come out in fragments. “How — what — why?”

“Because I wanted to,” he answers. He sounds himself a bit dazed.

Her feet are planted to the floor. She’s always prided herself on knowing what to do, on being decisive, yet her thoughts now are a mess. Part of her, a very large part, wants to crack her hand across his face, or call for guards, perhaps. She could have his tongue for kissing her like he did. But a larger part of her is belatedly realizing that her deep well of hatred has eased, just a bit, as though transformed into … well, lust.

Stark or no, she’s not blind. Robb had inherited his lady mother’s looks, aye, and in more ways than one.

Making a choice that has very little to do with logic, she shoves him — hard — into an empty stall, his back hitting the wood with a satisfying thunk. “If you breathe a word of this, I will see you dead.”

He takes her by the waist and pulls her flush against him. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

[cdroloisms]

more of the mutually assured destruction duo, post-prison this time! this one was really fun, thinking about what this dynamic might be like in the future gives me SO much brainrot, im so excited. this one’s also a little dark, so make sure to read the warnings + tags !! :D 

tw: implied prison abuse, starvation, toxic relationship, touch starvation, manipulation, panic attack, trauma, blood, injury

Dream hasn't been the same since he escaped prison.

And it's ironic, because Wilbur hasn't even been around, has been in hell for fuck's sake playing Competitive Solitaire for nine-odd years, but even he could've seen the self-destruction hanging like a cloud around the other's head from a million miles (and several months? years?) away. Perhaps, he thinks wryly, you can only see the signs when you've lived them, or maybe red flags don't raise alarm when you’ve painted the entire figure in blood, but it doesn't really matter, in the end, because the final result is the same.

Still, it's just a little funny when he's stopped in the middle of his journey through the Nether, not a piece of armor on him per usual and an unused netherite sword slung over his hip.

"Hello, Sapnap." The kid is standing in front of him, eyes gleaming in badly-hidden anger and desperation, smoke rising from the mottled red-black skin on his hands. "Fancy seeing you around."

"You-" Sapnap sputters, unable to speak as his face flushes red in frustration, and Wilbur smiles at him condescendingly. The expression on the other's face is one he's seen before - one Tommy had been particularly inclined to give him in the past, when his emotions raged so heavily that there was nothing for the pressure to do but build, too thick and heavy to force themselves out of his throat. "You're monsters," Sapnap manages, finally, and Wilbur quirks an eyebrow.

At least we're self-aware, he thinks, the all-too-familiar twinge of irritation at Tommy's - and apparently, Sapnap's particular brand of reckless naivety pulsing at the base of his skull. He lets none of these thoughts show on his face as he cocks his head to the side, smiles wider - and Sapnap, just like Tommy, takes the bait.

'Why are you smiling?" He looks achingly young - they all do, really, their expressions and reactions dripping with a sort of innocence and sincerity that dissolved from Wilbur's own face somewhere around the fifteen-hundreth game of poker, and it really does feel ironic, how quickly the outside world can fall apart compared to the unending constancy of the void - but he digresses.

He didn't know Sapnap well before his whole death thing, and as much as he wants to use his partner to get information on the other members of the server, he doesn't really think Dream is really even lucid enough for that - the man clearly hasn't been thinking clearly, not for a long time. It doesn't matter, though, because you learn to read people when your life becomes nothing but running the same broken-edged memories over and over again in your mind and smiling jaggedly over the same few card games - Wilbur had always been a people watcher, and Sapnap's feelings are stamped on every corner of his face.

"Monster, huh," he says, saying the word slowly, rolling it over his tongue like he's tasting it for the first time, watching from the corner of his eye as Sapnap squirms, "Interesting word you've got here. You use it often?"

Sapnap bristles, smoke curling from his nostrils - "It's what you are, dickhead."

Rolling his eyes internally, Wilbur keeps up the act, humming as he fiddles idly with his cufflink. "I mean, if you really believe that," he rocks forward on his right foot, stifling a smile at the way the younger draws back, "But really, it's all a matter of perspective." He twists himself around, pivoting around his heel, beginning to walk in an arc around Sapnap's left side, watching as he spins around, shoulders drawn up to his ears. "What do you think?"

"I think that you're full of shit," he says, voice flat, and Wilbur laughs. It's genuine, really, because well - Sapnap's different. He's fun; the entire server is, after so long in the void. You can only spend so much time with the same two people before they drive you a little up the metaphorical wall, but Sapnap's reactions are fresh and new and different, still saturated with vitality that hasn’t been leached out by the same deck of cards in the same scarred hands shuffled and reshuffled for eternity. He's interesting, and new, and most of all, predictable.

"Say, Sapnap," he continues, blowing over the other's anger, knowing that it'll only make the frustration build more. He lets his hair flop lazily over one eye, lets his smile grow wider, lips pressed together in amusement, turns his face so that it's lit eerily by the lava lake beneath them. "If we're monsters for, I don't know, setting off a few stacks of TNT," he waves his hand flippantly, watching the muscle of the other's jaw jump in poorly-hidden rage, "What does that make you for what you did to Dream?"

Sapnap's eyes go wide, and Wilbur knows he's struck the jackpot. He lets his lips part to reveal bared teeth, jagged and glinting in the light. "I'm sorry, did that hit a nerve?"

The kid's mouth opens- closes- emotions warring on his face, fists curling and uncurling at his sides, lip trembling. "We- we had to-" his hands come to his face, palms digging into his eyes, and while he's not looking, Wilbur draws his expression back a bit, becoming softer, more welcoming. When Sapnap looks back up, his eyes are shining, hands shaking still; he steps forward, then rocks back on his back foot like he doesn't know where to go. "What do you mean?" he throws the words like they're meant to be a threat, but by the end his voice has devolved into something high-pitched and keening, overflowing with desperate grief that Wilbur latches onto like a starving man (ha) with his last meal.

"I'm sorry, it does seem rather insensitive for me to assume," he resumes pacing around the other, voice lilting, soft, "I just mean, it seemed pretty obvious, don't you think? I don't think I've ever seen someone so skinny, really, but I guess that is what happens when you get starved,"

"Shut up-"

"Not to mention the whole panicking thing, I mean, he's like Tommy sometimes with all of the fucking shaky breathing and mumbling around like creepers, not that I'd know what all of that's about," he watches Sapnap through half-hooded eyes, darkly amused, "and pickaxes, oddly enough, but oh well. Who am I to judge?"

"Shut up-"

"And all of the scars - I thought they were from you, honestly, he told me about the whole 'taking his last life' thing, but then he jumped into lava one day - I guess there wasn't much to do in that cell, huh? He didn't even scream, it's really pretty fucking incredible - I thought I'd actually have to break him down a bit, but really, you've made my life so much easier-"

"SHUT UP-"

Wilbur watches with a too-wide grin as Sapnap finally, finally charges, a netherite sword appearing in his hand as he races blindly ahead, tears shining on his cheeks, his words more pain than thought as he brings the blade down-

A blur of purple, the sound of crumbling netherrack and metal meeting metal, flesh hitting flesh - Wilbur moves smoothly out of the way as Sapnap crashes to the ground, an armored figure bearing down an axe against the shield he's raised between them.

Dream, hair tangled and long, wearing armor that is far too heavy for his skinny frame, every inch of him shaking in panic, should hardly be a threat - but this is Sapnap, weakened by Wilbur's sharp words and crippled by the shock of seeing his former best friend's face again, eyes still unfocused from the rage and tears that had clouded over them moments before, so he can do little but raise his shield as the netherite slams into it, again and again. Not a word falls from Dream's lips, but he brings down the weapon at a ruthless pace - ever since he's been free, his attack style has changed greatly from the defensive style he used to favor, even to Wilbur's untrained eye - there's no skill, no art to the way he attacks anymore, just the fearful ferocity of a dog trapped in a cage for far, far too long.

He finally kicks Sapnap down the netherrack cliff that they're on, the other man left to nurse his wounds below them - Wilbur doesn't bother sparing him another thought; Dream's far too weak to cause any permanent damage. Instead, he approaches his partner, weapon, with a smile, watching, satisfied, when he whirls around with a manic expression.

"I'm alright, see?" he croons as Dream's shoulders move up and down with his heaving breaths, eyes fever-bright, teeth bared. He brings a hand down on the other's shoulder and watches as he flinches at the movement, breath hitching, every muscle freezing, knuckles pale on the handle of his axe, before moving again, stumbling forwards, hands reaching for Wilbur's head and stopping halfway. Wilbur tips his head forward, lets the shorter brush his face with trembling fingers, checking his unmarred skin for blood through the purpling bruises already forming on his cheek, and thinks how powerful he is to have a god at his beck and call, a perfect attack dog brought to heel, death itself obediently at his side.

Dream hasn't been the same since he escaped prison, and as Wilbur runs his hand up and down his back, feeling the way his spine arches at the touch, at the fluttering pulse under the skin-and-bone wrist under his fingers, he thinks how fortunate he is to be the first to notice.

[dilly-oh]

Trashy Romance Novel

    “Naruto, you frigging idiot,” Iruka began hotly, barging into the hospital room, “of all the stupid, brainless things you could have done, this is by far the-”

    He stopped. 

    The person lying in the small bed was definitely not Naruto. It was a grown-ass man with messy gray hair and a faded scar over one eye, the sterile white sheets pulled up over his nose, apparently sound asleep. Iruka stared at him for a long moment, dumbfounded, before it clicked. 

    Oh shit, he thought. This is the wrong room. I'm in the wrong room. I need to hurry up and leave before- 

    The stranger's eyes cracked open and he squinted up at Iruka in confusion.

    “...Who're you?” he croaked out. Iruka managed a rather articulate gurgle of dismay, frozen in sheer mortification. He considered the distance between him and the IV drip, wondering if he could dose the man back to unconsciousness before he could scream or buzz for a nurse. “Are those for me?” the man asked, sitting up in bed to regard the bouquet of flowers in Iruka's arms. He opened his mouth to disagree, but then the sheet slipped off the man's face, and Iruka suddenly thought giving him the flowers might not be such a bad idea. He definitely deserved a thank you after gifting him with...that. He didn't even protest as the alarmingly handsome stranger reached out and took the bundle of flowers, opening the card on top. 

    “You're a dumbass. Love, Iruka.” he read aloud, then looked up at Iruka, batting his eyes. “Aww, babe, you shouldn't have.”

    “Whoa whoa WHOA!” Iruka finally blurted out, his face burning half from embarrassment at the situation, half from the thinly-veiled flirting. “I'm sorry, sir, there's been a mistake. I'm in the wrong room and-”

    “You mean you aren't my doting husband I tragically forgot about due to amnesia and now you have to win back my love by passionately recreating the story of our romantic union?”

    “Excuse me, WHAT-”

    “Sorry, I've been reading trashy romance novels. They're the only books this hospital has. Can't blame me for trying.” The man shrugged, then reluctantly handed back the bouquet. “Who's the lucky person they're actually for? Must be someone real special if you're calling them a dumbass to their face.”

    “My kid brother,” Iruka explained with a sigh. “He's here with a head injury.”

    “Ouch.” The man winced in sympathy. “Poor kid.”

    “Not really. He head-butted a brick wall.” 

    “...May I ask why?”

    “Because his stupid boyfriend walked into it and he had to, and I quote, 'defend his honor'.” Iruka paused, looking the man up and down. Despite being a bit on the pale side, he looked perfectly fine, pun very much intended. It was almost unfair how well he pulled off the hospital gown (although Iruka would much rather be the one pulling it off, wink wink, nudge nudge). “So...what're you in for?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Was...was it the crappy romance novels? Did they rot your brain?”

    “I have an extremely rare, aggressive form of cancer with only two weeks left to live and the only cure is a kiss from my one true love...” The man swooned back onto the pillow and looked expectantly up at Iruka, who rolled his eyes. 

    “Yeah they definitely did-”

    “Alright you got me. Broke my leg.” He pulled the sheet off his lower half, revealing his legs, one of which was wrapped in a cast, propped up on some pillows. Several encouraging words from friends were scrawled on the white surface in marker, one of them a jarring green highlighter. It almost hurt Iruka's eyes to look at it. 

    “...How did you break it?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. 

    “I heroically threw myself in front of a speeding car in order to save the life of my beloved-” 

    “Okay how did you really break it?”

    “Tripped chasing after my pug at the park,” the man admitted with a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 

    “...Is the dog okay?” Iruka asked after a long pause.

    The stranger burst out laughing. It was a nice laugh, warm and contagious enough to elicit a chuckle out of Iruka, who was growing more and more intrigued. He couldn't deny the spark of attraction he felt for the other man, spontaneous as it was, and it seemed to be reciprocated. He didn't even know his name, but something about the man made Iruka want to know more about him. Maybe this was like some trashy romance novel, where the two would-be lovers met under unusual circumstances and fell instantly in-

    “Hey, Kakashi,” a man with short brown hair said, suddenly walking into the room, “I brought the next three volumes of your shitty porn series from the hospital library and a couple pairs of clean underwear, so you can stop fucking texting me the specific style and brand you want from home, you're so damn picky-” He stopped dead as he caught sight of Iruka, pausing for a beat, then glanced at the man in the bed, his eyes darting nervously between the two. “Umm...am I...interrupting something?”

    A cold pit of ice yawned open in Iruka's stomach. 

    Oh my GOD. Here he was, borderline flirting with some stranger in a random hospital room, when obviously the man already had a boyfriend and Iruka was just making a complete ass of himself. The flirting had probably been misinterpretation on his part anyway, and if not, the guy was a total dick. Either way, enough was enough. His face aflame with rage and shame, Iruka spun towards the door. 

    “I need to go.”

    “Hey, wait!” Kakashi or whatever his name was called after him. 

    Iruka was already out the door, ignoring the man's cries. Screw him, and screw Naruto, too. He was the cause of this whole mess. Iruka would just text him later. He was probably making out with Sasuke anyway and wouldn't even notice his brother hadn't popped in to visit. Iruka needed out of this hospital NOW. He turned towards the stairs, immediately got lost, and spent the next five minutes growing increasingly flustered as he stormed through the winding hallways, desperately searching for the exit. Why the fuck was the hospital so damn BIG-

    “Hey! Iruka! Hold up!”

    Iruka spun around to see Kakashi speeding towards him in a wheelchair, his boyfriend dutifully pushing him down the hallway at a dead run, IV dangling after him on its cord like a faithful dog. The wheelchair stopped with an audible squeal in front of him.

    “What- where did- did you steal that?!” Iruka hissed in outrage. 

    “Of course not, don't be silly,” Kakashi protested, sounding offended. “The guy it belongs to was asleep in his bed. I'm just borrowing it. I'll return it later. Anyway, Iruka-”

    “Were you flirting with me in there?” Iruka demanded, cutting him off. “Be honest.”

    “Abso-fucking-lutely,” Kakashi said without an ounce of remorse. “So can I have your number or what?” Iruka bristled. 

    “You're a piece of shit! I can't believe you, hitting on me like this right in front of your boyfriend! You have some nerve-”

    “Wait...boyfriend?” Kakashi cocked his head in confusion. “You mean Yams?”

    “The fuck do YAMS have to do with anything-”

    “Hi, that's me,” the short-haired man said, raising a hand. “Yamato, actually. 'Yams' to my friends. Which is what we are. Just...friends.” Iruka scowled at him suspiciously. 

    “Friends? Don't fuck with me. You brought him underwear-”

    “Really close friends,” Yamato reiterated. “Also, roommates. It's awful. I can't get away from him.” Iruka studied him for a moment, but couldn't spot any hint of deception. The man's almond-shaped eyes were surprisingly honest.

    “So you two...aren't dating?” he asked hesitantly. Yamato gave him a horrified look.

    “Dear God, NO. Kakashi is the WORST. He's lazy as hell, procrastinates til the last minute, is perpetually late to everything-”

    “You are a shit wingman-” Kakashi began. 

    “He needs to know what he's getting into,” Yamato snapped at him, then turned back to Iruka. “Seriously, though. You should run while you still can. There's hope for you.”

    “Don't listen to him,” Kakashi cut in. “I'm a fucking catch. Which is exactly why you should let your flaxen hair down, rip your shirt open to reveal your heaving bosom, and throw yourself into my arms-”

    “Will you cut that out?!” Iruka burst out impatiently. “Life is not a trashy romance novel.”

    “You sure about that?” Kakashi said, quirking an eyebrow. “Because I met you in a hospital through total coincidence. After really hitting it off, we had a misunderstanding brought on by miscommunication. Then I chased after you in a fucking wheelchair to declare my undying attraction to you. If that isn't a plot to a trashy romance novel, I don't know what the fuck is. At least it's not raining right now.”

    “I dunno, it might be drizzling,” Yamato said, glancing at a window.

    Iruka paused, considering.

    “I guess it...would make a pretty good book,” he admitted quietly. “The only thing is...I'm not sure what happens next.”

    “That part's for us to write,” Kakashi said, his tone eager. “Only we can complete the story.”

    “Aaaaand I'm going to puke,” Yamato stated. 

    “Sorry, we crossed the line from 'trashy' into 'sappy'.” Kakashi shook his head. “Anyway. Iruka. Please, I'm begging you. Let me sweep you off your feet. Just...give me a chance.”

    “I'll do you one better,” Iruka said after a pause. “I'll give you my number.” Stealing a marker from the nearby nurse's station, he bent and wrote his cell number on Kakashi's cast, then straightened and held out the bouquet. “Here, you can have these. The message works for you too, I guess.”

    Kakashi accepted the flowers with a laugh, taking an appreciative sniff. 

    “And now, I shall ride dramatically off into the sunset,” he said with complete seriousness. “Come, my valiant steed. Awaaaay!”

    “I will push you down the stairs,” Yamato grumbled as he spun the wheelchair around and started back down the hallway. Iruka watched them go with a fond smile on his face, giddy with anticipation. 

    He was eager to read the next few chapters in his life.

    Including the steamy bits. 

(Written for @kakairu-fest KakaIru Month 2021, Day Twelve Prompt: Hospitals)

[a-queer-seminarian]

So sorry if this is breaking news to anyone, but: the Bible is ableist. Its pages hold some really shitty stuff about disabled persons.

...AND it’s also affirming of the goodness and wholeness of disabled persons, just as we are!

it turns out that among the many authors of the many texts collected into the Bible, there were differing views around what we now call disability!

so whenever disability comes up in a given passage, i can’t keep my brain from immediately trying to sort it: is it a Good Text for disabled persons, or a Bad Text?

i try to resist that easy binary, because the answer is usually somewhere in between. that certainly seems to be the case for this week’s lectionary reading from Mark 9.

there’s so much wild stuff in Jesus’s little monologue in this lectionary passage, but let’s start with verses 43-47 (my rough translation incoming):

If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it all the way off; it is better for you to enter into The Life impaired than, while having two hands, to go away into the gehenna, into the unquenchable fire.

And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it all the way off! It is better for you to enter into The Life limping than, while having two feet, be cast into the gehenna.

And if your eye should cause you to stumble, cast it out; it is better for you to enter into the Kingdom of God one-eyed than, while having two eyes, be cast into the gehenna, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. For everyone will be salted with fire.

oh lord, not the hell talk!! anything but hell talk!! this whole passage bristles with a million ways to misuse it. (homophobia cw: anyone else ever get told “if your sexuality causes you to sin, cut it off — this passage is proof gay people should be celibate!” just me?)

now, my focus is on what Jesus says here about disability, but as we talk about that, better ways of reading the text will come up. for instance, that last verse about how everyone will be salted with fire? to me, that suggests Jesus’ vision of this “gehenna” place does NOT = the standard Christian idea of hell. first off, it’s a place not of punishment, but purification — which is a word heavy with baggage these days...what if I say “reformation” instead? And if that’s the case, i imagine one’s stay there isn’t eternal — why bother reform people who are gonna be shut off in a fire-filled jail forever?

once those fires “purify” you, i imagine your stay is through and off you go into “The Life,” because you’ll finally be ready for it. so that’s one option for getting ready for The Life / The Kingdom of God — or, Jesus says, you can opt instead to get rid of the things that “cause you to stumble” in advance by......cutting off a limb or gouging out an eye??

now. i could be wrong but. if we start by taking this text as literally as possible, with physical stumbling and a physical limb-removal taking place......wouldn’t it be easier to avoid tripping if you’ve got two eyes to see obstacles with, two feet to step over potholes with?? even today when prosthetics are sometimes an option, there’s an adjustment period where you have to relearn walking.

so it seems that Jesus is making one of his trademark statements meant to subvert expectations -- the last will be first, the foolish are proven wise, and those with two feet are more likely to stumble. chances are, he’s not speaking literally. it’s not your literal foot or hand you should be chopping off -- it’s a metaphor for something else.

but before we consider what exactly it’s a metaphor for...where does this ironic little twist leave actually disabled persons? is it shitty of Jesus to be using disability in this way? is this like his “blind leading the blind” & “spiritually blind” comments elsewhere in the Gospels, where he stamps a disability with a moral judgement?

yeah, i do think it’s kinda crappy to use real disabilities for an object lesson, for hyperbolic effect, for shock value. “better to be impaired” (even tho, the subtext seems to be, It Sucks To Be Impaired) “than end up in Gehenna. Trade one terrible thing for a still bad but not as bad thing!” My impulse is thus to throw this passage right into the Bad Text box —except!

Except, i feel like this text holds some positive implications about how Jesus viewed disability, too. 

First off, there’s the implication that one can enter into “The Life” — abundant life, “the world to come,” God’s Kingdom — while disabled. (i wish that were just a given, but it’s not; it’s actually exciting to hear confirmed!)

In the Hebrew Bible (the “Old Testament,” the scriptures we share with our Jewish neighbors, the texts that Jesus would have read and known), the most common assumption about disability is unfortunately that disability = imperfection, and imperfection is something that should be kept out of contact with God.

Now, there are authors & stories within the Hebrew Bible that offer a counter-narrative to that assumption! Two quick examples: Exodus 4 establishes Moses as having a speech impediment, yet he has many close encounters with the Divine. Meanwhile, in Isaiah 56:1-8, God not only welcomes in eunuchs — whom Deuteronomy 23:1 forbade from entering God’s Assembly — but even gives them a place of honor there!

So Jesus’s perspective is not brand new; he simply continues the counter-narrative that other Jewish rabbis and prophets established before him. Still, it is significant that he takes the status-quo-subverting perspective that actually, disability and wholeness are not at odds!

While Jesus’s primary aim with this little passage is not about disability, his weird self-disabling metaphor does imply an attitude of welcome for disabled persons, in that he seems to take it for granted that disabled persons are not barred from The Life of wholeness and abundance he’s talking about.

It’s obvious to him that they don’t even need to be made not-disabled to get there! (Plus, there is no suggestion that once there, one regrows one’s lopped-off limbs or eye / becomes abled again.) This isn’t the only time Jesus expresses this idea of disabilities present in God’s Kingdom, either — my fave is the parable of the banquet in Luke 14 (i have a whooole video about that passage, if you’re interested).

Moreover, Jesus’s closing remarks about salt — which at first glance seem to be something of a non sequitur — can be linked to the Gehenna fire stuff when it comes to the theme of im/purity. Let’s look at that last verse of the lectionary reading, which follows right after Jesus’s claim that “everyone will be salted with fire”:

“Salt is good; but if salt becomes unsalty, with what will you season it? Hold salt in yourselves, and keep peace with one another.”

Another weird little riddle from our favorite riddle-master. unsalty salt? instructions to stay salty?

One way to read this is to focus on the purifying and preserving uses of salt — the way it can keep food from going bad, which was particularly important in a time before refrigerators. in the previous verses, Jesus told his disciples what to cut off — anything that impedes them on the way into abundant Life. Now, he tells them what to hold on to — the stuff that, like salt, clean out harmful things and preserve helpful things, thus enabling abundant Life.

So yeah. In naming something culturally considered an imperfection — disability — as something that can easily enter The Life, no problem, Jesus is making an argument for what is truly impure, what truly impedes wholeness. And it’s not disability! ...So what is it? What are these stumbling blocks that Jesus likens to feet, hands, and eyes?

To find out, we have to rewind to the start of the lectionary reading, a comment from the disciple John that actually kicks off Jesus’s whole spiel:

John informed him, “Teacher, we saw someone throwing out demons in your name, and we stopped him, because he wasn’t following our way.”

But Jesus said, “Do not ever prevent him! For there is no one who will do a powerful work in my name, and will be quickly able to speak evil of me. For whoever is not against us, is for us. Whoever might give you a cup of water to drink because you are in Christ’s name, amen I say to you, that one will not utterly lose his reward.”

The disciples have a certain way of seeing the world, and their actions against someone who is not one of them, but still using Jesus’s name to cast out demons, show us what that way is. They see the world in terms of us vs. them, in vs. out, one right way and many wrong ways. It’s this perspective that impedes them from supporting other people’s kin(g)dom-building work when it differs from their own.

But Jesus tells them they need to stop thinking this way, and start recognizing that there isn’t just one road to the Kin(g)dom, but many — and to quote Jesus’s words from other parts of scripture, you’ll know that someone’s work is good when it produces good fruit. This dude might be doing things differently from how they do it, but the fruits of his efforts are good — the casting out of demons, which frees people up for new life. So don’t stop him — support him! Be glad for his work!

To sum up the entire passage now that I’ve laid it all out and shown how the seemingly-disjointed parts of Jesus’s speech connect, I see his argument as something like this: “That dude you tried to stop is not against us; we can see that by the consequences of his actions, which are positive! His goals are the same as ours, so don’t hinder him just because his path is different from yours! Now, here’s an example of people/behaviors that ARE against us: people who cause little ones to stumble. And you know what you should do with such stumble-makers (or else the stumble-causing behaviors/attitudes)? Cut them off. Let go of anyone or anything that keeps you from abundant life, from the liberation God intends for all. Meanwhile, hold on to the things which purify you like salt — the things that liberate you to enter wholeness. Do it now of your own accord, or accept that it’ll happen later, and it won’t be very fun.”

To reiterate what all of that has to do with disability theology, I’ll share what my friend Laura said when I brought all these ideas to them. (Laura is the host of the Autistic Liberation Theology podcast, which i highly recommend for anyone who wants to hear more Bible stories told through a disability lens!)

Laura noted how common perspectives around dis/ability lead people wrong today, impeding our liberation. Our society teaches us that in order to function as whole persons, we need to be able-bodied (and neurotypical), and that the kinds of accommodations that disabled persons require limit their quality of life. When those ableist assumptions are the lens through which we view the world, that can “cause us to stumble” in the metaphorical sense — can impede us from loving ourselves and one another fully, and from fully participating in the diverse Kin(g)dom of God.

They offered two examples:

When a person with a mobility impairment that could be improved with a wheelchair avoids using that wheelchair because of internalized ableism, preferring the increased suffering that walking more than their body can healthily do over being “wheelchair bound,” that internalized ableism is a stumbling block keeping them from abundant life. Learning to let go of those beliefs, to use a wheelchair when they need to, will — contrary to that “wheelchair bound” language — bring liberation. 

Their next example imagined a parent who puts their autistic child through ABA therapy in order to get them to talk, make eye contact, and otherwise behave like a non-autistic person, due to the belief that autistic persons are missing elements of a full personhood, or that they can only live a happy life if they learn how to mask their autistic traits. However, in reality, ABA therapy brings the child pain and trauma — it impedes rather than enables their quality of life. Letting go of that need for your child to communicate through spoken language and otherwise behave like an allistic will make room for celebration of who they really are!

As Jesus’s comments in this passage imply, a disabled person can enter into “The Life” of wholeness and kinship that is the Kin(g)dom of God just as they are. To try to sever their disability from them would be the hindrance to that liberation. To deny that there are many ways to participate in the Body of Christ  impedes the incoming Kin(g)dom.

So let’s take this message to heart. Let’s consider what points of view, what assumptions about what is necessary for wholeness, are currently keeping us from abundant life, or causing us to stop others from their abundance-bringing work. It’s time to learn how to let those harmful assumptions go — and hold tight to the things that bring true wholeness.

For more on this text, check out my translation notes, which include a lot of commentary from D. Mark Davis’s own exegetical work.

For more on disability theology, you might enjoy my #disability theology tag on tumblr or my Disabled AND Blessed YouTube series. This video exploring the many different perspectives on disability found within the Bible is particularly pertinent.

Finally, what do you think? What good news do you hear in this Mark 9 text? What parts of it feel like a stumbling block for you, dredging up hurt or confusion?

[slimyficgirl]

Funny ((Elonix Reader))

You didn’t visit Metro District often, but today was a special occasion. A brand spanking new Korean BBQ had just opened up in The area, and you and your friends planned to eat and eat until you couldn’t eat anymore. So, here you were, walking through the area with a smile on your face as you tapped away at your phone, checking your GPS. You were approaching the restaurant, and as you did you noticed shrill, fangirlish screams coming from right across the street. Glancing up, you saw something surprising.  Standing across the street, surrounded by screaming fans and bodyguards, were 5 freakishly tall, robotic young men in black sailor-esque uniforms. Each had a different colored theme and all were thriving off the attention. You knew them, of course. How could you not? There was the white haired leader, Rin, the red Mohawked bad boy, Zimelu, the cool blue haired Purl-Hew, the sweet and innocent Haym, and the green funny boy, Eloni. They made up the extremely popular robot boy band, 1010, ran by their manager, a war veteran called Neon J. You would call yourself a fan, sure, but not a big one. That being said, you’d tell anyone who asked that your favorite member was Eloni, which usually surprised people. The poor guy wasn’t that popular, but you? You loved funny guys.  Still, no way in hell were you a big enough fan to care much for the apparent meet and greet going on right now, and especially not enough to spend that sort of money just to get a ticket. Your 200 buckeroos was going to the best meal you’d have all year. Good trumps pretty robo boys, hands down.  And yet, you found your gaze lingering on the tall men. Which they noticed, each pausing from their smiles and waves to strike a pose and give you a flirtatious wink. You felt your face start to burn and you tried awkwardly to laugh it off. They were just..programmed to be like that, so you really shouldn’t think much of it. Then Eloni, the absolute mad lad, DABBED at you. Unable to stop yourself, a loud laugh wheezed out of you and, unknown to you, the green haired boy froze and glanced at you again, his already flowing cheeks beginning to glow brighter as your laughter continued. Zimelu noticed this too and snickered, gently elbowing his brother in the side, which Eloni swatted away with a flustered face. Your phone binged and grabbed your attention though, and you pulled it out of your pocket. Your friends would be there in a few minutes, thank god. 

Y/N DEMANDS FOOD IN THE MOUTH HOLE!  With nothing else to do, you just..standing there, fiddling on your phone as you waited. It was strange to see someone from Cast Tech district over here, so Neon J had to wondered if you were here for the meet up. So..he called out to you, “Excuse me, Soldier! At you here for the meet and greet?” His voice caught you off guard and you fumbled with your phone, barely able to keep from dropping it. You looked up at him with a startled expression, eyes wide. The boys were signing autographs now, but were glancing at you expectantly, especially Eloni.  He’d...really liked your laugh..  “I-I, uh, no! I’m just waiting to eat with some friends! Thank you though for checking!” You replied, embarrassed at the strained sound to your voice. This was just...incredibly awkward. They all seemed surprised and you shifted uncomfortably under their gazes, only relaxing when the deep voice of your friend Mel filled the air.  “Hands, touching hands,  reaching out, touching me,  TOUCHING YOU! SWEET CAROLINE!”  As if filled with some primal instinct long forgotten in the human race, you let out a loud, “ BAH BAH BAH!” Which told your friends that you were nearby, causing them to laugh. Eloni laughed too. Hard. Neon J looked between his least popular-among the fans-son and you, a thought forming in his screen of a head. As this went on, a group of girls who had gotten their autographs and photos broke from the group, heading towards the BBQ. They bump past you and snicker before pausing to hold the door open as your friends Mel, Lee, and Sunny finally join you outside the restaurant. 

"Losers first~“

What...sort of power play was this? What did they expect to gain from it. Your back was turned to the boy band but the bristling you felt from their direction told you they didn’t much appreciate their fans’ rude attitudes. You glanced at Mel, who just shrugged, bowed, and held out a hand. “M’friend.” You snorted a laugh and took his hand, “Thank you, My good sir~”

And then the two of you just waltzed inside. Literally. You waltzed.

While the fans watched with confused, judging expressions, Eloni could be heard just WHEEZING with laughter. Neon J stared at his robot son with a tilted head. This event had turned out to be more interesting than he’d expected.

After you ate yourself nearly sick, not regretting a damn second of it by the way, you left with your three friends. Each of you walked sluggishly, a food coma most definitely in your futures as you left the BBQ. Outside, the meet and greet was just starting to wrap up, and Neon J, who had been waiting for you to leave, motioned to Eloni once you had. With a slight grin, his cheeks glowing brighter yet again, the giant robot strode over until he was towering before you, fidgeting slightly. You craned your neck up at him, eyes wide. What..was going on? Eloni glanced over at the other members of 1010, who gave him an encouraging salute, which you didn’t even know was a thing. Taking a deep breath, Eloni spun in a circle and struck a pose as you watched in a mixture of awe and anxiety.

“Baby, you outshine everything around you.”

You froze, the only noice managing to come out of you was a whispered ‘HHHHH’ while your friends stifled their laughter behind you. What was going on??? Okay, sure, you...maybe..sort of...kind of...imagined something like this happening before, but you never had BBQ sauce on your face then, and you’d never thought it would actually happen! Eloni was looking to you for a response, and you quickly glanced away, using your sleeve to wipe the remaining sauce off your mouth. “I...thank...yoooou?” “I’m Eloni. What’s your name, beautiful?”

HHHHHHHHHHHH.

”I...I know, I...” How do words? What is talking? You were definitely malfunctioning and Sunny could practically see the internet explorer loading spinner over your said, so she gave you a gentle nudge. “I-I mean, I know! You’re kind of my favorite member of Ten Ten! I’m Y/N....h-hi.” As you spoke, the unsure smile on his face grew until he was practically beaming down at you. “I am?” Oh god, he was so excited. That was so cute...”Y-Yeah.” You’d even tried writing him fan mail before, but..you were so awkward, and it always sounded awful when you read it back to yourself, so the letters always sound up getting burned instead of mailed. Eloni crouched down slightly so he was more to your level, “Then would you like to take a photo?”

A photo with your favorite celebrity? And it was FREE? No way were you turning that down!

Your own sheepish grin forming, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and Eloni plucked it from your hands. With his free hand, he held your waist and pulled you closer, so your cheeks pressed together while he took the photo. He was really warm, which made sense because...robot.

Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out. Fainting during a time like this is SO not cool!

Grinning, he let you go, messed with your phone, and then handed it back to you with a wink. “Thanks for the honor, baby. I hope you grace me with your presence again soon~” HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. You could only manage to nod before he walked away, you

face feeling like it was on fire. The boy band packed up their things, climbed into their limo, and drove off. You just stood there, your brain fried as Sunny glanced over your shoulder at your phone.

“Hey, so, he just gave you his phone number.”

[funkzpiel]

Today on this episode of "I promise I didn't disappear off the face of the earth I've just been busy and totally lacking creative energy (or brain cells, for that matter) it's terrible, but hello, I did a thing" - I present this:

The Little Deaths of the Pining Flowers

For the Hades Big Bang, in collaboration with kowaiyoukai (their beautiful illustration featured here).

Fandom: Hades Game Pairing: Zagreus/Thanatos Featuring: Pining, Off-Brand Hanahaki Summary: “Does it ever get easier?” Thanatos finally asked one day.

“No,” Achilles said, the gentle hush of his words like the breath of the breeze through meadow reeds, “But it does get easier to hide.”

Death cannot die. No blade can pierce him, no hand strong enough to steal a final breath from the powerful column of his throat, no disease potent enough to mar his flesh. Death, like Time, was fathomless and unending. So long as there was Life, there was Time to observe it and Death to spirit it away.

And so long as there was love, there was pining – and all of its little maladies that follow. Death knew of them, these maladies, these “little deaths” that come before the final breath. Some fleeting, some spanning decades. The gods, in all their brilliance, creativity and cruelty, created love. Love, the painful precipice between life and death. Knit tightly between the two so that from the depths of it might bloom a beautiful, wretched thing: pining flowers . Life sprung from the ashes of despair, fertilized in love and hope unrequited. In doing so, pain became love and love became pain, death and life a reflection of one another more intimate than the eternal dance of the sun and moon itself.

Thanatos had watched these slow, curdling little deaths before. Had watched them ferment into heavy, cloying things that stole the breath from mortals’ chests. Flowers making beautiful wreaths of their lungs, thick with life borne from a love so fierce it could suffocate. Thanatos had watched men and women alike grow frail with it, their bodies made into gardens as they coughed fragile bulbs and blooms from their lips. Thorns were always the worst: roses and the like. Lips turned red, and yet these mortals who simply loved and feared too much could not find it in themselves to cure their aching chests. Could not simply let go of that impossible love – or confess it – to end that prickling, weed-like pain.

He had heard, once, that the gods could fester such illnesses; though flowers could not create homes of their flesh as they did in mortals. Rather they instead bloomed from the excess of the wealth of their power made unstable by their want. Made helpless to the source of their own gifts. But Thanatos had never seen such a thing. Thanatos had never understood. Not until Zagreus left without so much as a word of warning. All at once, it was like the Underworld had been snuffed of some great light. There was no sun beneath the surface of the earth, and yet the darkness and chill felt suddenly so much sharper, keener, without the warmth of Zagreus’ smile. Everything darker, every mercy suddenly harder to reach for, every hope dashed across the rocks like the surf wrecking a ship to ruins against the coast.

Zagreus was gone. His home, his family, his friends – Thanatos – none of it had been enough to keep him here. Thanatos had not been enough.

When the next death bell tolled, Thanatos did something he never did: he hesitated. Struck suddenly frozen by the realization. He had not been enough. Of course, he hadn’t. Zagreus was born of the Underworld, but he was also born of the surface – of life and blood and all things that breathed . Of course, death and darkness had not been enough.

Of course, Thanatos had not been enough.

He slipped from the Underworld to collect the soul the death bells tolled for and as he did, he felt something slip deep into his chest. Some foreign, alien thing; so unfamiliar as to be written away as imagination. Like a seed splitting the soil and roosting beneath.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Thanatos did not know what was worse - trying to cast Zagreus from his mind, or being constantly reminded of the man every time the death bells tolled for him. For every toll, whether Thanatos went to him or not, was another failed escape attempt and the beginning of yet another. He knew Zagrues must think his plight for the surface cursed - it was he after all who kept experiencing the relentless grip of the river Styx - but it was Thanatos who felt truly cursed. For every escape attempt was another reminder that Zagrues desperately wished to be free of them: his home, his family, Thanatos.

But the bells tolled and tolled, singing a symphony that drew Thanatos a little nearer and a little nearer each time. Like the moon, he found himself in Zagreus’ orbit - at first not at all, then from a distance, and finally passing him by, feeling the warmth of Zagreus’ being shining upon him, lighting him up. Even now, lighting him up.

He watched from the edge of the clearing as Zagreus dodged the molten depths of Asphodel, his weapon of choice - this time Varatha no doubt to spite his father - cleaving through the various shades hellbent on keeping him here per Hades’ bidding. The prince was tired. Not yet strong enough to survive his fight with Megara and continue on at full strength. But it would come, Thanatos suddenly realized with the same casual understanding of fact as one might recognize that the lava around them was hot .

But he would not survive this run much longer. And unassisted, he might not even survive this chamber. With a weight growing in his chest, Thanatos realized he might witness Zagreus’ fall for himself this time. Not second hand through rumor or one of his brother’s reports or the tolling of the bells, but first hand with his own eyes.

Thanatos couldn’t have said what made him step forward to help - not because he didn’t know, but because he couldn’t admit it. He blocked all thought out, pursuing just one goal: I can’t watch Zag die...

All he knew was that when the death bells tolled his reveal from the shadows of death into the realm of awareness in which all could now see him, the sound caught Zagreus’ attention and time stopped for just a moment - giving Thanatos the luxury and agony of seeing first the surprise on the prince’s face, then the relief that followed. Relief, as though Zagreus had been waiting at some fathomless horizon for centuries, simply hoping for Thanatos to rise above its edge and greet him.

“Zag,” he growled - voice rough around a strange feeling in his throat. He couldn’t find it in himself to dig for any other words. He barely pried the man’s name out as it was. It was easy to hide that fact between a cleaving swing of his scythe, cutting the battlefield down into a group of straggling shades that were much more manageable between the two of them.

“Than,” Zagreus wheezed, the name cut short beneath another shade’s attack.

Zagreus sounded bad. Even with Thanatos’ help, this particular escape might not last much longer, Thanatos mused. He could hear the man’s breath. A thready, wheezing thing that slowly but surely worsened. Loud, almost in Thanatos’ ears, in his very chest and he could not take it. Not here. Not from Zagreus, who would have been safe and whole if he had simply stayed home. He ground his teeth, cleaving shades with a growing eracticism unbefitting of the quick, efficient stroke of Death. Felt every swing release a little of that anger and confusion into the depths of Asphodel and the flesh of its shades.

His gaze tore to Zagreus as the last shade fell, the fire-tongued soles of his feet simmering against the punishing stone floor of Asphodel as he leaned against his spear like a crutch and caught his breath. Those feet duller than they should have been. In that moment, Thanatos felt an urge to follow Zagreus to the end. If he saw the surface, would it slake his thirst of the unknown enough to satisfy him? To draw him back? It was a weak thought, one that made Thanatos bristle madly at himself. It was becoming increasingly obvious it had been a mistake to draw this near to Zagreus. Death was obviously not as strong - or as unbiased - as he thought he was.

Zagreus had just managed to turn to Thanatos with a smile and a thank you when that expression fell - like sunlight disappearing beneath a cloud - for Thanatos was gone, a bell moaning in his absence, and in his place: a centaur heart.

“Oh Than…” Zagreus murmured softly, eyes locked upon the heart.

Alone, Zagreus hobbled his way to the heart, stopping short of grabbing it when he saw something strange on the ground beneath its floating weight. Here - in the fiery grip of Asphodel - a single petal simmered on the ground, curling fraily against the heated stone. The prince grabbed it with shaking fingers, thumb brushing over petal’s delicate length. Red as blood, thin and reaching. Soft as velvet and utterly lost here in this world of fire and death.

How in the world had anything grown here, Zagreus wondered, as he slipped it into his tunic above his heart, red like his eye and his feet and so much of his namesake. Flush against his skin, as though it had belonged there all along.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Persephone walked amidst her garden as she often did, greeting the great flush of her gift upon the soil with gentle hands and a smiling heart. At her touch the foliage seemed to bloom all the brighter. As she neared, it appeared to lean toward her like a flower reaching for the sun, following it’s daily axis.

Everything was much the same. The trees, the bushes, the crops, the flowers. Everything, she realized, but one. A new bloom, there much without her design or intention. Slender stalks rising up from the ivy and shade of a nearby willow, unfurling into magnificent red tongues and curling petals.

“My, my, what have we here?” She mused, tender and kind as she greeted this new bloom, just as she would have an old and familiar friend.

A spider lily, she realized with raised brows. Here, in her garden. Slim fingers stroked the nearby bloom - only a few and yet startling all the same. She had not planted these. Had it been her heart that drew these lovely blooms? Her unrequited regrets beneath the simmering hurt of her past? The red spider lily - the final goodbye. A blossom said to guide the dead. No, this wasn’t hers. It had been too long, the scar of that time too old, for it to have suddenly appeared by her doing.

Strange, to say hello to the final goodbye here amongst her carefully tended garden. She watched it shiver in the spring breeze, frail somehow in its little wind-drawn dance. With a frown, she felt something heavy stir within her heart. A longing and a worry.

Somewhere, she realized, someone was mourning. She watched a petal drift upon the wind and disappear. She wondered who the goodbye was for or if, like many things, it was even a goodbye at all…

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The first full blossom that appeared grew in the hair of a young man’s corpse. It had not been there when he arrived. It had not been placed by the loving hands of family or kin. It had not been until he reached for their soul that it grew, crimson petals splaying out like a corona - thick and full. There, among death and the dying, Life grew as Life often did: against all odds, rebellious and unapologetic.

He wondered if this human had been watched or favored by some god or goddess. It was easy enough, back then, to think nothing of it.

Easy to miss that it had not grown until he had thought - quite by accident - how similar the man’s hair had been to the prince’s.

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Death’s chamber - moreso a place of enforced rest rather than necessary rest - was a cool, dark place carved out of the fabric of reality. A place made for him by the Night herself, speckled with twinkling starlight and furnished with all the trappings of comfort any entity might desire. It was not, however, a place of light or Life. There was no facsimile of sun, no warmth. It was a reflection of his very identity, and therefore the opposite of Life; and yet when he opened his eyes after a short, restive doze, it was to petals on his pillow. Not just petals individually, but a blossom. Stalkless, and yet full and lush. Large enough to fill his palm with curling petals, reaching like red tongues from its core. Death blinked and rose upright, staring down at the bloom.

The same bloom that had wreathed that corpse.

What might have been the favor of a god upon that human felt decidedly less possible now. Had it been a trick from Hypnos? From some other shade or god or goddess? But from the bloom, he could sense himself . As though it were a part of him as much as his room was a reflection of himself.

Which just… couldn’t be.

Death could not make Life .

He brushed the flower away with a faint, confused frown, only to turn to rise from his chaise and find more blooms. One atop a nearby book. Another on the floor, in a blanket, on the rug, beside a goblet. Flowers. Life. All grown here in the dark grip of Death.

This, he finally accepted, was a problem.

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It was definitely a problem.

Death did not know who’s idea of a sick joke this was, but he found the flowers blooming positively everywhere now - slight at first, but growing. It had begun as something almost ignorable. A blossom tucked in the crag of a stony wall. Red petals peeking out from the centerpiece of a table. Once, appearing what would have been a shade’s hair, were they alive.

But now they trailed him in obvious patches, suddenly crowning the heads of nearby shades and growing atop the slender rails of passing balconies. No one suspected him. It was a miracle, but it was hard to assume Death had any hand in Life. Yet still, the sudden growth of spider lilies among the courts of the dead was on everyone’s lips. Where were they coming from? Why had they appeared?

Was Persephone somehow responsible? How could she not be? Yet… she was not here.

It made the Lord of the Underworld more brittle and eruptious than before, a feat no one truly thought possible. It fostered an even greater divide between father and son as well, for the more the court wondered about how the flowers might be tied to Persephone, the more Zagreus asked after her. And the more he asked, the more the prince realized he needed to leave if he was ever to get answers.

The more he tried - and died - in the pursuit of being anywhere but among the dead, the more the flowers grew.

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Even knowing that every attempt took Zagreus further from him, Thanatos found he could not stop thinking of it - the attempts, Zagreus’ failures, the repeated destruction of his- His prince. That was a safe term, yes. His prince.

He laid awake in his rooms, crimson flowers rising like the depths of the river taking Zagreus all too often, and found he could not spare his mind of thinking of him. Zagreus bleeding, pale flesh bruised like soft fruit, yet so determined to be gone.

Just because he was no longer part of the equation of his prince’s happiness, could he truly continue to just watch this happen? Or perhaps true devotion, true service, was assisting even when it reduced his existence in the man’s life to irrelevance.

He’d help, he decided, because Zagreus was his prince, and Death was nothing if not faithful and reliable. No sooner had he decided it, a blossom appeared over his heart. Large and heavy, every petal weighted like stone, driving the breath from his lungs.

Yet he didn’t have the heart to move it.

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The prince of the Underworld was special in many ways, no one could argue that except, perhaps, his father. And one such way was that when the bell of death tolled for Zagreus, it was rarely with the intention of taking him away. Thanatos arrived, his motives hidden beneath a well placed challenge of who can kill more shades here in the depths of Asphodel?

A game, just a game. No one could get hurt, if it was just a game. And goodbye would not hurt so much, if it was on Thanatos’ terms… Or so he hoped.

Death’s blade swung, cleaving shades in two. Souls upon souls, ushered back into the depths by his hands, just to spare one man the journey home. It was illogical. It went against his lord’s wishes. And yet, Thanatos knew there was no other option, not for him.

He could not be an instrument in caging Zagreus if it meant having him near would only make him unhappy. He cleaved men from their families, wives from their children, mortals from dreams left unspent and unfulfilled. Here, he had a choice.

Now, he wanted to see someone grow.

“That was something, Than,” Zagreus said as the last shade fell, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of a one bloody hand - making the mess on his face worse. Yet it did nothing to diminish the sheer Life of his smile as he turned to him. That smile - so full and unapologetic - was like the sun turning its face upon Thanatos, reaching his skin in a way it never had topside. Warm, making his belly flutter. Foolish and childish, he scolded himself. Made worse when that smile suddenly faded before Thanatos could answer and Zagreus said with a soft, perplexed frown, “What’s that?”

He followed the gaze of his prince to the ground at his feet - or rather below his feet - and there mere inches beneath the floating drape of his toes, a bed of flowers began to bloom. Spears of grass rising and charring in tandem to the merciless heat of Asphodel, and yet the flowers heartily remained untouched among the thicket of rising and dying green. Bloody red flowers, reaching up - not to Thanatos , but to Zagreus - as though he were the sun.

Lost in his grasping for explanations he simply didn’t have, all Thanatos could do was quickly retreat a few floating steps when Zagreus suddenly started forward and, using his blade as to help himself down with a grown, knelt to observe them better. He had one thick, tanned finger delicately beneath one of the lilies reaching tongues as his brows raised and he mused, “I’ve seen these around my father’s court but I didn’t ever imagine I’d see them out here . What could they possibly be?”

But when he looked up, Thanatos was gone. Gone, leaving nothing but a sudden crown of blooms in Zagreus’ hair to remember him by. Gone, because that touch - so delicate and gentle beneath the petals’ reach - had felt as though Zagreus had touched him.

And it hurt down to Thanatos’ very bones, stealing the very breath from his lungs, to know it was a touch he’d never feel for himself. Not when Zagreus wanted nothing more than to leave.

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It got worse. Much worse. He stopped visiting his brother after Hypnos once woke - bewildered - in practically a carpet of red blooms, right in plain sight of their lord. He made his reports as brief and efficient as possible after he once saw Zagreus dash by during one of them and the feeling that had arisen in his breast at the sight of him caused Cerberus - right at Hades’ side - to suddenly tilt each massive head as all three were suddenly crowned in thick, growing lilies. Hades had erupted, his gaze cast upon the shades, looking for a culprit. It was luck alone, or perhaps the heat of the god’s rage, that prevented those blooms from growing on him as well. But Achilles had seen.

With eyes so old, and so lonely, he had seen.

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“If I may be so bold, Master Death, I am here if ever you need a sympathetic ear,” Achilles once said, somehow managing to sneak up on him at his balcony. By the skin of his teeth, Thanatos managed not to startle visibly. But he could not hide the spider lily that was in his hands, the very cause that had left him so lost in thought as he had braced himself over the balcony that hung above the river - waiting, though he refused to admit it, for Zagreus’ return.

“There is nothing to be sympathetic for,” Thanatos forced himself to say simply, turning back to the river.

“There is always something to be sympathetic for,” Achilles had said in that soft way he said most things - so soft in death for a man so coated in blood in life - and came beside Thanatos to deposit something on the rail before he left with a gentle, “The offer stands, when you’re ready.”

Thanatos waited until the warrior’s quiet footsteps receded before he looked. There, upon the glittering marble of the balcony, was a tiny flower. Purple and plain, easy to hide.

A forget-me-not.

“Does it ever get easier?” Thanatos finally asked one day.

“No,” Achilles said, the gentle hush of his words like the breath of the breeze through meadow reeds, “But it does get easier to hide.”

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“Than, wait!”

The pleading urgency in those words were the only thing that stayed Thanatos’ retreat. More and more, Thanatos realized he could deny the prince nothing. His only hope was to remove himself before Zagreus could ask anything of him. Today, he failed.

He turned only so much as to peek at Zagreus from over one cloaked shoulder, waiting. It was much as he could offer without that telling pang marching through his heart and wreathing them all in flowers. But he was learning, at least, thanks to Achilles.

“Yes, Zag?”

“I… I know there’s a lot unsaid between us. A lot to make up for. I… I know,” Zagreus said, elegant, and yet stammering. Endearing in that earnest way of his, so much so that Thanatos could not prevent the single bloom of red that began to grow in a nearby crack in Elysium’s walls, hidden in plain sight by the moss and tiny fragile flowers already native to the place.

Zagreus’ words slipped to silence, broken only by the sound of glass settling gently atop a nearby grassy, broken pillar. Thanatos turned slowly to regard it. A bulbous bottle, bottom heavy and filled with glittering amber liquid: Nectar. His gaze turned from the bottle to Zagreus, a frown so easily slipping onto his face to hide behind as he said, “Really, Zagreus? Nectar? As though that suddenly fixes all that lies between us? This is, what… a parting gift? The goodbye you never bothered to give me?”

His scorn made Zagreus wilt - the soft sunshine of his demeanor fading as though behind thick clouds. In the craggy wall, the spider lily wilted somewhat, shivering delicately.

“No, of course not. I simply found this and thought of you. Think nothing of it,” Zagreus said, his tone carefully masked and distant now. Further from him, just as Thanatos had planned, and yet this climb to their eventual final goodbye felt hollow, forced. Forced, because Thanatos had forced it.

“I never do,” he said, the death bells tolling his retreat as the flowers he left behind - spotting the walls of that chamber Zagreus lingered in - mournfully wilted around him.

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“You are hurting, my son.”

Nyx’s voice was always a balm to him. Gentle and cool, like twinkling starlight. Not too harsh, not too loud, as living things were. Cold and distant, like himself, because he had been carved from her.

“I am fine,” he longed to say - but when had he ever been able to lie to her. But he couldn’t admit it, either. He merely looked away, hiding his grief behind sideways looks and long lashes. She reached for him. Her hands chill and welcome against the stony arch of his jaw and cheeks. Nyx’s thumb ran a smooth line over his cheeks, her face still and poignant, but her eyes telling.

“Just because you are Death, does not mean you cannot host Life within your heart, dear one. None of us are spared from feeling. It is perhaps the strongest force on this world - the bit of Life that nothing can wring out.”

“I do not wish to feel it, when it changes nothing,” Thanatos croaked, furious as his lashes grew misty without his consent. He had accepted what was to come, damn it, so why did the grief still feel so smothering?

“Grief changes nothing,” Nyx nodded solemnly, “But… It lets us know that if something can be changed, it is worth trying to change it.”

Thanatos leaned his jaw into the cup of her hands with a conflicted little frown.

“And if that change is not good for everyone?”

Realization bloomed in Nyx’s face like the flowers he could not prevent from growing to crown her starry head.

“Ah,” she said softly. “I see… Sometimes love is letting go…”

He wilted in her hands. A final confirmation, until her fingers went to pinch his chin lovingly and draw his gaze up to hers. Her eyes long and fathomless like the night sky, twinkling and watching.

“But usually... love is asking first, before those pains that go unsaid smother you both.”

Her pale hands rose to pick a red-tongued blossom from the crown that had grown in her hair and placed it delicately in the bowl she made of his hands; as though it were a baby bird. It glittered with fresh dew, with the tears he couldn’t quite stop from falling. Not here, in the safety of his mother’s arms. His tears were always safe in the cloak of night.

“Spider Lilies… It is said they grow at the site of final goodbyes,” Nyx intoned gently, “Others say they help Death guide spirits that have just passed into new lives.”

“The death of the past,” Thanatos said, each word carefully clinical and cold, as though distance could blunt their meaning.

She curled her own hands beneath the bowl of his and said, “They are also a symbol of rebirth, my child. Or perhaps more importantly, they are an opportunity, as everything is.”

Thanatos frowned lightly, his gaze rising to meet hers once more.

“I don’t understand.”

Nyx smiled a soft, tiny smile - as bright as any moonlight - and leaned forward to kiss his forehead tenderly, lips brushing against his skin as she spoke onto him, “Life, and all its decisions, are merely a matter of perspective, my son. It is not too late to change yours.”

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Before, it felt naive to hope. Hope was a foolish, mortal feeling; Thanatos knew better. Hope always faded in Death, so how could Death ever possibly foster it? And yet, his mother had never once lied to him. Beneath the light of her moon and her stars, all was made plain.

So when he tolled the bells to go to him, Thanatos allowed himself to look at Zagreus the way he had not allowed himself to before. With hope.

Zagreus had grown. As they faced off in the halls of Elysium in a quest to one up the other in battle, Thanatos found himself willingly distracted by the developed grace in Zagreus’ fighting. His posture had changed. He no longer zipped blindly across the field in a rage, trying to win by brute force. He was calm, calculated. He had changed.

Zagreus marked every trap in his mind. Every swing of his blade - new, now, one he had unlocked and partnered with - brought the shades of the underworld to heel. He marched them where he wanted them, whether that was to a swift death beneath his swing or onto a trap. He fought with a tactician’s coolness. He no longer wasted his energy. He no longer showed up to these battles covered in foreboding wounds.

He was growing. Getting closer to his goal. Which meant Thanatos, of course, was running out of time. And no one understood the gravity of the hourglass’ shifting sands quite like Death. Time, as always, was of the essence.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos said, hovering near the heart that he normally tended to simply leave behind as a parting gesture ever since Zagreus’ attempt to treat him to a gift. It was obvious the prince had not been expecting him to stay, reaching as he had been immediately for whatever god’s boon had been promised in this chamber. But the moment the prince heard his voice, the man had all but sprinted to him, and the eager warmth that had inspired in his chest caused a red blossom to bloom at Zagreus’ feet when finally he stopped before him.

“Than? I wasn’t expecting you to stay,” Zagreus said, all eagerness. Always eagerness to move on - to the world above, to a world beyond their fight.

“I wasn’t either,” Thanatos agreed, overwhelmed by the discomfort that immediately began to rise in him. He had known it would come. It had fueled many of this retreats. But nothing would ever change, if he continued to allow it to smother him. He just had hoped knowing that would make it easier , somehow. Yet he felt he could barely breathe, let alone cherrypick the words he wanted. Silence hung between them. Flowers pebbled the ground that separated them. But patiently, Zagreus simply waited. As though time were no burden to him. As though the hourglass of fate was not an enemy, but a friend.

“I know you intend to go to the world above,” Thanatos said, searching desperately for the words and finding every single one lacking. “I… I know you intend to stay there. You need answers, I know that… But before you do, I just wanted to say… She abandoned you, Zagreus. But we never have. We are your family, if you ask me. I won’t stop you from going, but… I just felt it needed to be said.”

“Than,” Zagreus started slowly, and Thanatos waited for the blow: you are not my family. You are not important. You are my past. This is not my home.

He had told himself to hear Zagreus out. He had told himself that this closure - however painful - would make everything easier. Clearer. Yet faced with this final stroke of fate, he found he couldn’t bear to hear it. Before Zagreus could collect his thoughts, Thanatos placed a crystal butterfly upon a broken stone pillar just as Zagreus had once done and said in a quick murmur, “Let it never be said that I don’t repay my debts,” before he left, like a coward.

Death, cowed by the thought of love spurned. Or perhaps, cowed by the thought of living. His offered keepsake framed in a lush bloom of red spider lilies, kept company by Zagreus’ soft, regretful sigh in Thanatos’ absence.

“Oh, Than…”

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Zagreus made it topside. Thanatos could feel it in his bones, a soul that had forever been below the earth suddenly above - in his domain, among the fields of souls he was meant to reap. He felt him there, fragile after his fight with his father and yet soaring like an inferno with his victory.

Thanatos pulled down the bottle of Nectar he had kept for this moment. It had felt right to save it for this occasion, the gift a goodbye and yet also a salute to his prince’s victory. A victory he had helped the man achieve. He poured an ample glass, the liquid shimmering like a child of sunlight and starlight both, but as he rose the glass to toast Zagreus’ achievement, a soft and confused frown began to mar his lips.

Above, with every step and every second spent there, Thanatos felt that fire waning. The glass of nectar trembled lightly in his hand as his gaze became distant, his awareness fully above. Zagreus, stumbling through the world of Light and Life. Zagreus, reaching another soaring source of power - Persephone. Zagreus, waning. Zagreus, yearning, straining. Zagreus, breath stuttering.

Zagreus, dying.

The glass crashed to the ground without a hand to hold it, shattering, Nectar pooling.

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Dead, as the boy had been dead. Thanatos did not wish to go to him. Did not wish to see him dead, here, among the place his prince had so dearly dreamed about. Did not wish to see him still and pale as only mortals deserved to be. Zagreus was a being of light and power and determination. He could not bear to see him beaten down to nothingness, just a husk of flesh and nothing more. Not here. Not in his mother’s garden, so close to the answers he had sought for so long…

But to love was to suffer.

He went to him. Kneeled beside the prince, allowing his own body to touch the earth, unheeding of how it killed the very grass he touched. His fingers went to cup Zagreus’ face. To prepare him for the journey home again, and as he did, the man’s body became haloed in deep, crimson flowers. Sprouting, uncontrolled and thick. Thanatos could not stop them, could not be bothered to stop them. It was effort enough to see him like this, let alone hide his own weakness.

He had forgotten there were still eyes there to witness it.

“Thanatos,” Persephone said, appearing from around the corner of the house with a death shawl for her son and coins for his eyes. She froze, her eyes not on him or her son, but on the flowers that surrounded them.

“Oh Thanatos ,” he whispered thickly, brows twisted. Looking upon them mournfully - she, the woman who had abandoned her son and then somehow enticed him away from his family below.

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch your garden,” Thanatos said stonily, thinking she feared the spreading of the dead grass from his knees.

“Thanatos, wait--”

But they were gone, he and Zagreus both, leaving nothing but a patch of dead grass and the outline of her son in bloody, crimson flowers. The blossoms trembling in tandem with the spatterings of red that had begun to grow uncontrollably throughout her garden.

“It was you,” she whispered to no one. “They’re yours.”

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Once, of course, was not enough. There are still questions that need answering, and Zagreus has nothing but time to throw himself at the mercy of the gauntlet between the Underworld and the mortal realm above again and again and again. Every victory means only one thing: another tragic death so close to his goal above. And yet, Thanatos cannot help but assist him. Even if it means cradling that larger-than-life body suddenly made so small by death and escorting him back down below. Even if it means being the very vessel that takes his prince from his goal, he will help him get there once more, once more, once more.

The hourglass has been refilled, if only for a while more. If anyone can figure out a way to stay among the Living, it will be Zagreus. Zagreus, who did the unthinkable and escaped the underworld. Zagreus, who found the mother that had abandoned him. He’ll do it, Thanatos knows it just as keenly as he knows the last beat of a mortal’s fragile heart.

But he’ll gladly cherish every extra grain of sand in the hourglass he’s been given.

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“I’ve missed this,” Zagreus says after one of their dual bloodbaths in the halls of Elysium. This level of the Underworld is his favorite one to go to Zagreus in. It means their momentary glimmer of peace after the fight is flush with soft grass and pleasing greens and all the Life that Zagreus deserves. And perhaps, when Zagreus is gone, Thanatos can enjoy a sip of the river to forget. He never will, he knows. It’s selfish, foolhardy and probably impossible for someone like him. But sometimes, he likes to entertain the idea that he could forget, and be free of the blossoms that constantly remind him of what he cannot have.

Thanatos turns to him, taking his time to take in the lines that make up the nostalgic expression of Zagreus’ face as he catches his breath there, sitting among the white flowers of Elysium’s fields. White and nearly like his own.

“Missed what? We do this all the time, how could you have missed this?” Thanatos asked.

“Not the fight. This . Us,” Zagreus said. “This just reminds me of how we were before I began my escapes.”

“Simpler times,” Thanatos frowned, unable to swallow the bitterness that suddenly rose in his throat. “But you chose to complicate them, Zagreus.”

He understood why, now; but that didn’t mean he didn’t resent it in his weakest moments. He waited for Zagreus to defend himself. For that bitterness to rise in Thanatos to ruin the moment, as it often did. He’d flee, and he’d waste his precious remaining grains of sand - he could see it all already, unfolding, until Zagreus brought a halt to his spiraling thoughts as only he could.

“I don’t know why this has turned into picking who I love, Than. Wanting to find my mother doesn’t mean I love anyone else any less. Everyone acts as if I’m choosing my mother over everything and everyone else. Even you.”

“Are you not?” Thanatos asked, dreading the answer.

Yet Zagreus simply looked at him, red flowers blooming in his hair, and said, “If you’re asking me who I’d choose between you or my mother, Than, my answer is this: I never intended to settle for one at all.”

Thanatos blew out a frustrated breath even as his heart soared in a way he hadn’t thought Death’s heart could, trembling like a rabbit against his ribs.

“That’s naive to say, don’t you think, Zag?”

“Says who?”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

It’s all a matter of perspective, my child.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

One day, Zagreus went topside. Thanatos prepared to go to him, to collect him, but the moment never came. Death felt the prince’s heart begin to flatter as mortal hearts did, and yet the final throbbing beat never came. In fact, it stabilized. It stabilized and grew nearer. Nearer and nearer still, adrift on the river with his brother. Not just his brother, but another too. Life was flowing down the river to the Underworld.

The Queen was returning.

Thanatos leaned bonelessly back into his lounge, feeling shaky with stunned, overwhelming relief as spider lilies rose around him like a cushion because Zagreus was coming home with Persephone.

Zagreus was coming home of his own free will.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Life in the Underworld improves. As though Persephone were a sun and the Underworld a withered garden without her, things steadily improved with her return. Cerberus pressed eagerly into the touch of her hand. The halls seemed brighter, warmer. Even Achilles seemed a little less sad, and Hades - oh Hades - it was as though he were steadily becoming a different man altogether. A softer man, gentled by her touch. His thorns shorn short, his rough and callous words turned to roses lush and hearty; though suddenly kind was a stretch to say, he was certainly safer to speak to now.

The court was alight with how Persephone’s presence was changing everything for the better. But all Thanatos could think was that none of this would have been possible if not for Zagreus, who had lassoed the sun herself and brought her back to them against all odds.

If Persephone was the sun, Zagreus was the lifeblood of this place.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

The hourglass had been halted. There was no beginning, no end, and once again Death was no longer shackled by the wasteful ticking of time. But the flowers did not lessen, did not disappear. They trailed after him, and though he had gotten better at hiding it, he knew that Persephone knew. Flowers were her children, after all; how could she not know?

“You should talk to him, Thanatos. If nothing else, Zagreus has taught me this: what you assume will happen is never definite,” she said to him one day, cradling a wayward spider lily that had suspiciously grown in her garden - startlingly white. He wondered when that had started or why.

“Perhaps I will. Thank you, my lady,” Thanatos said gently.

She smiled at him, her thumbs so gentle with the bloom’s petals, making the little flower shiver happily, and said, “I hope you do.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Thanatos had paced the length of his balcony many times now, each with a stumbling aborted attempt to head in the direction of Zagreus’ chambers. He tried to ignore the knowing weight of Achilles’ watchful gaze by the mirrors. Tried to ignore the thunderous fear of his heart or the way the lilies just kept blooming around him in fitful bursts.

Go to him , his heart said.

But what if you ruin everything , his mind howled, Now, when things are finally peaceful.

But is peace the same as happiness? His heart asked. Is that all you wanted? Could it be enough?

It certainly hurt less than being wrong, his mind said.

If that were true, then why are the flowers still blooming?

Little Deaths, the Pining Flowers. Could he truly be content, if they still found the soil of his heart so rich to bloom in?

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

“Take it from a fool who waited,” Achilles said as a tiny purple blossom grew in the tuck of his hair behind his ear, “Nothing risked, nothing earned.”

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

This time, when Thanatos went to Zagreus in the fields of Elysium, he cleaved the souls of the dead down in one impatient stroke - knowing that if he did not act fast, he would not act at all.

Zagreus let out a startled huff of a laugh, his hand son his hips as he turned to Thanatos with a confused, if amused, “Well that was hardly sporting, Than! Have you been going easy on me all this time?”

But that expression fell, muted and worried, when Zagreus finally caught sight of Thanatos’ face.

“Than?” He asked.

“Please, don’t--” Thanatos said, holding up a hand to halt the prince’s words, “Just… listen. I… I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for some time, but the words elude me, even now.”

Zagreus brought his blade down into the grass and let it rest then, his full attention him upon Thanatos in a way so direct, so overwhelming, Thanatos felt that urge to run rise in him again.

It was the memory Achilles’ gaze - heavy and knowing - that held him fast. Sympathetic, envious and frustrated. Frustrated, because Zagreus was within reach, and Thanatos risked nothing.

He did not want to have eyes like Achilles had. He wanted to Live.

“I hate you, when you first left,” Thanatos blundered forward. “I thought you were done with me. That I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t blame you either. What could I offer you, that you couldn’t have up there? What’s Death to Life?”

“Than--”

“Please, Zag… Let me finish or I never will,” Thanatos whispered. “I hated you. Or I thought I did… but these… All of these?”

He held up a hand, a red lily immediately blooming at his call to hold between them.

“These are yours, Zagreus. All of them, every single one. Because I missed you. Because I could not stop thinking of you, worrying for you, wanting you.”

Zagreus stilled, and something akin to paleness stole over his tanned flesh. Thanatos knew, then, he’d never have him. How could Life love Death? But he continued onward, if for nothing but closure. If for nothing but to say he risked it all, he tried.

“It’s childish, foolish, reckless even - but I… I’m utterly helpless, Zagreus. You’ve made me, made Death , helpless in want for you. In loving you, I…” his breath left him in a soft, rattling wheeze as finally he admitted - with the certainty that the sword cleaves flesh - “I love you, and… I’m glad you came home.”

He waited for the blow. Waited for the moment that would wring that last breath of hope from his lungs, and he wondered if this is what mortals felt like, waiting for him. For Death.

But he waited, and waited, and it never came. Zagreus merely stood dumbfounded, something wet growing on his sooty bottom lashes, before finally he stepped forward and did what Thanatos had always been too afraid to do.

He kissed him.

Perspective, his mother had said. He had thought she meant decisions, but it was so much more than that. This moment was a perspective he thought he’d never have - could never fathom . Life, warm and bright against his lips. Flowing through him in a circle, like a cycle that never ended, life and death and life and death. He closed his eyes and Zagreus reached up to bring him down, closer to the ground - to him - and wound gentle fingers into silver hair.

Around them, flowers bloomed in the hall of Elysium - blood and bone, red and white, cascading in a sheet to cover the chamber around them. Pushing out and out and out until nothing was left but the Spider Lilies singing brilliantly in the breeze around them. Zagreus drew Thanatos down like an anchor, floating feet brushing finally against petal softness, but nothing wilted from his touch. It was as though those flowers had always been waiting for both of them, every petal glimmering and shining now that the cycle of Life and Death had finally been made whole.

“I love you,” Zagreus said between desperate presses of chaste lips, speaking against Thanatos’ surprised mouth as though the words might possess them both, “And I’m so grateful you waited for me.”

Without Life, Death does not exist. Without Death, Life is not Life at all. For one is needed for the other to exist. Otherwise, there is Nothing.

*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*:–☆–:*

Zagreus had hidden all of his blooms in his chamber, of all things, knowing that no one went there. Not even Dusa, who was not allowed to clean Hades’ “ungrateful mongrel of a son”’s room. So there, they had remained safely hidden. Bone white blooms, ivory tongues drooping in such familiar ways to the crimson petals that followed Thanatos everywhere.

“Why did you never say?” Thanatos asked one day, as they lay side by side in a carpet of their flowers, fingers entwined together, nearly nose to nose.

“I did not want to frighten you away,” Zagreus laughed.

“And how did you prevent them from growing on me? I can’t stop the blasted things from appearing everywhere?” Thanatos asked.

Zagreus laughed again and repeated, “Because I did not want to frighten you away.”

Thanatos turned to him, arm braced so he could hover over Zagreus face with a gentle smile.

“And now that I am still here?” He asked warmly.

Zagreus reached up to brush a lock of silvery hair behind Thanatos’ ear, held back with a white lily to keep it in place, and said, “I’m glad that I was wrong.”

Thanatos smiled as red lilies bloomed to frame his prince’s head in a crown. Thick and regal, as he deserved. His mark upon the man. His prince, his love. It stirred a primal satisfaction deep in his belly as he leaned down to kiss Zagreus and say, “I’m glad we both were wrong.”

So they were reborn, there in a bed of white and red spider lilies - flowers that had guided them to new Life.

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Ours

Extremely late and I’m EXTREMELY sorry!😭 @bluboothalassophile happy belated EVERYTHING! And just thank you so much for being the incredible friend that you are!!!! 🥰You know what this is 😏and I hope you enjoy because this is the first of three parts. Three just seemed to fit... I had a ton of fun writing it and hopefully it’s not rubbish.

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It took time and patience with an unpracticed key guided by an unsteady grip. A petite, pale girl caught her lip between her teeth, a tiny grunt escaping as she finagled with the door.

"Raven, is that you?"

But she was starting to get used to this.

There was a concluding click as the key's metal ridge caught the groove in the last lock of the six panel apartment door. When it opened, in wandered a wearied Raven Roth.

And Raven would have liked to think she wandered in gracefully, but she knew she was dragging. It was impossible not to while wearing shoes so abhorrently impractical they should have been illegal. So violent was the aching in her heels, that by the final stretch of half-block, they were nearly numbed. Gods and her back—it was practically killing her.

If she was being honest, Raven felt like something one of those city sweeping trucks scraped off the sidewalk at four-thirty in the morning. One could only hope she didn't look like it.

"Roy," Raven winced, eyelids squeezing shut as she spoke. "I'm alive—but barely."

"Jay?" Roy called out from somewhere in the foreground. "Where are you?"

As expected a low, disembodied grunt ushered out in lieu of a response.

"Didn't you hear—Raven's back!"

The door slid closed and a gust of air entered the foyer behind her, carrying with it the heady notes of brown sugar, nutmeg, and melted butter. And like a Pavlovian response, she forgot the discomfort and led herself up by the nose. Spine straightening, legs lifting, then posture rising. It was like her whole being had been revitalized in an instant. Who knew the promise of a home-cooked meal could do that? A wistful smile steered into her face as Raven thought about how evenings after work used to transpire.

Weeks ago, one foot in the door usually meant bra optional. And flattening into a decompression on the couch was a non-negotiable.

Needless to say, a welcome like this one would never not catch her off guard.

"Something smells like you've outdone yourself again," Raven spoke loudly over the faint sounds of sizzling, curiously craning her neck and sniffing the air distractedly.

And then Roy appeared. He was peering out into the foyer, red hair bleeding out against the backdrop of a white walled interior. "Dinner will be ready soon," he supplied and beamed at her. The brightness faded in increments as his deep pine eyes floated downward and he took what she was holding.

"Again?"

"Yep." Raven gave a single solemn nod and Roy let out a dramatic sigh.

"But it's Friday. Those bastards..." he muttered in disbelief and Raven smirked. Suddenly, he inclined his head toward the other room and inhaled suspiciously. "Do you...smell that?" Roy went rigid in realization. "It smells like I forgot the flip."

"It smells like...that one's Jason's," Raven corrected.

Red eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Right." He marched back briskly toward the kitchen, only pausing to point at the heavy bag full of file folders teetering on her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me and Jaybird all about...that."

"Yes, please." Raven let out a huff, lower lip quivering. "You're an angel..." Roy winked at the pout topped by pleading purple and disappeared.

"The irony," a low drawl called from just around the corner. "Are you always such a sight for sore eyes?"

It was Jason walking over with arms out as wide as his grin. Even without the sarcasm, his aura and footsteps were distinct—a dead giveaway. They were oddly as heavy as they were silent.

"Whoa…" he looked as concerned as Roy had moments ago. "Or are you just sore?" Strong, steady hands removed her bag from her shoulder. "That's better." Raven rolled her stiff arm muscles.

It was a relief, to hand off her burden for a moment, to no longer be dragged down by the weight of her work—and the world.

"How was our day?" he pressed like a man who knew the answer.

"Rough—and long..."

Quickly Jason knelt down, hand reaching out for her calf. "I've got you, Princess." And Raven placed a balancing hand on his shoulder while he undid her shoes, a grateful half-smile stitching across her face.

"Come, come."

He took her hand, twirling her around past the living room to deposit her right onto a stool next to the island. "Sit. Harper's making crepes." Jason pulled her stool close and spun it around, so he was faced with the back of her.

"Take it from me, they'll help with the tension. Of course... I also believe in a hands-on approach." Jason then cracked his knuckles—mostly for effect, because boy did he know what he was doing. His hands slid up her arms, to her shoulders and worked them over, then dug into the surrounding muscles with his fingers and kneaded hard with his thumbs.

"Mmm..." Raven's tension began to ebb and wane. "Well, that helps a little..." Jason turned up the pressure a few more degrees while his breath grew heated on her neck.

Aroma clouds were wafting around their heads, while Roy flipped another crepe in slow motion. And in an instant, Raven was transported to some sort variant of a Jason and Roy spa she didn't know she needed.

"Okay, that helps a lot." And she moaned in spite of herself. All her stress was melting away, turning into liquid and evaporating off of her, faster than the French butter Roy was melting on the stove. He tilted the bright red crepe pan in all directions, getting an even gloss of sweet, golden goodness in every crevice. And Jason's hands continued to manipulate each one of hers, until all the tightness in her upper body unknotted itself.

"Hmm, where else—where else? Ah." Jason's rough hands took hold of the chevron patterned lace covering her ankles and he began to massage away. "Did I tell you, how much I like these stockings?"

Raven seemed not to hear him. "Harder," she whispered. His knuckle pounded gently down her arches, then ground fixedly into her heel and, painstakingly along the sides. By the time he took her other foot into his lap, she was practically cooing. "Did I tell you how good you are at that?" The tip of Jason's tongue edged over the corner of his smile.

Gods.

"That really is a shame..." he said and Raven lifted her head towards him in question. "About your day? How rough and hard it was..." His hand was lowering, slowing, but lingering. "Normally when you put those two adjectives together... It could be a good thing."

"Okay...!" Roy had come over suddenly with his spatula proffering a piece of crepe, still steaming hot from the pan. "I'm testing something out tonight, so I've added a special ingredient to this batch."

"Oh good. Raven did have one of those days. She could use some..." Jason pantomimed a flippant gesture. It could have been taking a long drag or it could have been—

"Not that kind... A different kind of special..." Roy shot Jason and Raven a long once over. Something in the way he said special made the air around them begin to bristle with titillation, anticipation. "A few drops of...lavender extract..." His voice dropped another octave. And he began to blow on the bite while Raven and Jason watched his full lips. It seemed cooling the steam from the crepe had an opposite and equal reaction. As if each breath was fanning the flames rising between them, like a bellow into charred embers in the hearth of a fireplace.

"Let me know what you think of it." Gently, he fed her piece from his fingers and Jason leaned his face close to hers, like he was attempting to steal it straight from her lips. Just before the point of contact, Roy clicked his tongue playfully.

Almost like he was calling him off.

"If you want some you'll have to wait." Dazedly, Raven blinked at Roy. He shook his head of chin length crimson hair, half of it was up in a bun with the rest hanging in his face. "I'll be back with the rest." Teasingly, Roy waved the spatula like a stake to ward off his dark-haired, undead roommate.

"Jason..." The brunette inched nearer to her at the sound of his name. She kicked his stool with her foot so it swiveled further away. Ultimately, it only caused him to move even closer. "Aren't we in rare form tonight?" she sighed.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jason insisted bemusedly, doing his best to appear impassive. "I'm always like this." He examined her wrist with his forefinger and thumb. "As for you... That office of yours must be working you damn near to the bone. Did you somehow manage to get tinier, Raven?" The left corner of his lips curled up.

She tore it away and glared at him, aghast. "Insufferable, patronizing," Raven muttered under her breath, nursing her wounded forearm. "Ass."

"But this ass speaks the truth," he raised an eyebrow loftily. "If you would just join our firm..."

"Your firm?" Purple orbs narrowed to slits. "Just because you guys are mercenaries for hire—"

"Mmm... We really prefer the term 'vigilantes,'" Jason punctuated with air quotes. "Actually, from a branding perspective, it's Heroes for Hire™—Roy's got a whole...thing..."

"Whatever you're calling your 'backwoods operation'." Raven's air quotes didn't disguise the disdain in her voice. "The point is, I like my non-profit just fine... And I am not tiny."

"Alriiight." Roy arrived with a huge ceramic serving dish full of crepes with powdered sugar dusted on top. "Eat them while they're hot. Raven..." He slid a plate over to her. "Eat up."

"I thought I would always get the first bite," Jason teased. Then quickly lunged forward, stopping short of Roy's smirk, hip cocked toward his. "What've you got for me, Harps?"

On a delay, the redhead drew back, as if he just remembered Raven was in the room. "Don't be greedy, Jay," he said at last.

The ebony haired man, raised an eyebrow, but began to unload fresh food onto his plate. Once every inch of real estate was covered in crepe, Jason started to attack with his fork.

"So, when have I ever been greedy?"

Was that besides the fact that his plate was loaded up with most of the food the archer had just cooked? And besides the fact that he hadn't really helped?

But then... neither had Raven. Unless licking the batter and 'testing out' a crepe or two counted.

"Well, Raven's barely eaten a crepe and you're drifting into seconds. Where's your hospitality? Shouldn't you share with our guest?"

"I can be hospitable..." He chuckled. "I'd rather just...share our guest."

Roy shot him a warning glare on his way back to the stove. Jason shrugged before closing in another crepe and filling his mouth with another forkful.

"You're amazing," Raven deadpanned.

"Aren't I? But I've got nothing on the food. I have to say, this is the best batch by far," he announced. "Roy, do you have any more of those blueberries you got from the farmer's market over the weekend?" Jason started to smirk at Raven. "Or strawberries? I know how much you enjoy them."

"Try the table," Roy yelled over his shoulder, mild irritation edged in his tone.

"Well..." Raven shrugged, her expression coy as she reached over for the blue container. "They are in season..." There were few things that could enhance Roy's crepes, except fresh berries. Raven puffed out her cheeks as she rifled through an almost empty berry basket. "And... there are only three left... You sure helped yourself," she accused heavily under her breath.

"I didn't see your name on them," Jason returned. "So it was fair game, like anything else in this apartment."

Raven folded her arms. "I thought Roy got them for me, didn't you Roy?" He glanced up at her as he moved around the open kitchen.

"Sorry, we're low, Rae," Roy said regrettably. "I should have picked up more. You'd think after a couple weeks, I wouldn't still be acclimating to having an additional mouth to feed. What can I say?"

"Yes, we're very sorry." Jason pinched her stocking-clad leg, eliciting a gasp.

Raven cut knife-sharp purple eyes at him before the redhead came around to her stool. Roy wiped a hand across the words Banging Redheads & Banging Brunches printed in a large black font on the apron.

Probably a Christmas gift.

And one for which Jason must have been responsible.

He ruffled the purple strands at Raven's crown with his spatula free hand. "I hope that's okay."

"Don't be ridiculous." She brushed the strings fastening the charcoal colored apron and tugged. "Now go take that off and come eat with us." Roy planted a kiss on the top of her head, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"Hmm...I guess I could have blueberries..." Raven mused. "Now that I think about it, they'd really compliment the lavender. I don't know that strawberries would in the same way."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Jason took a small sip from his cup, eyes trained on her through the glass. "Or have you ever considered...both?"

With a startling scowl, Raven looked up from the melted whipped cream atop the remaining crepes on the granite counter. "Have you ever considered why I like Roy more?" She retorted. "It's this."

"Really?" And Raven pushed his stupidly handsome, smirking face away from her own. "Little bird, don't tease," Jason moaned, dragging out the last syllable. "I promise to be good, I'll share—I certainly don't mind sharing with Roy." She rolled her eyes, popping a blueberry in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Jason was mostly euphemism on a good day, but this was different. He'd been dropping these odd hints all week. But Raven told herself it was another unexpected caveat about living here. She didn't think she should breach the subject or even read too much into them.

After all, she was only crashing with Jason and Roy for a little while longer.

This was purely temporary, until the super in her building got around to fixing the circulation unit in her water closet of a studio. Or that was what she told herself at first. She was quickly growing accustomed to the perks of living with them.

Being spoiled was... Well, it was nothing short of wonderful.

Gone were the days of scrounging up sad boxes of cereal for breakfast, schlepping together leftover takeout for lunch, or unearthing bags of nearly expired popcorn for dinner. Roy and Jason worked out a ton and ensured their fridge was always stocked. Even on the off-chance that it rained and the farmer's market wasn't open in the park so they could do locally-sourced organic.

That, and they could actually cook.

At a moment's notice, Roy could whip up an amazing French toast, or a hearty stew. If they were feeling wild he'd make them breakfast for dinner or vice versa. Even Jason's most experimental chili recipe could be redeemed by a few generous grates of cheese or a dollop of sour cream.

And clearly business was great, because their apartment was fantastic. It was spacious, but had all these homey touches, like a handcrafted breakfast nook Roy and Jason built together.

But tangible things aside, Raven found she actually didn't mind the company. So gone were the days of being alone.

The moments where he wasn't an insufferable tease, Jason loved attending their two person book-club. They talked books, trashy to classic and everything in between, often punctuated by an impromptu neck or foot rub.

When Roy wasn't working out, planning a job, or doling out heaps of domesticity onto her and Jason, he was a hopeless romantic. He reinvigorated Raven's secret love of rom-coms. But he also liked to learn from her. So he played chess, scrabble, even backgammon, and once in a while they were able to rope in Jason for monopoly. Roy was a very graceful loser at board games, but he was amazing when he got his hands around a deck of cards. And Raven was finding, she had a lot to learn from him.

But Raven's favorite nights were the ones where they could all just be. Listening to something old or indie in the background and talking until the three of them simply passed out.

The apartment just felt full—of fun, of food, of friends. Of laughter and love.

It was a wonderful life, but it was a shame it wasn't her life. Raven was a realist, she knew she'd have to go back.

But for now, she was going to enjoy every single second of it.