#hardly anything gets done and a good part of the day is wasted

[pheebswashere]

@finncomet who are you interacting with dude

diplomats from the breakfast kingdom.

[sweetbunpura]

Filled with Static pt.3

Summary: Yuu was already fed up before coming to Playful Land and now that it's over... She has some very choice words for she has reached her boiling point...

Part 1 - Part 2

"Ace-"

"What?" Ace rubbed the bruise on his cheek as they entered Heartslabyul. "I heard it enough from the others, I ain't gotta hear it from you two too."

Trey and Cater look at each other as the first year shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Ace, we're trying to say we're all at fault here." Trey tries again.

Cater adds in. "Yeah, Ace. We didn't do anything to stop you-"

"But you did!" He shouted. "You both said he looked shady and I ignored you two!"

"True, but we also didn't physical stop-"

"Where do I even try to begin?"

The three of them paused as they entered the lounge. Riddle and Deuce were standing there, the first year was behind the seething dorm leader.

"I'm very sure I deliberately told you NOT to go to that amusement park." Riddle glared at the three of them. "So why did you feel the need to disobey me? And what about you two, Trey and Cater?"

Ace was silent as he looked off to the side while Trey took charge of the situation.

"Riddle, I followed him out of the dorm-"

"And yet you chose now to bring him back?"

"We ran into some problems-"

"I assume the problem was spending all day at that park."

Riddle's tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any attempt Trey had at trying to give an excuse. The vice leader deflated, not willing to try and continue for an out.

"I believed you to be better than this, Trey." He crossed his arms and directed his attention towards Cater. "And you?"

"Hahahaha...." Cater rubbed the back of his head. "I, um, Lilia-chan and I thought it would be a good idea to.... uh, allow Kalim to go to the park?"

"With Jamil's permission?"

"About that?"

"You too!?" Riddle began to shout. "What could drive you both to even chose to do this!? I understand that I've been lenient on the rules lately, but certainly not to this degree!"

Cater and Trey flinched while Ace rolled his eyes. Before Riddle could start his tangent, Deuce chimed in.

"Ace, why do you have a bruise on your cheek?"

"Huh?" Ace rubbed the mark. "Oh. Yuu punched me."

"What?" Deuce looked confused. "Why would she- I mean I get it, it's you. But Yuu hardly punches any of us-"

"Wrong, Juice, she doesn't punch you." Ace scoffed. "She punched me for no reason-"

"Ace." Cater's voice had lost his playfulness. "Yuu got hurt, you said the off comment sentence of 'why don't you just go back home?'"

"You what?" Deuce's face twist in rage and he grabbed Ace's collar. "Did you forget that she can't!?"

"Of course I forgot! It didn't cross my mind when I said it!"

"Nothing every does, Ace, and that's the problem! She's told us about how much she'd love to go back home and you rubbed it in!?" Trey and Cater tried prying Deuce's hands off of the red head.

"Fuck off and let go of me!" Ace joined his upperclassman's hands

"Ace, you do this every time! You mock Yuu for not knowing the holidays we have and for the things she doesn't know! You forget she's not from here!"

"You don't have to rub it in!" Ace snarled. "Everyone else already did!"

"You're so fucking bullheaded and insensitive, no wonder Yuu doesn't tell you shit!"

"Deuce, let him go. You don't need to waste your breath on him anymore." Riddle commanded.

The blue haired first year glared at the heart solider before dropping him on the floor like he was a pile of trash. Riddle studied Ace as he directed his attention to Trey and Cater

"....Am I wrong for assume that Yuu left?"

"....No." Trey's shoulders sagged. "She left and didn't take Grim with her. Riddle, she's.... she's done with us. Done with NRC."

His eyes widened and it took a few seconds before he spoke. "....What happened."

With much hesitation, Trey and Cater begin to recount what happened as Ace crossed his arms and added in commentary. By the end of it, Riddle was livid and trying to hold not only himself back but Deuce as well.

"I have no words." Riddle struggled to control his breathing. "You three have done irreversible damage all in the span of a day. Get out of my sight, I'll decide your punishment later. Come, Deuce."

"Yes, Sir."

They depart as they leave the trio there to ruminate on what they've done. Eventually, Cater shuffles off to his room while Ace leaves for his in a huff. Trey stands in the middle of the Lounge and feel his heart drop to his feet before he too departs for his room. The next day, all three of them are awoke by a text message simply stating:

All named students come to Crowley's office at once. Ace Trappola, Cater Diamond, Trey Clover, Leona Kingscholar, Jack Howl, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech, Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Ortho Shroud, and Lilia Vanrouge.

[hazyange1s]

WIP Tag Game

Thank you for tagging me @myokk 🥰🥰 your writing ashdjdns I need that one shot asap

Currently, writing is an uphill battle for me 😭 this is the longest I’ve gone without being able to find any sort of ~ flow ~ but we’re trying to power through lmao

unsure of everyone who’s been tagged already so sorry if you have! @ps-cactus @morelikeravenbore @galaxiasgreen @writingsoftarnishedsilver

some very expected angst from part 2 of enshrouded (I posted the first part in the SUMMER good lord) — warning for suggestive dialogue:

His expression betrayed pain, thick brows furrowing as he swiped at the rain trickling into his eyes. “Can you really tell me that you didn’t wonder, even for a moment? That not a single part of you recognized me in any way?”

No reply came. She opened and closed her mouth, tasting bitter rain as her teeth worried at the kiss-swollen flesh of her lower lip.

Now that she was thinking about it…the signs were there: his dancing, his toast; as they’d done many times in their Hogwarts days at the Three Broomsticks, the cologne he still seemed to favor.

Even (and especially) his eyes, which had always spoken more than words could express alone, and the way he moved when they were —

It seemed old habits really did die hard.

”I wish I had realized sooner. Then we both wouldn’t have wasted a perfectly good night.”

Sebastian smiled in that lopsided way of his, like a cat that got the cream. “I’d hardly say it went to waste. You always did enjoy yourself when we were together, and… well, it seems i haven’t lost my touch.”

“I — you —“ she sputtered. “You certainly haven’t lost your touch for mucking everything up, either.”

That wiped the grin off of his stupid, smug face. Sebastian sighed, watching a carriage roll over the uneven street as a streak of lightning illuminated the crease he’d earned between his brows over the years. “So, that’s it, then? Three years apart and a night in bed together haven’t softened your heart towards me?”

If anything, it had only hardened.

Her throat constricted, and her answer came out choked and pathetic and wrong. “Where you’re concerned, I’m not sure I have a heart anymore.”

And to prove it, she stood several steps backwards, turned on her heel, and Disapparated on the spot with a soft crack that echoed through the desolate streets.

And now we check in with Incendiary Seb, who is — coincidentally — also not having a good time. I might change this chapter completely idek 😩

Sebastian had a plan. Several, in fact — although they were less carefully constructed strategies and more spur of the moment strokes of madness.

Plan A was to slip Veritaserum in the wine and pumpkin juice from the kitchens, but he crossed that off the list upon realizing he could hardly interrogate everyone in the Hall at once.

Plan B: find one of the remaining Ashwinder hideouts and interrogate them. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to this one, as he rather preferred his head attached to his body, so —

Plan C brought him to Ominis.

“I have a question,” he caught up to the blonde on their way to Defense class.

“I probably have an answer, but that doesn’t mean I’ll give it to you.” Ominis snipped.

Sebastian barreled on anyway, speaking in hushed tones. “Your family knows people. Do they know, say, any… mercenaries? Assassins? Private investigators willing to get their hands dirty, even?”

Ominis’s lip curled up into a sneer. He stopped in his tracks, nearly causing Sebastian to run right into him.

“I’m going to walk away now and pretend you never said that.”

In all fairness, asking Ominis to be accessory-adjacent to another murder probably hadn’t been his best idea, either. But as the days grew shorter, so did Sebastian’s limited patience as November hurried on, each X on his calendar a reminder of the looming deadline.

Eventually, his ideas ran out, and Plan B it was. In the encyclopedia of Sebastian’s Dumbest Decisions Ever Made, this one might be in the top three — and that was saying something.

[inspirationalucky]

"THE MORTUARY ASSISTANT" PROMPTS & STARTERS. demonic possession & hauntings. adjust as needed!

"i need help! someone's outside!"

"just try to stay calm. i know you're scared."

"this is very sudden, but listen to me. we have to start right away."

"i'm sorry, i didn't know until it made itself known this morning."

"i didn't know that it was here... let alone bound to you."

"i had no way of knowing the possession had started."

"you need to take this seriously. you need to act quickly."

"you can't leave, [name]! i can't allow that for you... or for others."

"so we stay calm... ok?"

"treat it like a normal day. staying focused will help."

"you don't have to believe me, but i hope you do before it's too late."

"the only way to save yourself is to banish the demon before you're too far gone."

"you'll need to learn the demon's name, bind it to it's chosen body, and burn it in the retort."

"i know this is a lot to take in."

"i had years to learn what i know. you have hours."

"you can't trust the phones. anything can be manipulated."

"good luck, [name]. i'm sorry this had to happen."

"yeah, screw all of... whatever this is."

"to banish a demon to hell, it must be bound to its chosen body and burned."

"you're just seeing things."

"i'm just seeing things... i need to get back to work, it's fine."

"it's my fucking fault!"

"don't really have a choice... i'm stuck here... fuck."

"you did this to me... it's all your fault."

"why are you still doing this?"

"i'm going to kill you, [name]."

"why did you let me die? this is all your fault."

"i regret every second with you."

"time is running out, [name]."

"hate me all you want. he's dead because of you."

"you should be the one here. lifeless... worthless... you're a waste of this body."

"you're wasting this body... give it to me."

"i should be killed on sight."

"this should banish the demon."

"my coming shall herald glorious sorrow."

"i will claim the flesh of man for my own."

"i need you to let me in, sweety."

"don't you love your grandma?"

"it's so cold out here... i'd love to come in... let me in, [name]!"

"let me in you little bitch!"

"i just want to visit you. don't you miss me?"

"awww, what's wrong [name]? don't be afraid of your [relation]!"

"i knew you'd find me... i'm all alone and scared."

"i'm fucking scared! didn't you hear me?"

"help. me. get me the fuck out of here!"

"oh, look at this... who are you now?"

"who could do this to someone? i think you should let me out."

"you'll be here soon."

"ok baby don't worry... it's ok, it's ok. i'll get you out of here."

"no, no, i'm not going!"

"get me out of here, they're gonna kill me!"

"come back! let me out!"

"where am i? what happened? let me go!"

"i'm sorry, this is the only way."

"seriously, [name], why are you hiding? don't be scared."

"let me out you little shit! you'll fucking burn!"

"you can never fix what you've done! see you soon."

"it's nice not to be the one down there for a change."

"did i make it? is it over?"

"it's never really over."

"oh, i've just been waiting... for so, so long."

"[name] isn't here, you fucking idiot!"

"here i am, you worthless old shit! here i am!"

"it's never over, but you survived."

"can i leave? i want to go home."

"you can leave. but once an entity finds you, all the houses of hell will do anything to get back to you."

"i'm sorry, but it doesn't end here."

"from now on, there's always a chance this will happen again, no matter where you are."

"i don't want this! i just want to leave! what do i do?"

"i'm sorry, but there's no going back."

"so, what? you're waging some selfless holy war?"

"it's not a war. it's survival. and i'd hardly call it selfless."

"i wish i could claim to be someone better, suffering hell to save us all."

"i simply want to live another day, just like anyone else."

"i could run and live the rest of my days in fear, or i could learn to face it and keep some semblance of a normal life."

"i don't know what you experienced, but i know it uses the worst parts of you against yourself."

"the more you experience, the more you'll confront the darkest parts of your life."

"i'm offering the tools to take control. the choice is yours. i hope you come back."

"what you've been doing is monstrous!"

"i've said already that i've had to accept everything about myself. just like you do. this is a necessary evil."

"she's down there right now, just suffering for no reason!"

"[name] is not down there! not anymore, she's been gone for years."

"you want to have a chance at life!? it comes at a cost. this cost!"

"you have to make a choice just like i did."

"i've seen many experience what you did. none have survived."

"i've watched them degrade and suffer until they're no longer themselves."

[endwersed]

Snippet Sunday

I made some good progress on the next chapter of my Sterek High School AU call it off today (1000 whole words!) so to celebrate, I thought - why not share a little snippet 😄 Hope you guys enjoy!

-

His dad tries to talk to him, of course. Most mornings he comes into Stiles’ room just as dawn is breaking through the cracks in the blinds, barely even looking surprised to find Stiles already wide awake. He will sit on the edge of a creaky bed and put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing around brittle bones as he peers down to where Stiles won’t meet his eye.

How are you doing – he will always ask. Is there anything I can get for you – he will always offer. You know you can talk to me about anything – he will always remind.

But Stiles does not want to talk. He does not want to hear what his dad will have to say. His world is falling to pieces all around him, his heart shattered into jagged little atoms that hide underneath his stretched thin skin, shards that cut deeper and deeper scars every single day that he does not let himself speak to Derek, and he knows, he just knows, that all his dad will have to tell him is that this is for the best, that he has made the right choice, that he has done the right thing.

The ache of the best part of his life being so abruptly ripped away does not feel like the right thing. But that is something that he can never, and will never, share with the black and white mortality of his father.

Today is not a good day. Really, he hardly even remembers the last time that he had a good day. Or he tries not to remember, at least. It is getting late already, a beautiful sun setting just outside his window that he will not draw the curtains to gaze at, another crisp and cool winter day wasted in hours of total silence, another day spent rotting from the inside out from the safety of his bed.

He lies there, in sheets that need a good wash and a body that needs a good shake, and he stares up at the ceiling, eyes red and raw as he blinks up to nothing at all. He can hear his dad puttering around downstairs, in the kitchen to work on a dinner they both already know Stiles won’t be able to stomach, and he zones into that sound, distracts himself with the noise of simmering pots, chopping knives, the repetitive open and close of a refrigerator door as his dad forgets more than one ingredient in a row.

A ringing doorbell cuts sharply through all of that ordinary clatter. Stiles’ heart skips a beat inside of his chest.

It feels as though his breath is stuck all the way down in his burning lungs as he listens intently to his dad’s footsteps, making little haste as he pads placidly through the house until he reaches the hall. The snick of the front door comes next, the swing of it open to reveal whoever stands outside, whoever has waited so patiently on their porch, but no greeting follows right after. There is no cheerful hello or easy return.

Instead, there is only a long, dragging silence where nobody speaks. Seconds, and seconds, and seconds of it. The tension crawls underneath Stiles’ skin even from all the way upstairs.

Eventually, it is the person outside who speaks first.

“Sir,” he says. “Can I… may I come in?”

-

No pressure tags ❤️ @hedwig221b @honestlydarkprincess @lucky-bishop @patolemus @seaweed-water

[into-the-lokiverse]

Who You Really Are (Loki, God of Stories x Reader)

Summary: When all appears lost to an aspiring novelist, the God of Stories sends a message of hope.

(credit to @lokitvsource for the gif)

You weren't sure how much further you could go on, or if you could go on.

For years, one of the biggest things you desperately wanted in life was to be a novelist. To entertain with stories of magic, power, action, romance, and a little nonsense.

But lately, as you sat before your desk, exhausted from the day job you relied on to pay the bills, you just couldn't bring yourself to move forward with your debut story. The plot felt too twisted to the point even you could barely comprehend it at times. The characters once vivid, were fading into shadows and dust of their former selves. And the scenes you envisioned in detail started to feel...unreachable.

And yet, you couldn not stop scribbling notes at every random moment of inspiration. You clung to the memory of your characters.

Like a parasite or an infection, the idea of your story plagued your mind for weeks, months to the point where it never seemed to leave you. You could barely think straight about anything else, even cleaning.

Half-drank cups of coffee at every corner of the desk, loose napkins with random thoughts written on them, a garbage can full of tissues, candy wrappers, and tea bags, a folder filled with printed images of your dark-haired, blue-eyed muse, and a stack of books that you checked out for "inspiration" but hardly touched.

The floor surrounding your desk had a thin layer of dust, wherever there weren't fallen pens you hadn't the heart to pick up, or papers you abandoned.

Am I meant to be a writer, or am I simply possessed?, you contemplated over a cup of stale coffee. Am I truly, clinically insane with obssssion? Am I doing the right thing, or have I finally lost my mind? Maybe I'm just crazy...maybe I'm wasting my time, doing the wrong thing that was never meant for me.

Or maybe I'm just not worthy of being the person who...does things. The person who flourishes in doing something they love.

But just as you were about to put your head down on the one free space on your cluttered desk, you spotted a mysterious note in parchment.

It read,

I believe in you.

I believe in every part of you, even in that couple of paragraphs you've stuffed in your desk (which honestly should be cleaned, but you won't do it.).

I believe in you because I know who you could become.

Because I know who you really are. You're a talented, blessed individual burdened with a glorious compulsivity to write and far too much fear for your own good.

But who you really are, it does not matter. It is all about the stories. The adventures.

There is a last refuge for the unloved and the desperate, and the persecuted.

When life gets too impossible, when life gets too terrifying, find hope in this, my talented scribe. That when all else fails, remember that you are a branch on the tree of life.

And in the center of that tree, there is someone watching over you, protecting you like he's always done before, and will continue to do so.

Your branch is just beginning. So marvel me, and marvel yourself with all you do. My blessing is with you.

For all time always.

Loki

[newtonsheffield]

Recently learned the term "Golden Slam" in reference to a player who has won all four major titles, as well as an Olympic gold in the same year. I'm guessing Kate is teed up for such a victory? She would be in a rare group of three other women... including Graf in 1988 (and no one since). 👀

Oh for sure.

That’s the question everyone’s asking in the lead up to the US Open. Kate Sharma’s in the best form of her already impressive career. She’s won the Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, and not one but two gold medals. All she needs is to win the US Open and it’s done. She’s the defending Champion there and everyone’s talking about it. She’s asked again and Again about it in the lead up, and her answer’s always the same.

“Of course, that would be an incredible end to our season. My team and I have really worked hard this year, we’ve made a lot of changes to the way we do things and we’ve been seeing good results, obviously. But… that’s not really what we’re focused on coming into the tournament. I’m just focused on playing the best tennis I can.”

“Any winter plans after the WTA finals?”

“Yeah,” Kate laughed, “I’m going to sleep in and block my Mum’s calls for a few days. Bless her.”

Outwardly she’s pretending she doesn’t care. Of course she is, that’s who she is. But when she’s alone with Anthony in their hotel room of course it matters. Her head cushioned against his chest.

“I really want to do it.”

Anthony nodded, his fingers making soothing circles against the skin of her back. “You know you can still be the best without it right? You don’t have anything to prove to anyone.”

That was one of the things she loved about Anthony. His firm belief that everything she did should be for her. What other people said didn’t matter. It wasn’t wasting a gift if she didn’t win everything. Mary had tried to tell her the same so many times but it had been a lesson she had to learn for herself.

“I know. But I still want to win.”

Anthony’s chuckle vibrated through her. “Of course you do. We’re competitive monsters.”

“Our children are going to be wild.”

“Thinking about my babies? Calm down Sharma.”

Kate can hardly believe it when her opponent hits the ball and it lands in the net and the tension breaks and the crowd roars. Her racquet fell to the ground in surprise and tears stung at her eyes as she stepped forward to shake hands with the other woman and then the umpire.

Then she takes off running, climbing into the stands to the box where her family’s waiting for her. Tears are running down her face by the time she wraps her arms around Mary, then Edwina and finally Anthony who spins her around while the crowd roars.

“Go take a bow.”

It’s the first question she gets asked when she returns to centre court, a golden slam, how does that feel?

“Honestly, yeah it feels incredible. But, I didn’t do this by myself. Obviously my Mum, she nearly did this in the final year she was on the tour and I wanted to do this for the two of us. My sister who grumbles about filling in as my hitter but I don’t think a lot of people realise that at Wimbledon last year I was probably in the worst headspace of my life. I… genuinely don’t know if I’d still be playing tennis if I hadn’t met Anthony. He’s been a huge part of my success this year and I know he’d disagree with me but this success is his as well. I love you, let’s blow off work and go on holiday.”

The crowd roared with laughter and the season’s not done yet, but it feels done. For her it feels done. One of the greatest there ever was at 23, with years still to come in her career.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Up All Night 7

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)

Note: I wasn’t serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You drive Drysdale to his overpriced house so he can at least dress like a professional. You wait in the car as he takes his time. You have no illusions. About him or anything else. He’s in no rush but you won’t let him get to you. 

Your phone rings and you answer. It's Laing. At least you can get some work done while Drysdale only wastes his own time. 

“Good morning,” Laing greets. 

“Morning,” you say as you rest your elbow on the armrest, “how are you?” 

“Great, and you?” He asks, a nicety. You know he hardly cares. 

“Good, so you’ve thought about our conversation?” 

“It’s all I could think of,” he says, “I’ll sign the deal but I have a condition.” 

“Certainly, we will find a way to meet it.” 

“You. I only want to deal directly with you. I don’t want to sit in a room with that frat boy dripping in nepotism.” 

You almost laugh. He is a writer, he has a way with words. You only smile as the front door swings inward and Drysdale emerges. 

“I’ll put it across the table. I think we know the answer already but I’ll be sure to confirm it once I speak with my boss,” you say. 

“Mm, hard to imagine him telling you no,” he scoffs, “anyhow, you must have your hands full as it were. I’m still in town. I’d prefer a face-to-face… there’s a lovely restaurant in the hotel.” 

You're not naive about his offer, or that lilt in his voice. “Business, Mr. Laing.” 

“Of course,” he agrees, “we will try to keep it professional.” 

His suggestion tickles the back of your neck, “I’ll let you know when I have the answer.” 

“I’ll send you the details for tonight,” he says presumptively, “until then.” 

You hang up and drop your phone in the slot between the cupholders. Drysdale opens the passenger door and swings into the seat. You reverse before he can clip the seat belt into place. 

“Couldn’t find my socks,” he snickers. He’s trying to taunt you. 

“Oh?” You utter dully. 

“Took a bit but I found ‘em.” 

“Good,” you praise him as if he’s a child showing you a drawing of a crooked house. “And did you put them on the right feet?” 

“Hey,” he snips, “I’m still your boss.” 

“I recall,” you reply curtly. “Speaking of,” you reverse and tweak the wheel so he hits the door, a reminder for him to buckle up, “Laing called. We have a deal.” 

“Yes, I knew I talked him into it,” Drysdale clips the belt into place. 

“Certainly,” you agree dryly, “I’ll meet with him to finalise the papers and we should be good.” 

“You’ll meet with him?” He asks. 

“I mean, unless you’d like to stay late tonight and do it yourself. He has some other obligations while he’s in town so he wouldn’t be available during the day,” you say coolly, “I know you are particularly fond of your evenings.” 

“Whatever. I musta downed a roofie,” he sneers. 

“Mhm,” you hum. 

“Do you have to do that tone?” He huffs. 

“I didn’t do a tone,” you shrug. 

“You did,” he insists, “let’s hit the Starbucks, I need something strong.” 

A strong slap to the head, maybe. You keep that one to yourself. You want to tell him no, like a spoiled brat deserves, but you want this deal to go through so you should appease him. 

“Fine,” you turn your blinker on, “do you want whip cream on top and a cherry?” 

“You’re doing the tone again,” he slouches in the seat as he thumbs his phone. 

You let him sink into the screen. It’s easier that way. Let him play with his toys and have his treats while you get the real business done. 

🧣

You confirm your meeting with Laing in a text. He swiftly sends back the details for his hotel and the restaurant where you’ll meet. You smile to yourself. The credit will be in Drysdale’s name but you can’t help but feel particularly proud of this one. 

“What’s so funny?” Your boss interrupts your internal celebration as if he can hear the very thought of him. 

You sit up and wipe all emotion from your face, “nothing.” 

“You look giddy. Like a girl. It’s strange,” he looks you up and down. 

“Aren’t you happy about the Laing contract?” You challenge, “you know the firm needs this.” 

“Yeah, I know, because I’m the boss,” he says firmly, leaning against the side of your desk. “I had a question for you.” He smirks as he plants his hand flat beside your mouse, “do you always wear those silky little nighties or was that just for me?” 

You blink at him, “don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Ah, come on, workaholic like you, how long’s it been?” 

You restrain a sniping retort. You’ve not known many lightweight like him to do much in bed, if they can even get that far. The thought of him in that context tickles your lip with the urge to curl. He doesn’t seem like the type to know where the clit even is. 

You look away and sigh, “I do just fine, Mr. Drysdale, but I’d be happy to answer that with HR present.” 

“God, you’re such a fucking tight ass,” he sneers, “probably dry as bone with all that salt.” 

You tilt your head and arch your brows. He was singing a much different tune last night, not that you enjoyed his melody. But he can’t fool you. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Their egos can’t handle the slightest hint of rejection. 

“Mr. Drysdale, your two o’clock...” you hum as you check the screen, “I’m not quite sure what it is. The block is blank but I just got a call from legal, they requested your attendance in a meeting--” 

“Can’t,” he dismisses you breezily, “I got better things to do than listen to lawyers. They should be able to do their jobs without me.” 

“I’m sure they can but it’s part of running a publishing house--” 

“Don’t tell me what my job is, secretary,” he retorts, “fucking god. Don’t think because of last night, that you got any authority over me. Let’s get this straight,” he walks up to you, one arm crossed, his other hand pointing at you, “I’m your boss. I always will be your boss, just like you’ll always be a dried up old lady.” He scoffs down at you, “That ass is gonna fall one day.” 

You blink indifferently and spin back to your desk, “right then,” you refuse to let him rile you, “I’ll reply to legal.” 

[all-our-turf]

somewhere between the sea and the shore

fluffy warriors beach fic - group shenanigans and swercy fluff!! read under the cut or on ao3

+++++

Swan and Cleon hardly blink when the apartment’s front door slams open, but Cochise nearly spills her cup of tea down her front and Ajax jumps halfway to her feet with a curse as Cowgirl stomps in with Mercy and Rembrandt trailing behind her. 

“We have a problem!” Cowgirl declares loudly. 

That gets everyone’s attention, and Swan’s eyes instinctively flick over Mercy to check for injuries before surveying the other two, letting out a breath when she doesn’t spot anything visible. The three had been out scouting some of their borders and having Rembrandt redo a few of their tags, and while there hadn’t been any issues with neighboring gangs in a few weeks, the knot of anxiety never really faded. 

“What’s wrong? Did you run into trouble?” Cleon rises to her feet to greet the three as they wander further into the apartment, immediately putting her warchief face on, though it quickly crumples into confusion when Cowgirl continues. 

“Mercy’s never seen the ocean.” Her voice is still too loud, and she grabs Mercy’s wrist and shakes it slightly as if to prove her point. 

Rembrandt chuckles under her breath as she steps past Cleon to fall half on top of Ajax on the couch. Ajax kisses her temple in greeting before looking back to where Cowgirl seems to be waiting for the rest of the gang to be similarly scandalized by this information. Swan tilts her head questioningly at Mercy, who just huffs and rolls her eyes with a helpless shrug. 

“We live on Coney Island,” Cleon says slowly, looking between Cowgirl and Mercy. “You can see the ocean from the roof of this building.” 

“Yeah, before I joined up with you guys I had never seen it. Obviously I’m familiar with it now, but -” 

Cowgirl cuts off Mercy’s explanation by shaking her again. “You haven’t really seen it,” she insists. “Swan’s done a shit job of showing you around!” 

“Hey, what the fuck -” 

“Cowgirl, just tell them what you wanna do.” Rembrandt interrupts before Swan can protest the claim. 

“Cleon, we need to have a day off to go to the beach!” Cleon blinks at her, so Cowgirl keeps talking. “Come on, it’s been way too long since we’ve all just gone down and the weather’s actually nice. We’ve been so busy that we haven’t gotten to just relax and hang together since - well - a while.” 

Cowgirl fumbles over her words the way they all still do when referencing that night. It’s been a few months by now, and things have started to return back to normal, but Fox’s absence still weighs heavily over them - the empty spot in the living room where she used to sit, the closed door at the end of the hall that no one opens, the awkward beats of silence where they expect another voice to ring out - Swan suspects they’ve all been making a conscious effort to keep busy to avoid those too quiet moments. 

There’s a pause before Cowgirl continues, determined to follow through. “Plus Mercy’s never had a beach day which is fucking insane for someone in a Coney Island gang. I mean, that should be part of initiation.” 

“Mercy’s already been initiated.” Swan narrows her eyes, immediately defensive. 

“That’s not how she meant it, could you chill the fuck out?” Ajax kicks lightly at Swan’s leg. 

“Bitch -” 

“I think it’s a good idea!” Cleon decides before Ajax and Swan’s bickering can escalate. 

“Fuck yes!” Cowgirl hollers, finally letting go of Mercy’s wrist and moving to instead bother Cochise with her excitement. Mercy wastes no time in finding a spot next to Swan on the couch. 

“Really?” Swan raises an eyebrow at Cleon, who nods resolutely, mind already made up.

“Cowgirl’s right -” That gets another excited yell from the woman in question, followed by Cochise’s protests about going deaf if Cowgirl keeps hollering in her ear - “It’s been too long since we’ve taken a day for ourselves, especially as a group. It’s important that we spend time bonding.” 

“Okay, maybe don’t phrase it like that.” 

Cleon waves a dismissive hand in response, instead going over to look at the calendar she has hung up on the wall. 

“Did you already agree to this?” Ajax shifts to look at where Rembrandt is curled into her side. 

Rembrandt gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not opposed to a day off. And she kind of has a point that Mercy should get to experience the beach. Without risk of getting shot this time.” 

Ajax shifts uncomfortably, her mouth twisting. She still hasn’t quite gotten over the fact that she wasn’t there for the final fight with Luther. After a moment though, she glances up at where Swan is throwing an arm over Mercy’s shoulders on the other end of the couch and Ajax’s expression morphs into something more playful.  

“It is kind of ridiculous that Swan hasn’t taken her girlfriend, huh? That speaks pretty poorly of you, birdie.” 

Rembrandt bites her lip to hide a smile as Swan glares at Ajax over Mercy’s head, looking like she’s debating whether she wants to get up to wrestle with Ajax. Mercy makes the decision for her by putting a hand on Swan’s chest and pressing her further into the couch. 

Swan huffs but lets it happen, opting instead to flip Ajax off. “Shut the fuck up, it’s been a busy couple of months.”

“Wow, can’t even make time for your girl,” Ajax drawls, shaking her head in exaggerated disappointment. Rembrandt has to stifle her laugh into her hand, even as she swats at Ajax in reprimand. 

“Ajax, leave her alone. There were more important things for me to learn about in Coney.” Mercy rolls her eyes, pressing her weight further into Swan to once again discourage her from getting up. A smirk suddenly lights Mercy’s face, and Rembrandt is immediately bracing herself for whatever she’s about to say. 

“Besides,” her voice lulls suggestively, even as she paints on an innocent smile. “Swan made time for me in other ways.” 

“Mercy!” 

Ajax throws her head back, cackling as pink blooms over Swan’s face. 

“Okay! We can go next weekend!” Cleon declares, turning back around and thankfully saving Swan from the conversation. Cowgirl jumps to her feet and begins to protest, but Cleon silences her with a raised hand. “Don’t start, Cowgirl. I’m meeting the Riffs uptown this weekend and taking Swan with me. The beach can wait.” 

Cowgirl pouts for all of a second before she’s sprawling out sideways across Swan and Mercy’s laps and looking up at them with a grin. “It’s fine. Gives me time to take Mercy shopping for swimsuits.” 

Mercy giggles, amused with her antics, and reaches out to flick her hat lightly. “Sure, I’m down.” 

“Fuck yes!” Cowgirl glances at Swan with a smirk. “We’ll find something sexy enough to send Swan into cardiac arrest.” 

Swan shoves Cowgirl off their laps and onto the floor.

“Ow - motherfucker!”

+++++

The day finally rolls around and Cowgirl’s infectious excitement seems to have spread because the Warriors are practically buzzing with energy as they head down the steps of the boardwalk. They make quick work finding a suitable spot to set up camp, laying out towels and chairs under a few umbrellas. 

Cowgirl is immediately stripping her outer layers, bouncing on her toes as she waits for the others. “Mercy, you coming?” 

Mercy hesitates, eyeing the water before glancing over at Swan, who’s settling into a chair with a book on her lap. Swan looks up and meets her eyes, tilting her head.

“You can go if you want. I’ll join in a bit,” Swan shrugs, trying to get a read behind Mercy’s hesitance. “Rem will keep me company.” 

Sure enough, Rembrandt was sprawling on a towel next to Swan’s chair, a sketchbook open in front of her. Rembrandt hums absently in acknowledgement at Swan’s words, distracted by the sight of Ajax tugging her shirt over her head. 

Mercy looks at Cowgirl’s expectant face again before sitting in a chair on Swan’s other side. “I’ll go in later, too. Wanna enjoy the view for a bit.” 

Cowgirl looks like she’s going to complain, but then Ajax is taking off for the water with Cochise, yelling taunts over their shoulders, and Cowgirl sprints after them. Cleon shakes her head with a laugh, but she heads for the water too. 

Mercy shifts to get comfortable in her chair, jumping slightly when Swan’s hand suddenly reaches out and grabs her forearm. She looks up and finds her girlfriend studying her, a furrow between Swan’s brow. 

“You okay?” 

Mercy flashes a smile. “Yeah. It’s nice here on the shore.” 

Swan raises a skeptical eyebrow, but when Mercy doesn’t say anything else she just nods slowly, opening up her book. 

Mercy closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the chair, breathing in the salty air, letting the smell of the ocean overwhelm her senses. The only times she’s been in the sand until now has been in less than ideal circumstances, and while she previously hated the grainy substance getting into her shoes and socks, she thinks she gets the appeal with her bare feet buried under the surface. She hears the distant sounds of the other Warriors shouting and splashing in the water, the slow rhythm of the waves crashing against the shore, the scratch of Rembrandt’s pencil against her paper (now that she’s quit ogling Ajax), Swan turning a page every now and then, and Mercy feels something settle inside of her. 

She’s not sure how much time passes - Mercy suspects she might have drifted off at some point - but she startles back to reality at the sound of Swan cursing. 

“Ajax, I swear to god I’m gonna kick your ass.” 

Mercy blinks her eyes open and finds Ajax leaning over Swan with a wide smirk while Swan presses a hand to her chest to keep her back, her other hand scrambling to mark her page and safely put the book away. Ajax has the decency to wait until the book is inside of Swan’s bag before she shakes her head, spraying water at Swan with a delighted laugh. 

“Come on, aren’t Swans supposed to be aquatic birds?” 

Swan tackles her into the sand. 

Cleon steps around them with an exasperated eye roll, dragging a chair into the sun and sitting down to dry off. She offers Mercy a smile. “Water’s real nice. Ajax got sent to drag the rest of you in.” 

Mercy laughs, watching as Ajax and Swan scramble to get the upper hand on each other, sand kicking up around them dangerously close to where Rembrandt is still working on her current sketch.  

“Ajax, if you get my sketchbook dirty…” Rembrandt trails off, but the threat lingers anyway and Ajax pauses for long enough that Swan manages to pin her down. 

“Alright, alright, fine.” Ajax grumbles, though Mercy is unsure if it’s because Swan got her down or because she doesn’t want to piss Rembrandt off. Swan gives Ajax an extra shove into the ground before rising to her feet, her nose scrunching adorably as she tries to brush the sand from her clothes. 

Ajax sits up and looks at Mercy and Rembrandt, the sand practically coating her already wet skin (she somehow doesn’t seem bothered by it). “Seriously though, lets fucking go. Quit being boring and come into the water already.” 

Rembrandt huffs, but quickly scribbles out a few more lines before putting her art away and rising to her feet. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

Swan tilts her head at Mercy, an unspoken question that Mercy answers by standing and tugging her shirt over her head, relishing in the way Swan’s lips immediately part and her eyes go a little wide. Swan steps closer as Mercy finishes stepping out of her shorts and her hands hover over the bare skin of Mercy’s waist. 

“Cowgirl might’ve been right.” 

Mercy giggles, pressing into Swan’s hands, the touch sending electricity up her spine. She leans forward to whisper, breath hot against her ear in a way that makes Swan shudder. “She doesn’t get any credit, I picked this one out myself.” 

“Fuck.” Swan’s voice goes rough.

“I know what you like,” Mercy teases. 

“Yo! Hello, you’re in public?” 

“Get a room!” 

Ajax and Rembrandt’s voices have them stepping away from each other, faces flushed. 

Swan glowers at them. “Fuck off, like you two can talk.” 

They don’t bother responding, Ajax taking off at a sprint towards the water with Rembrandt clinging onto her back. 

Swan and Mercy nearly get distracted again when Swan strips down to her swimsuit, but Cleon loudly clearing her throat brings them back. Swan looks like she’s contemplating ditching the beach all together, but then she catches the way Mercy is staring at the waves and remembers the whole reason they’re here to begin with. She intertwines their hands and tugs Mercy towards the water. 

“Wait -” Mercy yanks her to a stop just before they can step in, bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

Swan tilts her head, waiting.

“I -” Mercy swallows, eyes flickering nervously. She clenches her jaw, then finally forces out the words. “I don’t know how to swim.” 

Surprise briefly flits across Swan’s face. “Oh.” 

Mercy flushes in embarrassment. “It’s just - you know, I’ve never been near the ocean, and my parents weren’t the type to put me in swimming lessons, and this was never going to be a problem but now I live on Coney Island and -” 

“Woah, okay.” Swan cuts off her ramble, reaching out to take both of Mercy’s hands in hers. “Baby, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal. I wish you’d said something earlier. Do you not wanna get in the water? We don’t have to.” 

“But Cowgirl was so excited. And Ajax -” 

“I don’t give a fuck about what the others say, I’ll kick their asses if they try and say shit about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I just -” Mercy gives a helpless shrug, looking at the water before finally meeting Swan’s gaze, hoping her girlfriend will be able to understand what she doesn’t know how to put into words. 

Swan seems to come to some sort of conclusion, because she nods and squeezes Mercy’s hands. “Okay. Come on, we’ll take it slow.” 

She leads Mercy a little further down the beach from where the others are. Ajax and Rembrandt pause when they notice the other two aren’t following behind them, but Swan looks at Ajax and the two seem to have a silent conversation. Swan cocks her head subtly to gesture at Mercy. Ajax’s gaze shifts to study her, her brow furrowed and Mercy braces herself for Ajax to call out for them to catch up. Instead, the enforcer just nods and turns to continue into the water with Rembrandt. 

“Ajax won’t make fun of you for this,” Swan says quietly, like she can read Mercy’s mind. “None of the others will either. I know we get on each other a lot but there’s a line.” 

“I know there’s a line but it - this isn’t, like, some trauma thing.” 

“Maybe not, but it’s not something you should feel ashamed about. The others won’t make you feel that way.” 

Mercy’s quiet for a beat, processing this. “Okay.” 

“Come on. Try to jump with the waves.” Swan intertwines their hands again and leads Mercy into the water. She gasps when it finally splashes over her legs, the water colder than she was expecting, but they continue stepping in and the chill fades away. She blinks, watching the way the water moves around her, lapping at her thighs and then stomach. Swan doesn’t let go of her hand, doesn’t even take her eyes from Mercy’s face, watching for any flicker of uncertainty and delighting in the wonder she finds there instead.

Swan pauses once the water reaches her shoulders - Mercy’s a little taller than her so it’s only at her chest - and watches as Mercy gets used to jumping with each wave. Panic flashes across her face briefly and she tightens her grip on Swan’s hand when the water rises up enough that her toes are just barely scraping the sand, but after the first few times it stops being so scary. 

Mercy beams at Swan, a bright, excited grin stretching across her face, and Swan can’t resist darting forward to kiss her. 

They linger there for a moment before Swan reaches down and grabs Mercy’s thighs, lifting her up to carry her. Mercy makes a quiet noise of surprise, but her arms come up to wrap around Swan’s shoulders and her legs tighten around Swan’s waist. 

“We’re gonna go deeper, okay? Don’t let go.” Mercy nods and Swan carefully heads further out, walking at first and then floating once the water gets deep enough. “Hold your breath.” 

“What?!” Mercy’s voice comes out a little more panicked - and louder - than she means it to, and Swan winces, squeezing her waist gently in reassurance. 

“I’m gonna dip us under for a second.” Mercy doesn’t look reassured. “Trust me, okay? It’ll feel nice, just close your eyes and hold your breath.” 

Mercy hesitates for a moment, but Swan offers her a soft smile so she nods and inhales. Swan waits for her to finish taking in air before letting them slip underneath the cool water. The world goes quiet around them, and for a beat all Mercy can feel is the warmth of Swan’s body in front of her. She tightens her grip, leaning her head forward to rest on Swan’s shoulder and relaxing into her hold. 

After a few seconds, Swan brings them back up and brushes Mercy’s wet hair back from her face, thumb smoothing gently over her eyelids to brush away the water. Mercy opens her eyes after catching her breath and finds Swan gazing at her with the softest, most adoring look she’s ever seen on her girlfriend’s face. 

“Good?” 

Mercy responds by tugging Swan into another kiss. The waves lap gently at her back, rocking them up and down in a soothing motion, and Mercy feels her body melt into Swan’s. 

“I think I like the ocean,” she mumbles, pulling back so their foreheads rest together. 

“Yeah? Me too. We’ll have to start coming back more often. I’ll teach you how to swim.” Swan’s smile shifts for a moment, twisting into something more troubled. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring you earlier.” 

“Is this because of Cowgirl and Ajax giving you shit about it last week?” 

“They had a point. I haven’t really taken you out of the apartment for anything other than gang business lately.” Swan gave a sad shrug. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that you might want to experience the beach for the first time.” 

“We’ve both been busy, I love the time we spend together just curled up in bed, it’s okay -” Mercy tries to say, but Swan just shakes her head. 

“It’s not. I feel like I’ve spent so much time these past few months obsessing over what happened or - or worrying about the future Cleon is trying to build that I’m hardly paying attention to what I have in front of me now. That’s not fair to you.” 

Mercy reaches forward and cups Swan’s face, forcing her to stop avoiding her gaze. “Baby, it’s okay. These past couple months haven’t been easy on anyone, and I know how much pressure you put on yourself as number two. Despite that you’ve still managed to be there for me, you - you gave me this new life, Swan. I don’t need you to take me out on cliche romantic outings to know how much you love me.” 

The corner of Swan’s mouth ticks up in a smile at that. “I do. Love you, I mean.” 

“I know. I love you, too.” Mercy smiles, running her fingers along Swan’s jaw. “Besides, you’re here with me now, aren’t you? Thinking about anything other than what’s in front of you?” 

Swan shakes her head. “No. Right now I’m not thinking about anything other than how beautiful you look.” 

Mercy beams at that, her face flushing pink in a way that she definitely can’t blame on the sun. “More than beautiful?” 

“Yeah. More than beautiful,” Swan echoes, and Mercy falls in love with her all over again. 

[nyx-express]

Black.

Info: This is part of a drabble series I'm starting about colours and their associations with emotions. Starting off with a real bummer, sorry for that. More happy things to come soon!

A/n: This drabble is better suited to spawn Astarion and is my explanation for why it's rather hard to convince him not to ascend, although I think he'd feel similarly after ascending, but would never admit it.

Warnings: Canon-typical talk about fighting, death and Astarion's enslaved life with Cazador and the ongoing abuse

Word count: 670

Astarion - Black [associations: death and mourning, fear and the unknown, emptiness and absence, anger and aggression]

How it would feel to kill Cazador, Astarion could hardly wait. To free himself from his abhorrent master who had kept him as a slave for centuries. He didn’t have the words to explain what he had to endure until now. The lashings, the scars, the abuse and torture he and his siblings had lived through, the starvation, the year he’d been put in a coffin for disobeying! Not to mention his body, which hadn't belonged to him all this time, used to seduce and lure hundreds of souls to the Szarr palace in a myriad of wretched ways.

The anticipation was unbearable, to slit the very man’s throat that had harassed and violated him ever since he could remember. The rush he’d get thinking about it was so deliciously sweet, his fingers itched even when he lay in the Elfsong Tavern’s bed daydreaming. He’d give everything, anything for a chance to end that wicked monster’s life once and for all.

And when he did it, when he finally found him, had escaped the ritual and wielded the blade for the final time, hearing his former lord gurgling his last breath, Astarion felt… nothing. 

Emptiness enveloped him when he looked at the corpse in front of him and sunk to his knees. A terrible pang shot through his head, first in his ears, down his neck and back up behind his eyes. Where was it? Where was this feeling he’d waited for, sought after, for what felt like an eternity? Where was the satisfaction, the glory and relief he had promised himself? He paused for a moment, two. Surely, it would begin to feel good, any minute now. It had to, this was all he had worked for. No, no, this couldn’t be. This couldn’t be it. 

The longer he looked at him, the clearer it became that Cazador’s corpse was nothing more than a man. Just another man, like the countless others he had killed in passing on his way back to Baldur’s Gate. But this was Cazador! Not simply a man or a nameless creature, this was the diabolical beast he had dreamed of killing every night since he had been captured and turned. It had to feel good! By the nine hells, why didn’t it feel good? The blandness of it all threatened to crack his skull.

A half-broken cry, helpless and pathetic, tore from his mouth as he looked up to the dungeon’s ceiling. Up to the Gods that he had prayed to for so long, that he had begged day in, day out, to set him free. None had answered all this time, no, he was the one to free himself in the end. And for what? For this feeling of nothingness? Two hundred years of pure shit for it to feel the same as having killed any other insignificant rival? Two hundred years of his life wasted because of Cazador. Centuries he could have spent on himself, his job in the magistrate's office, hells, he could have been rich by now or have started a family. Instead, he’d been bound to his involuntary pact, to lure in the innocent and foolish for Cazador to play with. All that cruelty, the manipulation and crimes were supposed to mean something!

But what had he expected? For Cazador to crawl to him, wailing apologies and begging for mercy? That he could be the one to laugh and spit in his face for once, before landing the killing blow? Would that have made any difference?

It dawned on him that forgiveness might be the true liberation he had been seeking. But he could never forget, no, he could never forgive what had been done to him. As the realisation hit him, he felt the tears streaming down his face, wet and sticky as they mingled with specks of Cazador's blood. 

No more Cazador Szarr, no more rats for meals, no more lashings, no more seductions. And no forgiveness. Never.

@bg3-fanfic-reblogs

[fayedartmouth]

Hi! 2 questions!

1. Do you have an update on your progress with your fix it? There are so many good ones on ao3 right now, but i check your page every day just to see if you comment on it or post a snippet! I literally can’t wait! So i would love to hear where you are in that process!

2. Something i just started thinking about. I remember in season 1. Kie talks about her kook year and she mentions how she got so depressed she was starting to consider self harm. It’s like never brought up again, but it is something we know she has struggled with in the past. Obviously we know JJ struggles with some similar things. It felt like such a waste to me that we never saw those two characters talk about it. especially considering everything jj went through in season 4 and the fact they were dating. I would loved to see them connect over that and talk through and heal together from that. Sooooo I was wondering if that’s something you plan to address in any of your future fics and if not if you would be willing to write a one shot about it? Either where they talk about it or where one of them tries to hurt themselves and they talk about it? or it could be on the boat in season 4. You know when he’s fully spiraling and nobody does ANYTHING.

Anywayyyyy, I love all your fics so much! You’ve been a huge part of this grieving process!

I wish I could write faster, like so much faster. Fix-it is currently pushing 150k. That's good! I just think it's probably only like half complete. And since I don't post unfinished fics to AO3, it just means there will be some waiting involved.

(As an aside, I'm also working far too much on the SECOND fix it fic because I keep talking to @woudsohfiv about it and she keeps asking me to and now I have 25k of THAT fic done as well. And I'd be lying if didn't say I had written a few scenes for the THIRD fic as well. I just like some scenes, lol.)

So I will have to post snippets to keep people interested -- and believing that I am, in fact, writing this monstrosity.

I'll dump one below.

As for point two! I hadn't really thought about it BUT arc 2 is going to have a lot of Kiara's struggles. She's in a very bad head space and she hits her rock bottom in arc 2. So I can probably definitely weave that into her POV. And arc 3 is reconciliatory for JJ and Kie, and they will both be confessing a LOT of secrets -- I can probably also bring that in. Given what JJ has to confess to her, her sharing that might actually really help and make sense, all things considered.

Okay, so snippet below! Let me ask this -- I'm never unsure of how much is too much -- or if spoilers are a problem. Do you prefer snippets that don't reveal too much? Or do you like snippets that provide key plot points? I'm just really bad at picking them!

The scene below is set at the end of their stint on the OBX in season -- when they set out to sail for Morocco. One huge thing I'm working with is providing more insight into the characters -- so we're getting more of JJ's trauma and a lot more concern from the Pogues. Everyone will be more likable and sympathetic than whatever it was we saw on screen.

“It’ll be the last time we see her, I guess,” JJ said.

John B looked at him, a little taken aback.  JJ’s face wasn’t colored with hurt; if anything, he seemed calmer than he had been.  As if looking in the face of the inevitable had solidified him somehow.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

But could John B say it was surprising?

Was any of this surprising?

He was pissed at JJ – he <i>was</i>.  JJ had cost them everything, and he had put them all on the line.  

But he’d said it before, back when they were just kids.  It didn’t matter whose fault it was.  This was a relationship, and JJ was his best friend.  JJ was his brother.

JJ was hurting; JJ was reeling.

He was watching JJ unravel in front of him, and anger didn’t get him anywhere.  Not when JJ’s troubles came from a place of pain, a place so deep in JJ that he hardly let it show.  A place so encompassing for JJ now that he didn’t know how to hide it.

His heart ached, then, as he watched JJ’s face.  Staring at the only place he’d ever felt happy.

The only home he’d ever had.

JJ wasn’t bidding goodbye to Poguelandia.

He was bidding goodbye to the very idea of home.

The very idea of family.

“JJ,” he said, and he wet his lips, looking for the words.  “We don’t know that.”

When JJ looked at him now, his expression was funny.  There was something there, seated deeply in his eyes.  Not quite amusement; not quite reassurance.  Almost like he wanted to believe John B – but knew he couldn’t.

It was almost pity.

“John B, I’m wanted for murder.  I burned down the town.  Breaking, entering, looting, arson–”

John B felt his chest start to tighten.  “Shoupe said we could make it go away.”

JJ smiled.  But tired.  Small.  <i>Weary</i>.  “The things I’ve done can’t just disappear,” he said, and he nodded back at the retreating view of Poguelandia.  “I’m the reason we can’t go home.  I’m the reason it’s gone.  Me.”

Back on the beach, with Shoupe on their tails, he had wanted to hear that.  He’d needed JJ to take responsibility and own up to it.  For losing their home.  For putting them all in danger.  For putting Sarah – and the baby in danger.

But that was the problem, in the end.  JJ knew his faults.  JJ knew them better than the rest of them.  He had internalized them all his life.  Luke had made sure JJ understood that much:  that he was the problem.

So much so that JJ made himself the problem.

During the last 18 months, John B often let himself forget that those memories still haunted JJ.

Standing there with him, looking back at the wreckage of the last week, he reminded himself how willfully naive he’d been.  Like 18 months could undo what JJ had spent 18 years learning.

JJ didn’t need to take the blame.

JJ needed to believe – for the first time in his life – that he could do better.  That he had a future.  Not the one Luke beat into him.  Not the one Groff had left him behind for.  But they one they were going to build – together.

Blame and fault – that was what went before.

Hope and change – that was what had to get them forward.

JJ had plenty of the former and, John B realized with a growing dread, almost none of the latter.  

JJ lips quirked up, his smile wry.  It didn’t reach his eyes as he shook his head and looked down again.  “I’m the reason we lost it,” he said quietly, and there was no condemnation they could make that matched what JJ already felt for himself.  “I’m the reason we lost everything.”

John B swallowed, and when he blinked, his eyes were burning.  “It was just a house, JJ.  It was land,” he said.

JJ looked up, eyes wide.  He made a choked off laugh, pointing to the shoreline behind them.  “It was our business, our home – <i>everything</i>.”

It had never been just a house.  It had never been just land.  John B knew that; that was why it’d been so easy to forgive JJ after he blew so much money buying it.  He knew what it meant then, to own it, to take it back for himself.

He knew what it meant now, to lose it.

Denial, though, was the only friend John B had, more long-lasting than JJ.  He drew himself up, shaking his head.  “Well, we’ll find the Blue Crown.  We’ll get another fortune.  And we’ll make another one.”

He spoke it with conviction.  Did he believe it?  Was it something he was sure of?

He had to believe it.  They’d done the impossible before – so many times.

All because John B told them they could.

JJ had never doubted him.

But now, standing there on the deck, he could see the change.  JJ doubted him now.

John B’s passion had always been enough for the both of them.

JJ had lost too much, though.  Passion, hope, belief – not even revenge.  John B had the growing fear that none of it would be enough for JJ now.  People weren’t inexhaustible.  Spirit wasn’t indefatigable.  Humanity had limited resources, and everyone ran out when pushed too long and too hard.

Even JJ.

Especially JJ.

“You make it sound easy,” JJ said finally, and his voice was small.  There was no anger; there was no vitriol.  But the sound was laden with regret.

The life not realized.

JJ had seen it for a second – a fleeting second – the possibility.

Now, he was standing face to face with a bleaker reality.  One he could no longer see his way past.

He couldn’t bullshit this.  He couldn’t pretend like it wasn’t real, not when they were running from the law, making a last-ditch effort to save everything.  “It wasn’t easy last time.”

John B knew his own hubris had started this.  It had been his insistence that set them on this path, putting all of them in danger time and time again.  JJ had wanted him to stop once.

Now, he wasn’t sure JJ could keep doing this at all.

For all their sakes, he had to.

“B, that’s the point.  I don’t know if we can do it again – if we can capture that same magic that got us here,” JJ said with a short, hot exhale.  He shook his head, gesturing helplessly to the horizon, where land was growing distant. He looked down, seeming to shrink into himself.  “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

JJ had always been able to do that, to make himself smaller somehow.  The way he held himself, the way he tried to make himself disappear.  As if he could will himself out of existence once and for all.

John B reached out, taking JJ by the shoulder to keep him from retreating further.  “We’re going to find that crown.  We’re going to fix everything.”

Looking out across the water, JJ seemed to sigh.  He knew JJ, better than anyone.  He knew JJ had a finite ability to fight.  He knew that his defenses only last so long before they just fell.

He was pretty sure they were almost there.

Or, as he looked at JJ’s face, looking tiredly across the water, he thought maybe they were already there.

“I want that,” he said softly.  His voice was quiet over the sound of the engine almost lost in the churning of the water beneath the hull.  He looked at John B.  “For you guys.  I want that.”

John B felt the twinge in his chest.  “For <i>us.</i>”

He said it with force and certainty.  It was an effort to convince JJ.

But JJ just looked away again.  “I don’t know anymore.”

The admission was small – and huge all at the same time.  That twinge deepened, and John B felt the flutter in his chest send a wave of panic down his spine.  “JJ, I’m serious,” he said.  “This is for us.”

It wasn’t enough to bring JJ’s gaze back to him.  If anything, the sadness seemed to settle.  It seemed to take hold.  “Maybe it shouldn’t.”

The words were soft.

They hit <i>hard</i>.

There was something about them.  Something futile.  Something resigned.

Something like giving up.

All the years, he’d known JJ.  JJ hadn’t quit.  He’d gone through so much shit – too much shit – and always got back up swinging.

Something had changed.

Looking at JJ, he worried everything had changed.

And he didn’t know how to undo it.  He didn’t know how to fix it.

John B didn’t know how.

“What?” he asked instead.

JJ shrugged with a quiet sense of loss.  “You said it yourself,” he said, giving John B a tired look.  “This is my fault.  All of this.  Is <i>exclusively my fault.</i>”

It was true, was the thing.  John B had said it.  He’d practically demanded it, pinned JJ down, backed him into the corner until the admission was forced out of him.  In the moment – as it all came crashing down – he’d needed JJ to take that accountability.  He’d needed JJ to stop and realize what he’d done.

With emotions high – and stakes higher – it had mattered.

Because JJ didn’t think.  He never thought.

But then, John B had always known that.

And he knew why.

JJ didn’t know how.  JJ had no means for it.  He had no emotional grounding for it.

When most people were drowning, they saved themselves.  It was normal human reaction to put yourself in the lifeboat first.  It was what they all did.  It was what John B did.

It wasn’t what JJ did.

When push came to shove, JJ would jump out of the boat every single time.

JJ would drown so they could float.

And sometimes, it was easy to let him.

“I know,” he said, sighing heavily.  “But I didn’t mean–”

JJ looked at him.  The look on his face was hard to explain.  It was something John B hadn’t seen before.  JJ had been beaten down a lot in his life.

But John B had never seen him <i>broken</i>.

Not like this.

“You did,” JJ said.  There was no malice; there was no anger.  Just acceptance.  “And you were right.  All of you were right.  I ruin everything.  Everything falls apart because of me.”

John B felt his gut twist.  That had never been his point.  “I just wanted you to think about the consequences of your actions–”

“I know,” JJ said.  “I’m a moron.  I’m just stupid.  I mean, come on.  Luke wouldn’t have beat a kid who did it right.  And Groff – he wouldn’t have tried to kill me if I was <i>worth anything</i>.”

The self loathing now rippled just beneath the surface.  JJ’s face was taut with his, his voice heavy.  “JJ, shut up,” he said.  He inhaled sharply, curbing his emotions as best he could.  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

But JJ didn’t.

JJ didn’t know it.

JJ didn’t know it at all.

The funny thing about it all was that JJ didn’t need accountability.  No one hated JJ – more than JJ himself.  Luke had beaten him down.  Groff had broken him.

And John B had scattered the pieces all across the OBX in a self-righteous haze.

It wasn’t his fault.

But what was it he’d said?  That it wasn’t about blame?

It was just about the way two people who loved each other could hurt each other.  It was just about how two people who loved each other owed the other one everything, just for one more chance to make it right.

“JJ, good things are going to happen,” he said, stepping closer and holding his gaze.  “I swear, J.  This is going to work out.  It <i>is</i>.”

In the dying light, JJ looked stripped down.  The color washed from his face and the pretenses gone in his eyes.  John B had a sudden, horrible thought, that no matter what happened on this trip, no matter what they found, it would never make up for what JJ had lost.

“I don’t think I get good things,” JJ said, and he exhaled, a small breathless smile with no humor.  “I don’t think I get any good thing, B.”

It wasn’t just the words, the fleeting thoughts.

It was the certainty.

It was the plain certainty written all over JJ’s face, carried like a weight on his shoulders that he would never shrug off.

And John B had wanted to place blame.

Like JJ hadn’t spent his entire life thinking it was his fault.

“JJ,” he said, his own breath catching.  He shook his head.  “Why would you say that?”

He knew why.  John B had known why since the first day JJ showed up at the Chateau, bloody and bruised.  The day he insisted, swore up and down that he was fine, that he was okay, that his dad loved him.

The only way to love a world that hated you, after all, was if you took the blame.

And carried it all your life, right down to the grave.

“I don’t deserve them anyway,” JJ said.  “I mean, I had a good thing — I had the best thing, everything I ever wanted.  I had you guys, I had the charter, I had Kie—“

His voice broke, the weight of his words filling the void between them as John B didn’t trust himself to speak.

“And I threw it away,” JJ continued, voice falling soft into the stillness as he looked back across the water.  He looked at John B, swallowing hard.  “And worse, I took all of you down with me.”

John B stepped closer, taking JJ by the arm.  “Hey, none of that bullshit," he said.

JJ frowned.  “But you said—“

John B rolled his eyes.  “I was mad.  I was stressed.  I didn’t mean it.”

JJ’s face contorted.  “You should have,” he said and quickly shook his head as he pulled out of John B’s grasp.  “You did.  You were right.”

“No, because this isn’t just you or me.  It’s all of us together,” he said.  “P4L, remember?”

JJ physically flinched at the familiar invective.

John B pressed it.  “We went down together, okay?” he said.  “We’ll get back up together, too.”

And for a moment, JJ held his gaze.  For a moment, JJ heard him,

For a moment, JJ believed him.

But the reality crashed back in, and JJ looked away, blinking hard as he breathed heavily.  “We’ll see,” he mumbled, wholly unconvinced.

He wanted to reassure him.  He wanted to fix this.

Because JJ was his best friend.  JJ was his brother.  John B had lost too many people. He couldn't lose another one, not JJ

It wasn’t the same, though.  It didn’t work the way it used to.

JJ was right here with him, and he’d never been further away.  John B had known this from the start.  JJ wasn’t reckless for the sake of pissing them off.  JJ wasn’t reckless because he was stupid or selfish.  JJ was reckless because he was scared.

JJ was reckless because he would rather choose his own pain than endure what others gave him.  The race had been a sign that JJ was losing control, and John B hadn’t done anything.  Then with Luke, Groff, the land, the riot.

John B had been so wrapped up in himself that he’d lost sight of JJ.

Now, even as he tried to steer them to salvation, he worried he might lose JJ altogether.  Death took many forms, he knew this from experience.  The worst ones happened while your heart was still beating and air still moved in your lungs.

Because JJ <i>was right here</i>.

But he felt further away than ever.

[delimeful]

the roots of something greener (1)

G/T July Day 9: Rainy Day

patreon prompt: kid logan trying to make a deal with fae janus for nyn! hope you enjoy :)

warnings: magical deals, threats, unwilling transformation, implied parental neglect, mentions of starvation and abandonment

-

The first time the child found him, Janus was already in a foul mood.

The day had started out with a light drizzle, and as the hours crept by, it had slowly grown into a far more irritating downpour.

This wouldn’t have been anything near a problem for most fae, and certainly a meager handful of years ago, Janus would have hardly spared it a fleeting thought. Even if he didn’t care to waste any magic on a simple repelling spell, he could have simply slipped between realms, abandoning that particular stretch of human land until the storm passed.

Now that he was banished and bound, however, his options were far more limited.

There would be no leaving the human realm, not until his time was served. His sentence wasn’t so harsh as to confine him to a single circle, but being able to jump between this and that ring of mushrooms didn’t help him much when the rainfall was present over the entire forest.

He grit his teeth as a stray drop managed to make it through the leaves above him, the thickest canopy he could find over one of his rings.

Though it was only a single raindrop, it drenched his head and shoulders with ease. His form in mortal realm was limited by the space he was allowed, and the only proper faery rings within these woods were barely large enough for a human to step a single foot into.

He wasn’t sure if only being able to manifest at the same size as a child’s doll was an intentional part of his punishment, or merely a bonus. Either way, it was certainly humiliating enough for him to resent it.

It was in this soaked, resentful mood that he heard the distinct pattern of human footsteps, leaves and other detritus crunching rhythmically underfoot.

“What curious timing,” he muttered irritatedly to himself, turning to face the intruder with a smile that was almost certainly a little too sharp for human tastes.

… And then promptly lowered his expectant gaze a foot or two, because the human approaching him was unquestionably a mere child.

Young, likely barely a decade old, and with the thickest, blockiest pair of spectacles Janus had seen in ages. While the child wasn’t dressed for the weather, he was carefully holding a deep blue umbrella over his head as he picked his way over the muddy forest floor.

The little thing froze for a moment at the sight of him, and for a moment Janus thought perhaps this was some unwise youth that had wandered off from his parents, with no idea what was before him.

Then, he straightened up formally, eyes glinting with excitement, and it became clear that the child knew exactly what Janus was, and likely thought he knew exactly what he was getting into, as well.

(Part of Janus was admittedly relieved. Being locked out of his home realm meant there was no easy defense against humans who stepped into the space of the ring, and he really wasn’t in the mood to dodge the grasping fingers of a toddler who thought him a toy.)

“Salutations,” the child greeted belatedly, quickly reaching up to adjust his rain-splattered glasses with his free hand. The umbrella drooped slightly without the support of both of those undersized arms. “I’m searching for the, um, the fair folk of this wood. I’d like to make a deal.”

How bold, to open with such an attention-grabbing phrase. Janus reclined back slightly, attempting to look regal even with his hair plastered in wet strands across his face. “Well, now. Isn’t it good manners to introduce yourself before making requests of strangers?”

The child’s face pinched slightly, but he’d clearly done at least some research. “You may call me Logic.”

Janus hummed. “Well met, Logic. I go by Deceit.”

“Deceit?” Logic echoed with a frown. “I thought fair folk weren’t able to lie.”

“They’re not,” Janus agreed pleasantly, some of his humor returning to him at the usage of a familiar bit.

For all his flaws, none of the humans he’d tricked over the years could claim they hadn’t been warned from the start.

“Then why,” Logic started, before shaking his head firmly, dismissing the line of questioning in favor of his original goal. Whatever had brought him here, it was clearly important to him.

It always was, when they were willing to make a deal for it.

“I’d like to make a deal,” he repeated, setting his shoulders and stiffening his posture. “I want to learn how to use magic.”

Janus refrained from letting the derisive edge sneak into his smile. “And what could you possibly have to offer in return for that?”

“I can offer you equal knowledge in exchange,” Logic responded, wearing a very serious expression that looked quite amusing on such a young face. “I may be young, but you’ll find that I’m very good at researching.”

The offer was exactly what he should have expected from a human child, especially one that had never dealt with the fae before. It was likely that his little research hobby was the only reason he’d learned enough to make it this far.

“My, you certainly have a lot of confidence in the value of knowledge, don’t you?” Janus mused, distantly glad that it was him that the child had chosen to annoy with this, rather than a more power-hungry sort. “Very well, I accept the terms of your deal.”

He held out a hand, and almost immediately regretted it. He’d forgotten how easily dwarfed he was, like this.

When Logic reached out, however, it was with a slow and careful hand, his face scrunched up intently as he used two fingers to emulate a handshake. There was no pinching pressure or crushing grip, only the distinct warmth of human contact and the slight electric spark of the deal being sealed.

It almost made Janus feel bad for what he was about to do.

“Your first lesson,” he announced, pulling his hand back and flexing his fingers absently, “is to never make such open-ended deals with fae.”

Logic recoiled slightly, looking slightly bewildered, and Janus forced his smile into something crueler as the sting of magic grew sharper.

“An offer of any knowledge I please, so long as it’s of equal value? You haven’t even clarified which kind of magic you’re so desperate to learn.” Janus leaned forward slightly, wrapping his hand around the invisible cord of the deal. “I could request your name, control over the very essence of your being, and all I would be required to do in exchange would be provide you with instruction on magic of suitable power. Your terms are exploitable, little one.”

He let the implied threat linger, watching as the implications sunk in and the child’s worry began to turn to fear. The sight of it was a sour curl in his gut, but this was a lesson better learned here and now, rather than later and with more permanent consequences.

“Of course, I have no particular desire to teach you any magic at all, let alone the complexities of magic strong enough to be equivalent to a name.” Janus slowly released all but the tiniest sliver of the potential the deal held. “Hm. I think a demonstration of simple magic will do, to satisfy both your curiosity and mine.”

Transformation spells were painful and slow when cast a certain way, a fact that many of his kin had taken advantage of when dealing with humans. Janus kept the magic brief and painless, because for all his flaws, enjoying the needless suffering of a child was not one of them.

With a snap of his fingers, the child’s form shifted to something more thematically appropriate.

The umbrella clattered to the ground, catching on the breeze and skittering a few feet away from the kitten that now sat on the ground before him, blinking in disorientation.

“Consider our bargain complete,” Janus informed the kid, finally able to speak to him at eye level. “As the last tidbit of magical knowledge I’ll impart, have this: recognition is the key to returning you to your true form.”

Looking as though he was composed of more fluff than flesh, Logic let out a tiny, confused meow. His eyes were surrounded by distinctive, blocky markings, the spitting image of the chunky square glasses that he wore as a human. It was the easiest possible condition Janus had ever set; it was near-impossible to look at the kitten and not see the resemblance.

With a flick of his hand, the kitten was whisked to the edge of the woods that he’d entered from, where there was surely a guardian nearby to find him and undo the minor curse before the sun had set.

With any luck, the experience would scare the kid off from any further attempts at playing with magic he didn’t understand.

Job done, Janus glanced at the abandoned umbrella, lying far out of reach of his undersized mushroom ring, and then turned away with a sigh.

What a waste.

–

Janus hadn’t been one to keep track of the time, before, but that may have simply been because time was much less linear in the faerie realm. The length between one moment and the next could be stretched or squashed, and so time tended to be more of a feeling than a fact.

In the human realm, things were much simpler. The sun rose and fell and rose again, and that was a day, every time without fail. He could hardly lose track of something like that.

As such, Janus knew that two full days had passed when he next saw Logic.

Logic, not the child, because he was still, inexplicably, in the form of that tiny, barely-weaned kitten.

It had been sheer luck that Janus spotted him; he’d been moving between one ring and the next throughout the day, absently looking for any stray detritus that had fallen close enough to his ring to be tugged fully inside. Any shelter made from such impermanent materials was destined to be temporary, but Janus was tired of the chill, and willing to take any reprieve from the elements he was offered.

Looking at the soggy little beast that was crouched a few meters away, Janus felt an odd sense of guilt crop up within him. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had been enduring the weather.

Fur matted and damp from the on and off rain that had plagued the area, body trembling from cold or hunger or a combination of the two, Logic looked like the definition of pitiful.

And why wouldn’t he? For all intents and purposes, the child apparently spent the last couple of days trapped in an unfamiliar body and stuck in a hostile environment, with no aid to be found.

… Why hadn’t someone recognized him? For that matter, why weren’t there humans traipsing about through the trees in search of a missing child?

Logic sneezed miserably, interrupting what seemed to be an attempt to use his new, keener nose to track down a meal. His tiny ears angled back in a distinctly feline form of frustration, a gesture that would have undoubtedly been cuter if he hadn’t been so visibly on the brink of starving.

Well. Janus wouldn’t get his answers if he just left the child there, would he?

“I know you, child,” he said, voice carrying enough to make the kitten’s head snap around toward him. “I didn’t expect you to still be scurrying about like this. Why in the world would you not simply go home?”

Acknowledging his true form did the trick. The spell unraveled like he’d pulled on a loose thread in a knit blanket, the magic falling away with ease and leaving the child in his oversized spectacles sitting there in the dew-dappled grass.

For a moment, he remained like that, folded over on himself like a baby deer laying still and hoping that predators’ eyes would skip over him.

Janus met his gaze and raised a prompting eyebrow, waiting for an explanation on how such a simple curse had gone so wrong that the fae who laid it, of all people, had to be the one to free him from it.

In the next second, Logic had sprung to his feet and bolted. His steps were wobbly and likely fueled by panic alone, but adrenaline was undeniably effective in getting him very far away, very quickly.

“Rude,” Janus muttered to the empty air he’d left behind, and then followed the kid as far as he could manage through his rings, making certain this time that he’d actually left the forest behind.

There still wasn’t a single other human around, let alone one that appeared to be looking for something as valuable as lost offspring. Janus tried not to let the information grate against his scales, with only mild success.

In the end, he still wouldn’t get his answers. It didn’t matter. The child had clearly been scared off for good, so there was no use pursuing the issue further.

He shouldn’t dwell on things he couldn’t change, anyhow.

–

The third time Janus encountered Logic, the child found him first.

It was another overcast day, with a light sprinkling of rain that was certain to become something miserably damp within an hour or two.

He hadn’t expected any more visitors, and certainly not any that would make it to one of his rings and lurk there, so he’d been more puzzled by the relative dryness of the leaves beneath his feet. In fact, he hadn’t realized anyone was near, let alone guessed just who was sitting at the edge of the faerie circle until a tiny, presumptuous throat cleared.

(Such obliviousness was out of character for him. If the kid had been a snake, he could have bit Janus.

Good thing he’d picked a kitten before, instead.

Even if those, too, had fangs of their own.)

Logic waved a hand, showing no signs of his previous panicked flight– except there was a slightly harder set to his shoulders, Janus noticed, like he was preparing for a difficult fight.

He’d brought a bag with him this time. It was partially open, and Janus easily made the connection between the spare pieces spilling from it and the plastic canopy that had been painstakingly assembled over his mushroom ring. Large and durable, it was currently diverting the rain away from Janus’s circle with streamlined ease.

“Hello, Deceit,” the kid greeted. “I’m back for my next lesson.”

Between them, the deal rekindled, sparking dull embers back to life at Logic’s willful insistence. With a willingness to keep providing knowledge, he could theoretically continue to learn for as many lessons as he paid the dues for. It was one of the many loopholes that were applicable to such open-ended deals, but Janus certainly hadn’t anticipated the child using it against him.

How interesting. It seemed there were still things an ages-old fae couldn’t predict, after all.

From beneath the comfortable shelter of an oversized dollhouse gazebo, Janus tipped his head back and laughed.

[snapdragonling]

the shadow of the mountain

ozy/kallux, 2.5k words, post-campaign. rated M that's one way to tire him out i guess

He’s been tetchy all week, and he knows it, and he knows that Kallux knows it. It’s something of a strange relief when Kallux finally brings it up, like the acknowledgement of his foul mood is enough to break some of the tension that had risen between them in the last few days.

“We’re wasting our time,” Kallux says, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You barely get anything done when you’re like this. Let’s just…leave it for the rest of the night, yeah?”

Ozy doesn’t want to leave it for the rest of the night. They’d finally been making progress towards uncovering a safer route into the mountain, wading through old maps and ancient journals, sequestered in one of the library’s back rooms from dawn until dusk. Ozy had developed a headache sometime around midday and kept at it doggedly, spurred onwards by the knowledge of what would happen come nightfall. 

He’d spent enough evenings pacing the length of the town walls to learn the routine: darkness came down from the mountain, and then the undead, and then the long, dreadful hours of skeletal hands scrabbling against brick, looking for a way in.

The townsfolk were terrified and running out of food. Ozy saw the way they looked at him and Kallux, equal parts desperate and doubtful. He hardly blamed them. He wasn’t sure he’d believe in himself either, after failing to find the blacksmith’s son until it was already too late.

Once upon a time the failure and frustration wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. Unfortunate how much more difficult things were when you cared.

Now Kallux was looking at him critically, the toll of the last few weeks visible in the grey shadows beneath his eyes. Ozy runs a hand down his face and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I know I’ve been—”

“Stubborn. Difficult.”

“Yes, that. I just…haven’t been sleeping.” It’s a somewhat pointless admission, given that Kallux shared his bed and already knew that too. Ozy tried not to disturb him when he woke in the night, chased out of his dreams by uneasy visions or memories, but it couldn’t be helped. 

The mountain was making it worse. Something at the heart of it thrummed with power, calling to him in the dark. Sometimes he thought he heard a voice whispering to him, though he couldn’t make out the words.

Kallux snaps his fingers to get his attention. Ozy realises he’d been talking. “You’re no good to anyone when you’re exhausted,” Kallux says slowly, repeating himself, “and you’re no good to me when you’re an asshole. We should call it here, get an early night. Pick it back up in the morning.”

He was right, Ozy knew it. He purses his lips, glancing down at the journal he’d been skimming through. The words all but swam on the page. “Fine,” he sighs. “Alright.”

It’s a silent walk back to the tavern in the chill evening air. The innkeep offers them a wan greeting as they climb up to their quarters. They’d been her only paying boarders in a month, so she liked them a little more than others did — enough to let them pick between all the creaking, vacant rooms on the second floor.

They’d chosen one with a view of the walls, of course. All the better to keep an eye on things.

The window keeps drawing Ozy’s gaze as he unbuckles his armour, sitting on the opposite side of the bed to Kallux. The light was fading fast now, casting a long shadow out from the town wall, where he could see a handful of people hurrying back to their homes. No curfew was as effective as the threat of undead.

And beyond the wall, limned in an eerie light by the setting sun behind it, lay the mountain. Ozy could feel the pull of it even now. He knew how much worse it would get after dark.

He’s sliding his boots back on before he even realises what he’s doing. He’s almost finished buckling the straps by the time Kallux notices.

“Where are you going?”

“I know I won’t sleep in this place,” he says shortly. “I don’t want to keep waking you. I may as well make myself useful, take a watch or something—”

“They’ve assigned those already.”

“—anything other than toss and turn all night.” He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Kallux steps in front of him before he makes it to the door, expression flinty in that way that made him difficult to read. Ozy pulls up short, frowning. “Kallux.”

“No.”

“It’s not—”

Kallux reaches up to grip his jaw. Ozy goes still. 

“You’re being an ass,” Kallux says flatly. “A really stupid one, and I don’t think you should take that attitude anywhere near the wall right now. You want to sleep?”

“Yes, but—”

He’s not expecting the shove, and so he’s not braced for it. The backs of his knees hit the bed, tipping him gracelessly onto the mattress. He’s given absolutely no time to recover before Kallux is clambering on top of him and bringing their mouths together in an implacable, insistent kiss.

Ozy is exhausted; frustrated; close to a breaking point. He still reaches for Kallux immediately, hands splayed across his back to feel the warmth of him. They’d barely even kissed since they got here, too tired and grim for much more than brief moments of comfort in the night, or a steadying hand here and there. It’s only with the slick heat of Kallux’s tongue in his mouth and a knee pressed between his legs that he realises how badly he’d missed this.

Still.

“This really isn’t the time,” Ozy rasps, when Kallux leans back to pull off his shirt and toss it carelessly onto the floor.

“I think it’s exactly the time.”

“If the walls—”

“The walls will hold and you know it.”

He did know it. He lets Kallux help strip him of his remaining armour and the clothes beneath, buckles and laces giving way to hands that had done this a thousand times before. They don’t talk or tease, as is their usual habit. No time for it really. As soon as Ozy is lying naked beneath him Kallux leans off the bed to reach for one of their packs and the phial within, hampered only slightly by Ozy kissing every inch of his neck and chest.

He’s kissing the faded scar a ghoul had given Kallux on their first trip outside the walls when his lover leans back down to him, lips hot against his mouth, then his throat, then the shell of his ear. “Turn over,” Kallux tells him.

Ozy tilts his face sideways to look at him. Kallux meets his gaze evenly, only his huge, hungry pupils giving him away. It makes Ozy’s gut clench with reckless want.

He does as he’s asked, of course; flipping onto his stomach, shivering as Kallux’s hands skim up his spine, one scarred and scalding, one the smooth coolness of his prosthetic. He reaches back to grip Kallux’s hip; makes a small sound of consternation as his own wrists are seized instead, twisting his arms behind him to pin them at the small of his back. He’d been so tense all week that the angle burns just slightly, like stretching after a deep sleep.

Kallux leans down to kiss his shoulder. “Keep those there,” he says, voice low.

This is your brilliant plan? Ozy might have retorted, if he wasn’t already breathing unsteadily from anticipation. He hears Kallux murmur something; feels the sudden, familiar brush of arcane energy against his skin.

The spectral hand is a gentle weight on his wrists, more a nod to restraint than anything else, but it hardly matters. Ozy could do as he was told when he wanted to.

He does his best, at least, when Kallux touches him in earnest; presses his forehead to the mattress and tries not to rock his hips instinctively; tries to be patient and still. 

Kallux moves slowly, though — far slower than usual, like he could sense Ozy’s restlessness and was taking his time just to spite him, working him open with agonising diligence, pausing to kiss his back or dig a thumb into the taut muscle of his shoulders or ass, making him twitch and flex. “Easy,” he says, when Ozy pushes back onto him. “C’mon baby, you can do better than that.”

Ozy feels the flush travel from his face right down to his cock. Selene help him.

This was his game, usually — testing the edge of Kallux’s restraint, coaxing out his favourite sounds, strung-out and wanting. He loved Kallux’s impatience, loved getting him to the point of cursing, loved the tug of fingers in his hair when he teased too hard.

Of course Kallux wanted to flip the script now, when Ozy was already so tense and overwrought.

He’s right on the cusp of begging when Kallux finally pushes in, and even that doesn’t improve the situation by much. His lover still moved at a glacial pace, like the slow grind of erosion, meting out thrusts as if they were in short supply — and how the fuck did he still have this kind of patience after the week they’d had? 

For his own part, Ozy feels half out of his mind with want. He forgets his instructions and reaches out to grip the sheets, chasing the friction beneath him. Kallux twists the arm behind his back again, hand pinning both wrists, no quarter given.

“Gods,” Ozy rasps. “Kallux—”

“Sorry. Enjoying the view.”

Kallux’s spectral mage hand skims up his back, tracing the curve of one jutting shoulder blade, where he knew the afterimage of his long-gone tattoo gleamed faintly in the candlelight. From there it trails up to grip his hair, just enough pressure to pull his head back. He doesn’t quite manage to swallow a moan. He feels like a straining bowstring, pulled so tight he might snap. 

Out of the corner of his one good eye he catches a glimpse of the window. It was well and truly dark now, only a pitch-black sky visible through the glass. The undead would be arriving at the wall in droves, fleshless fingers scraping against stone, groaning in uneasy chorus. The thought of it slices briefly through his desire, making his stomach twist in a less enticing way.

As if Kallux can sense the direction of his thoughts he abruptly pulls out. Ozy makes a guttural sound of dismay, muffled by the mattress as the spectral hand abandons him too. Kallux doesn’t release his wrists even as he shifts on the bed, settling down beside Ozy with his head propped up on his other arm. He blocks Ozy’s view of the window completely.

“You’re killing me,” Ozy tells him raggedly, tipping his head to look at him.

“I know.” Kallux’s hair was sweaty, his cheeks beautifully flushed, his lower lip red where he’d been biting it. He ducks down to kiss Ozy soundly, finally moving his hand to stroke the inside of his thigh — tauntingly close to where Ozy really wanted him. His eyes are very dark as he holds Ozy’s gaze. “Promise me you’ll stop punishing yourself.”

Of course Kallux saw right through him. Ozy turns his face into the sheets. “This is extortion,” he mumbles.

“Bribery, I think. Promise me.”

Ozy truthfully feels like promising him the world right then and there, but that was the desperation talking. He doesn’t make promises lightly. “I’ll try,” he says, the best he can offer. “For you.”

Kallux hums, clearly thinking it over. Then he rolls up onto his knees. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

He seems to have used up his supply of patience, because when he pushes in again Ozy has no choice but to grip the mattress, breath immediately stolen by the pace Kallux sets. He gets to keep his hands this time — Kallux doesn’t stop him when he moves, just braces his own hand against Ozy’s back, palm splayed out, skin burning. 

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes. “You’ve been killing me too.”

Ozy huffs a ragged laugh into the crook of his elbow. His entire body was on fire, brought back to the point of urgency within moments. He lifts his hips to deepen the angle, to take more of him. Kallux rewards him by slipping his hand beneath Ozy’s stomach, fingers finally wrapped around the straining length of him while he bites at his shoulder.

It’s barely any time at all before every muscle in Ozy’s body is bunching up. “Kallux,” he pants. “Gods— fuck—”

Kallux kisses his neck, the curve of his spine. “C’mon baby.”

Those may as well be the words to an incantation. Ozy curls forward into the mattress, hips shuddering, blind to anything but the sudden flood of his pleasure — and the flood of Kallux’s pleasure when he follows him a few moments later, cursing breathlessly.

At some point in the hazy minutes afterwards he ends up lying between Kallux’s legs, head resting on his lover’s chest and arms circling his back as Kallux combs languid fingers through his sweaty hair. He feels so wrung-out that the thought of ever moving again sounds immensely unappealing. He could stand to spend an entire day here, pressed skin-to-skin.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

The hand in his hair pauses, then resumes its slow motion. Kallux kisses the top of his head. “Missed you too.”

Nevermind that they’d been together the whole time, working and fighting and sleeping alongside each other. Kallux knew what he meant anyway; that he’d missed the closeness, the easy transparency. This place was weighing on both of them. It had been some time since they were so tested, so worn-thin.

“We’ll take a break,” Kallux says softly, “on the other side of this. Head home, let the neighbours know we’re alive. Visit the coast, maybe.”

Ozy wishes they were there now, walking the sun-bleached streets of a seaside village, watching fisherfolk haul in their iridescent catch. Birds would be crying and wheeling overhead, species that had never existed before Melora — now as much a part of the planet as any of them. It was a tentative and beautiful thing, the new world that had sprung from the ashes of the old. Tentative and beautiful, too, was the life they’d built there for themselves.

Outside it was dark, and the undead were clamouring, and there were terrified people huddled in their homes who desperately needed help.

“On the other side of this,” Ozy echoes.

Kallux shifts beneath him, getting more comfortable. “Try to sleep. Don’t worry about waking me, alright? I’ll be here.”

Ozy is already halfway there, eyelids heavy and body listless, lulled by the steady motion of Kallux’s breathing. “I’ll try,” he mumbles.

Then he’s out like a light.

(He wakes only once in the darkness, heart hammering from the twisted dreams stirred up by the mountain. Kallux’s arm is still around his shoulders though, and even as he blinks awake there’s a hand trailing up and down his spine, a comforting, constant warmth. He sinks back into sleep thinking about the sun.)

[nerdthatsiriuslylovesteaxx]

Helpless part 44, who will look for you when you’re the one that goes missing?

TW/ suicidal thoughts, underage drinking, mentions of drugs and sh

Nico layed still, staring at the roof, completely awake. He knew what would happen if he slept, he couldn't go through that again not right now. His head pounded with the pain; bearly breathing he tried to shut his eyes but his only thoughts were the nightmares which were his life. He couldn't do it anymore, he needed something, anything to take the pain away. Unless he actually we through with his plan, Will would kill him, but if it worked it would never get to that stage. He let the darkness consume him like it had endless times before that, opening his eyes in finding himself back in his cabin. His head was spinning, vision blurred and he could hardly keep himself upright but he would be okay, he'd done this hundreds of times before, he was fine. As the Ghost King looked around he saw everything had been taken away, the drugs, the cigarettes, his knives the bottles everything, that was expected, he just prayed they hadn't found the rest. He stumbled towards the bathroom, pulling out the one hollow tile, he knew he shouldn't be doing this, he knew Will would be disappointed but everything that happened was too much, every haunted thought from the past, he couldn't live like this anymore, he couldn't live anymore, he couldn't live. All he wanted was to be a normal fucking person with a normal fucking life. There was no point living when theirs nothing to live for, the only words he could think were 'I'm sorry' sorry for being such a waste of space, sorry for not being what they needed, sorry for never being good enough. He wanted to take back everything, every word he'd said, everything he'd done but it was too late. Ever pain in his life was haunting him, overwhelming every second of every day of every moment in time. He hadn't realised he was crying, tears were pouring down his face leaving him in a shaking mess in the dark. He wish that Percy and Jason never found him, if they hadn't he wouldn't be here, not stuck in having to act like he cared about his life. They'd all be so disappointed, and he couldn't fucking care less, he didn't care because he couldn't bring himself to. He cracked open the bottle a drunk as much as he possibly could in one gulp. He was still here. He drunk again, finishing an entire bottle of straight vodka in less than a minute, his throat stung but he didn't feel it anymore. He felt himself getting fainter by the second, he'd just drunk more than half a litre of vodka in the span of a few minutes. Before he could process what that meant the world went dark, the last thing he heard was a shattering glass. Nico layed, passed out on the floor but the nightmares still haunted him and he now couldn't run no matter how hard he tried.

***

______

POV: u thought you posted this part like 5 days ago

[b4g3lbit3s]

so. part of me feels bad about making this post because i’d like to keep my grieving process to myself, but i also need somewhere to put my emotions. since i dont usually post about my personal life, this might be deleted later on. this is basically just me screaming into the void

my dog that i’ve had for the past twelve years was put down today. back in december she began acting weird one day. we took her to the vet. she had a tumor. im pretty sure it was lymphoma? anyways, we couldn’t afford treatment and since she’s so old anyways, it seemed like a waste.

so for the last five months we’ve done everything we can to take care of her. at some point in the last month, the tumor began pressing on her diaphragm and breathing became difficult. she was panting constantly no matter how relaxed she was or how cool we kept the house. monday night, she took a turn. getting her to bed was a feat since she was in too much pain to walk down the stairs. she laid in her bed, breathing heavy, hardly responsive, and i fully believed she wouldn’t make it through the night. we’re pretty sure the tumor began to obstruct her intestines too, she began bloating very heavily in her last days. even though she did make it through the night, there wasn’t a doubt that it was about time for her to go.

she passed away at home. i even brought my cat, rosie’s, ashes to her since the two of them were best friends. our other dog, kismet, was there with us.

i miss her dearly. i’ve lived and grown with this dog for all twelve years of her life. she has been the best dog i could’ve ever asked for. she wasn’t always easy but i wouldn’t trade it for anything. she was perfect. she was sweet, she was sassy, she was beautiful. she was a big 85 pound lap dog who had no clue how big she was. she was the best dog i could’ve ever asked for.

i don’t know what to do with myself now. i won’t have her warm body pressed against me while i sleep anymore. i won’t hear her velociraptor claws that she never let anyone trim clicking through the house anymore. she won’t be here to bark for bits of my food anymore. and her sister, kismet, may run through the house and follow us around and sleep in our bed, it just won’t be nugget.

the other night, while i laid with nugget and tried to soak up some of our last moments together, i wished that there was a spot on my body where she may have scratched me too hard on accident and left a permanent scar. that way i could always have her with me. i want the coarseness of her fur, the weight of her paw, the velvet of her tongue engraved in me forever. i wish i could never forget how she felt. and for all the times she had stepped on my toes, because believe me she was far too good at that, i wish i had appreciated it more. i’ll miss the way her tail always wagged too hard and how it stung whenever it would hit my leg. as a puppy, she broke it when it hit a wall while she was wagging it. her tail never grew right after that. and still it was so perfect.

there’s so much more i could say about her. she was such a perfect angel. she was the best dog ever. even though she’s at rest now and no longer in pain, it isn’t much consolation to me. i’d rather her not be in pain while laying in bed beside me.

pictures:

[electrons2006]

A Life of Illness

Chapter One :

Death by Milk??! Part 1

(writers note: this story is based on true facts and and real life experiences of a real person. And yes before u kill me I do have their complete consent to write this)

Whumpee's allergies have been getting worse recently. Every other thing they eat, hives and rashes all over their skin. Caretaker is so worried for their beloved whumpee. "I don't want to eat anymore. If I don't eat there won't be any allergies right?",whumpee says sort of comically sort of in sorrow. "Don't be silly whumpee. I understand it's not easy and you're constantly in discomfort but you'll get better I promise".Whumpee just nods. They are otherwise a very lively kid but this deathly combo of allergies and asthma has affected whumpee more than physically. Just imagine being a 10 year old kid who is allergic to chocklate and wheat! No cakes no pizzas no burgers nothing. All while your friends munch on them and those nasty bullies mocking you when u can't eat the things you love. If that's not enough whumpee can't even play any sports with their friends. They just have to sit outside and watch. Their asthma prevents them from any physical exertion. Days pass weeks pass. Whumpee keeps becoming sadder. They are no longer the lively jumpy kid they once were. But they're a fighter. Caretaker knows that and they're proud of how enduring whumpee is.

Caretaker is extremely careful not to let whumpee get in contact with anything that they are known to be allergic to, but some things just happen. Whumpee isn't the biggest fan of drinking a large glass of milk every morning but if caretaker says it's good for them then it's good for them. Whumpee gulps down the glass full quickly and just as they're going to wash it they collapse. The glass shatters on the floor. Hearing this caretaker runs out to see what happened. Whumpee is on the floor. Their hands and feet flopping like a dying fish. They're unable to breathe. THEY ARE IN ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK. Whumpee's wind pipe has narrowed to the point its hardly letting any air through. The organ that's supposed to put air into their lungs is itself choking them to death. Without wasting a second caretaker calls for an ambulance.

Unfortunately epi - pens aren't a thing where they live so caretaker can't do anything for whumpee. They walk over to them and even though they're panicking they calm their voice down and tell whumpee that they need to calm down too and stay as still as possible. Whumpee needs to preserve their oxygen. Hardly any air is entering their lungs and whumpee has to take huge efforts for that too. Two minutes go by. Caretaker's hand is on whumpee's forehead trying to calm them down. Whumpee's hands and feet are no longer moving not because they're calm but because they simply don't have the energy. Any energy is spent in trying to breathe. They're tounge has swollen which is making breathing even harder. Whumpee's eyes are wide open in terror. They have experienced difficulty in breathing before but nothing like it.

10 minutes pass. The sound coming out of whumpee's throat is straight out of a horror film. Whumpee's breath has slowed they're getting tired. Caretaker notices. "No whumpee you must try harder. Keep breathing." Since breathing is no longer involuntary if whumpee passes out they are sure to die. Caretaker knows this and it terrifies them. They feel whumpee's pulse. Weak and fast.

"I'm so tired. Am I going to die? Die like this? In the most horrible terrifying way possible? No I must fight I must live", whumpee thinks as they turn their vision from the celeing to caretaker. They can't die on caretaker. Not after everything they've done for whumpee. With a new rush of energy whumpee tries to breath harder. The sounds get louder.

15 minutes pass. Caretaker finally hears the ambulance arrive. They stand up and run to the door. No time for door bells. They open it and 3 people come rushing in. One with a gurney one with equipment to intubate and one with a vial of epinephrine and a few syringe's "300 micrograms epinephrine" they say as they fill the syringe and jab whumpee in the thigh. A lot of time has already passed. Epinephrine takes about 5-10 minutes to take effect. They may not have that kind of time. The person with the gurney who seems to be the oldest of the 3 puts it down. "We have to intubate. Can't take any chances." With the help of caretaker they put whumpee on the gurney and carry them to the ambulance. The person with the epinephrine now attaches a leed to whumpee's finger and a monitor lights up. "You were right sir need to intubate stat. Their O2 SATS are tanking" . (They are referring to whumpee's blood oxygen concentration here). They pick up an iv needle. The vein on whumpee's arm is pretty visible. They insert the needle, whumpee flinches." That's it I'm done. Now you can sleep we'll take care of you" the doctor says as they inject a sedative into the IV. "Night night my prince" caretaker says as tears roll down their eyes.

"why is God so cruel to my dear whumpee" he says aloud without realising. The doctor puts down the syringe for a sedative, squeezes caretaker's shoulder and tells caretaker that whumpee will be fine. The doctor means that in a physical sense but caretaker knows after everything whumpee has been through they will take a while to mentally recover from this trauma. Not being able to breath is no for 15 minutes is no joke. Meanwhile the person with the equipment hands the older one the endotrachial pipes(endo-trachea meaning inside the trachia or wind pipe where the tube is supposed to go. ) and uses the laryngoscope to move the tounge and the epiglottis(a small movable lid above the larynx or voice box that prevents food or water from going down the wind pipe) out of the way to give clear vision into the trachea. The other person opens the bag with the larger tube and guides it into the trachea through the mouth. Or atleast the try "aaah too much constriction it won't go in". They take the pipe out of whumpee's mouth and toss it pick up the smaller one and repeats. Meanwhile the 3rd person grabs the equipment for a tracheostomy ( a surgical procedure where an insicion is made in the neck into the trachea from outside and the tube is sent through there) just in case even the smaller tube doesn't fit through whumpee's mouth, but thank god it does. No surgery for dear whumpee. With one hand holding the pipe they remove a seal from the part of the tube which is outside whumpee's mouth. The person with the loryngoscope takes it out and attaches a bag on this side of the pipe and starts pumping air into whumpee's lungs. Within a minute whumpee's O2 SATS start to normalise. The doctors take a breath of relief. Caretaker has been looking away. This is all too much for them. Their heart breaks for one and one person only and that's their beloved whumpee. They're sobbing their fists clenched. They're blaming themselves for what happend. They should've never given whumpee the milk its all their fault. That's what caretaker thinks. The older doctor who's job is done for now looks towards caretaker. They're very experienced and know exactly what caretaker is thinking. "It's not your fault there was no way for you to know this was going to happen. Your whumpee is going to need you to be strong when they wake up." Yes anything for whumpee. Caretaker wipes his tears off and grits their teeth "I'm always here for you whumpe" they whisper. The panic is gone and there's a sense of calm in the back of the ambulance. The driver still rushing at top speed to get to the hospital. "Uhh sir. Why are they going into tachycardia? "(irregular and fast heart beat) The youngest doctor asks looking closely at the monitor . Their voice full of panic.To be continued....