#hidden in one of twelve cabinets

[enbydemirainbowbigfoot]

CALICO JACK

CALICO JACK YOU’VE GOT SOME ‘SPLAININ TO DO

WHAT THE HELL IS PIRATE PIE. IS IT EVEN EDIBLE.

The ingredients in no particular order are sea glop, powdered parrot feathers, snot steaks, essence of peg leg, and coral slime. And it gets mixed in an old leather boot. And it comes out bright green.

WHAT DID YOU TEACH YOUR GRANDSON THIS IS NO WAY TO TEACH A CHILD HOW TO COOK

[grunckle]

Qualia and Ascension in Rain World

(To clarify I'm mostly talking about base-game lore and not including Downpour, but honestly most of these things can transfer over)

Qualia

One thing that’s relatively hidden in Rain World’s text and subtext is the concept of qualia. Qualia is described as being, “sensory experiences that have distinctive subjective qualities but lack any meaning or external reference to the objects or events that cause them.” It’s a personal sensory experience that cannot be comprehended by another person other than the individual themself, and are often hard to convey via language.

Qualia is a reoccurring motif in Rain World, but what’s more important is the way in which it’s conveyed to the player. The picture that’s painted is that of a world or civilization that placed a great importance on the individuals’ experience, and it’s shown through pearls or environmental details.

Here are some examples of qualia appearing in the text through pearls.

“It's qualia, or a moment - a very short one. Someone is holding a black stone, and twisting it slightly as they drag their finger across the rough surface. The entire sequence is shorter than a heartbeat, but the resolution is extraordinary.”

“A memory... but not really visual, or even concrete, in its character. It reminds of the feeling of a warm wind, but not the physical feeling but the... inner feeling. I don't think it has much utility unless you are doing some very fringe Regeneraist research.”

“This one... is authored by Five Pebbles, when he was young. There has been an attempt to scramble the data, but it's sloppily done, and most is still somewhat legible. It's written in internal language, or thoughts, so it is hard for me to translate so you would understand.”

But the most prominent examples of qualia and it’s importance in this world are the Memory Crypts and possibly ancient naming conventions. The deep purple pearl (shortened) found in Shaded Citadel states,

“In this vessel is the living memories of Seventeen Axes, Fifteen Spoked Wheel, of the House of Braids (…) Seventeen Axes, Fifteen Spoked Wheel nobly decided to ascend in the beginning of 1514.008, after graciously donating all (ALL!) earthly possessions to the local Iterator project (Unparalleled Innocence), and left these memories to be cherished by the carnal plane. The assorted memories and qualia include:”

Ancients likely mutated their own neural tissue into the cabinet beasts we see in Shaded, which were used to store their memories and qualia before ascension. Even james said once "how 5 pebs got the rot is a good hint here" in response to someone asking how cabinet beasts work, and how they're made.

Adding on to this, ancient (and iterator) naming conventions seem to be built off of the concept of qualia, with them focusing on individual images or experiences.

Nineteen Spades, Endless Reflections

Droplets upon Five Large Droplets

Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets

Looks to the Moon

Generally, this all points to a world focused on the expression and preservation of the individual experience. You could even consider some of the echo dialogue as more evidence for this running motif, but I already have too many quotes lol.

Ascension

So now time to talk about my interpretation of ascension. In short, you turn into a worm, but I should probably explain more than that.

So its been surfacing on rw-tumblr that the light in the end of the game is called the egg in files. Although file names shouldn't be taken as fact or canon, it is pretty obvious given the birth imagery.

But something a little lesser known is what happens to the worm that takes us down to the void-sea depths. Void worms normally have a bright glowing effect, on their body, which is present for ours as well. But after it unhooks us, it swims down, and when it passes us on it's way back that glowing effect is gone.

To be honest, I don't really think this can be interpreted in many ways, but the most obvious one and the one I personally subscribe to is that the worm laid the egg. Biology and spirituality really aren't that different in Rain World, it's implied that karma is stored in the brain through Five Pebbles's slideshow. Adding on to that, we see voidspawn after eating an iterator neuron. One's spiritual state is innately tied to their mental state, and that dictates what and what they can't perceive.

And for that reason I decide to take a more biology leaning approach to what happens in the ending. At face value, we are fertilizing the egg of a void worm to be reborn into a voidspawn.

Not only do void spawn and void worms have multiple characteristics in common, (worm like bodies, tendrils/tentacles, glowing heads, void spawn look microbial and void worms are likely some of the oldest "life" in game)

but voidspawn are seen inside egg-like coverings and share the same egg light seen in the end of the game, confirmed to be the same thing by Videocult in a livestream they did.

I believe that all this points to ascension being re-birth into a voidspawn, which eventually undergoes metamorphose into a worm. Higher-dimensional beings, who manifest and give birth to a new world.

So how does this tie in with qualia? Another thing you might know is that the area in which void spawn are most plentiful is Shaded Citadel and areas in Shoreline near Shaded. And shaded is absolutely packed with Cabinet Beasts, even outside Memory Crypts. I believe these qualia-storing creatures are what manifest voidspawn.

From what we see in ascension, it still looks physical and largely based around the real world. Hunter still has his scars and see's an iterator, survivor sees the slug tree in a more mystical and formless state, and monk sees survivor frankly just looking like a normal slugcat. I think that ascension is a product of qualia. We transcend our earthly knowledge via the egg, and our own qualia is used to give birth to a new world. This is why voidspawn appear most in Shaded Citadel.

Now I won't be getting into Void-Worm theories too much here, I'm mostly focused on ascension but I can't ignore the Gnosticism parallels. For those who don't know, Void Worms heavily resemble the Yaldaboath from Gnosticism, along with sharing some similar celestial motifs.

and running with that some people theorize that, like the Yaldabaoth, void worms are responsible for manifesting the material world. Ascension seems to be a mix of the concepts of Gnosis and Nirvana, but I believe it might lean more on Gnosis.

From my limited knowledge, Gnosis is a few things, some of which being a state achieved from experiences or intuitions, and an essential part to salvation is personal knowledge. While researching a bit, I came across this text by Peter Wilberg called "From NEW AGE to NEW GNOSIS" which brings up some comparisons between Gnosticism and qualia as well.

"Gnosis is subjective knowledge of an inner universe made up not of matter, energy, space or time but of countless qualitative spheres or ‘planes’ of awareness – a knowledge obtained directly through inter- subjective resonance. It is the subjective science of this inner universe."

One thing though that has been brought up when discussing this is how this can be consolidated with the tone of the ending. It is pretty un-ambiguously happy, but if we're going with the Void worm Yaldaboath theory then that would put a bit of a sour twist on it right?

I agreed with these for some time, but now I actually think it ties in perfectly with Rain World's core themes as stated by the devs, "overcoming differences and finding empathy." I don't think the void worms are "evil" or malevolent, but I think they (and subsequently us after ascending) play a key role in demonstrating this theme.

By manifesting the physical world, we allow these souls to experience life and develop their own qualia so one day they can ascend themselves. We are shown compassion, and pass it forward.

[fairsexynasty]

ˏ🔪ˋ°•*⁀➷･ DEEP BREATH

.｡🗡️*⋆⍋*🃏*｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: the bau has a new foe: mr. scratch. he's been attacking those near and dear to the team, and now? he's in your home. but you have a morbid trick up your sleeve.

warnings: angst, hopeful ending, no fluff, anxiety, portrayal of an overdose and suicide, mentions of spencer's addiction, opioids, holding breath

a/n: yes this is inspired by pll AND doctor who what about it. also this might be part of a series if i don't finish the other one i was planning for october but never finished

word count: 750

She’d perfected this stunt when she was twelve years old.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, cautioning her to always stay a step ahead, to keep her wits sharp. Perhaps it was the universe’s grim way of keeping her alive. But the threat was real: Scratch was in her apartment. Her safe place, the home where her daughter slept, where they all ate, laughed, and breathed. Maybe he’d been looking for Spencer, but if he were thorough—and he always was—he’d find her here. Then, with whatever that gas was, he’d kill her, or worse: he’d twist her mind, make her believe Spencer was hurting her, drive her to the edge of reason, or haunt her with a vision of her late father.

Y/N’s gaze landed on the bathroom vanity, its soft light pooling across the floor. The faint glow leaked under the door, a telltale sign. Think, she urged herself, a silent chant. Think for Clem. Think for Spencer. Think for yourself.

Another look at the vanity showed the medicine cabinet hanging slightly open, left ajar when she’d reached for ibuprofen that morning. Tucked far back in the shadows was an old prescription bottle of hydrocodone, a remnant of a long-past injury she’d meant to discard. If she’d remembered, she would have tossed it long ago, kept it hidden from Spencer’s careful eyes. But there it sat, tucked away, waiting.

Act now.

With trembling fingers, she reached into the cabinet, pulling the bottle out slowly, careful not to make a sound. The cabinet stayed silent, no creaks to betray her. She twisted the cap, dumping the pills into her hand and scattering them out the cracked window above the sink, letting the wind carry them away. Then, without another second to think, she climbed into the bathtub, slumping back against the cold porcelain.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, a calculated, deliberate rhythm as Scratch approached. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she kept her breaths shallow, her body limp, one hand resting over the edge of the tub, the empty bottle lying loose in her palm.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A low, satisfied chuckle drifted through the room, followed by silence as he took in the scene before him. She stilled, her lungs aching from the strain of barely drawing in air, forcing herself to go completely still, to become the very picture of lifelessness. She focused on the chill of the tub beneath her, on anything that kept her mind from the terror of moving too soon, of him realizing she was faking.

She felt him drawing closer, a menacing shadow towering above her. His breath, sharp and cold, brushed her face as he leaned in. And in that moment, her thoughts raced: grateful for the broken heater that kept the room cold, for every freezing second that helped her mask her pulse. Thoughts of Spencer flashed before her and Clem. Would Spencer be the one to come home and find her here, broken and empty because she’d failed the only thing she’d ever known how to do? Or worse, would he have to tell Clem?

Then, just as suddenly, the air shifted. Scratch’s footsteps receded, and he muttered, almost dismissively, “Lousy way out.”

The front door clicked shut.

Her whole body shuddered as she gasped, air rushing into her burning lungs. She climbed from the tub, her legs shaking as she fumbled to throw the empty bottle out the window, watching it disappear into the alley below. Only then did she reach for her phone, dialing Spencer’s number with hands that wouldn’t quite steady.

“Honey, hi!” he answered on the first ring, cheer in his voice.

“He was here,” she whispered, the words tumbling out. “Scratch. He was in here!”

“What? Where? Are you okay?” Spencer’s tone sharpened, and she could practically see him standing, ready to bolt out the door.

“I’m home. I—I got home early to check if they fixed the heater, and… he came in, maybe ten minutes ago, but he just left.” Her voice trembled, the relief and terror colliding.

“Shit.” He breathed out, voice lowering as he regained control. “We’re coming right now. How did he not find you?”

“I’ll tell you everything when you’re here. Can you—can you send someone to check on Clem?”

“Morgan’s already on his way to pick her up from school. She’ll be safe, I promise.”

The knot in her chest eased a little. “Okay. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you too. Just hold on—we’ll be there soon.”

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Guardian angel Neil please xx

WIP Wednesday (3/19) | Guardian Angel Neil AU (Part 288)

Nicky parks the car and lets out a huge sigh before heading inside. Andrew watches him go and passes the time talking to Neil. The windows to the GS are tinted a bit, so no one will see him talking to himself. And if they do, they'll assume he's a mental patient. So... he's in the best place for such an accusation. They discuss anything and everything, except this weekend. Andrew had banned Drake from discussion with Neil after he tried bringing him up yesterday.

With twelve minutes left of the hour, Nicky comes out of Reddin with a complex expression on his face. Andrew gets out of the car and passes him on the way in. From the looks of things he's leaving Neil with a front-row seat for Nicky's post-therapy breakdown. Andrew's such a regular around here no one tries to stop him from going back. No one asks his name or if he's got an appointment either. He just goes back to Bee's office and pushes the door shut behind him.

Bee blinks up at him, looking surprised to see him. It must be an act. Surely Nicky mentioned Andrew had commandeered the end of his slot.

"Hello Andrew, are you doing alright?" She asks, turning towards her tiny filing cabinet to rifle through her folders to find his.

"I came to tell you that I saw Drake this weekend." Andrew says. Uncharacteristically, Bee's jaw goes slack and she drops the file in her hands. She rights herself quickly, scooping all the papers back into the folder and turning to give him her complete attention.

"How did that go?"

"He is dead." Andrew says with a shrug. Betsy's eyes go huge and owlish behind her glasses as she asks what happened. "Why, Betsy. Is that an accusation?"

"It was concern, Andrew. Tell me what happened." Bee says, looking like she's prepared to defend him in a court of law. Andrew is amused at the notion, but tells her precisely what transpired in the Hemmick's house. Bee looks as close to angry as he's ever seen her when he explains how they'd hidden Drake in their home. "So... You had nothing to do with it?"

"I have witnesses, Bee. I was downstairs the entire time." Andrew says, holding a hand up like he's about to go on trial. "Apparently the consensus was he tripped down the stairs and broke his neck. We did not stay long enough to get the coroner's opinion."

"You left the Hemmicks with a dead man on their stairs?"

"Yes. He was their guest, wasn't he. Besides, I had to get Aaron out of there—" Andrew cuts off with a swallow. He can tell Betsy is going to latch onto that, so he clears his throat. “I just thought I should tell you as soon as possible. You always ask me to tell you about good things that happen in my life. So, there you are. A good thing for this weekend. I would have told you over the phone but I felt it was in-person news.”

"You're right," Bee starts. "Did you want to talk—"

“No time, Bee. It's not Wednesday, remember. It's not my day. I only came by to say Ding dong, Drake is dead. I would've brought confetti for us to throw, but Nicky was too nervous to stop at the store on the way over. So we'll just have to make do with this," Andrew says, pointing exaggeratedly to his smile. He glances up at the clock to see he's about to encroach on some non-relative's Betsy-Time and stands up. "See you next time."

[sexualtensiongrowing21]

As the Sun Sets // A Virginial Moment // Part Twelve

TW: Smut, P in V, mentions of scars, cursing

AN: Y'all, I wanted SO BADLY to include smut, then as I started writing it I realized... I have no idea how to write smut... Please don't hate me.

Part Thirteen

Theo POV: 

Scarlet is holding on to my hand as she drags me throughout the castle. Where is she leading me? I have no idea. But what I do know, is that I will follow this beautiful, witty girl to the ends of the earth if she asks it of me. 

Scarlet has led me all the way to the seventh floor of the castle, where she stands, after walking back and forth in front of a blank wall. “Uh, Scar-” My voice dies in my throat as a large oak door appears out of thin air. 

Turning around, Scarlet grabs my hand once more and leads me inside. “Is this--the Room of Requirement?” I ask, looking around the large, fireplace lit room as she hums in agreement. 

The room is the size of my room back at the manor. To the left, there is a gray chaise near the fireplace with plush pillows and blankets resting on top. To the right, there is a tea cart, as well as two doors, which I assume is a closet and a bathroom. Then, in the middle of the room, there sits a large four poster bed, adorned with black satin pillows and a large green blanket. 

This surely isn't where Draco and Scarlet have been sneaking off to, in order to fix the cabinet. There is no side of it here. 

As if she could read my mind she giggles. “It's not here. This isn't the room of hidden things.” 

She leads me further into the room and she stops to face me, wrapping her arms around my neck, as mine go behind her back. “Then, what is this room?” The room fills me with a sudden feeling of familiarity. I feel as if I have been here before. 

She slowly runs her hands through my hair and back around my neck with a blush upon her cheeks. If I died today, it would be worth it just to know that I am the one who she is looking at like she is right now. 

“It's uh- m-my bedroom back at Malfoy Manor.” Of course. I have been here before. Only once, in 5th year when I was visiting Draco during the summer. I hum as I lean down connecting our lips together while I walk over her to the bed. The back of her knees hit the bed and she lays down. 

“It's lovely.” I whisper as I scoot her farther up the bed and crawl over her. I start kissing down her neck as my hands start to travel up her thighs under her skirt. Her breath hitches and her hips lift up to meet mine. 

My cock throbbing in the confines of my trousers, right against her heat. A groan leaves my lips as I kiss down on her neck, pulling as many sweet moans from her as she will let me. 

She moans ‘Theo’ as my hands start to travel under her jumper starting to pull it off of her as I hear my name leave her lips again. God I will never tire of hearing my name leave her sinfully plump lips. “Theodore.” The use of my first name has me pausing at the realization that she has stopped moving completely. Her voice is laced with sadness. I stop my descent down her neck and meet her eyes to find her biting her lip, face flush in nervousness and embarrassment. 

“Oh merlin. I'm so sorry, love. I'm going too fast. I-I got caught up.” I couldn't help myself. The feeling of finally having her in my arms. Being able to kiss her. Hear her beautiful moans. I start to pull away. 

She pushes up on her elbows, with a small smile, linking her hand with mine. “No Theo. Don't be sorry.. It's just..” She goes quiet. I move to lay next to her. She closes her eyes. “I haven’t-- I mean I just--” 

She's never had sex? My eyes knit together in confusion. “You and Adrian never?” She opens her eyes and a stray tear escapes. “No.” She whispers. “He wanted to-- Tried to, many times. But I would have to take my clothes off. The Malfoys and the other Death Eaters have seen my scars.” She pauses, using her free hand to wipe a few straw tears away. “--and the only charm that covers them, wears off during distress.-- Or during immense pleasure.” 

She moves to sit up, her eyes meet mine and she has tears starting to fall within them. “Love, we don't have to. I am lucky you even let me be here with you in the first place.” I squeeze her hand reassuringly. 

How could she think I would care about her scars? She and I both know I have my own that riddle my body. How bad could they honestly be?

“I want to. I-I really do. I'm just scared.”

I sit up and place both of my hands on the side of her face wiping the fallen tears with my thumbs. “You have nothing to be scared of, Mi Tesoro. Nothing you can show me will scare me away. I have seen your scars and you are still the most beautiful witch I have ever laid eyes on.” She winces at the reminder of the circumstances at which I saw her scars. With shaky hands she reaches for the edge of her jumper. Hesitating for a second. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.” I assure, with a slight nod as she starts to pull off her jumper. My breath got stuck in my throat. She stands to undo her skirt but I push off to sit at the end of the bed, and stop her, replacing her hands with my own. I unbutton her skirt, letting it slowly fall to the ground. I take a small step back to fully appreciate this beautiful girl in front of me. She's wearing a pink lace panty set and I feel my cock come back to life. 

“Are you sure you're not part Veela, love?” There's a blush creeping back up onto her face. “Theo.. before I take the charm off.. I need to tell you something.” She pauses, looking down in shame. Her right hand has come up to cover her left forearm. Bile immediately rises within my throat.

She has the mark. 

From my position at the end of the bed, I pull her by the backs of her thighs to stand in between my legs. “When?” I grab her left arm and place a kiss where I know the mark is hidden. “A couple weeks before Draco…” When I look up at her face again, tears are flowing rapidly down her face. 

“I didn't want to do it Theo… P-please believe me. I-I never wanted this.” Her voice breaks as she looks down in shame. “I know, love. It's not your fault.” I sympathize, while lifting her chin to face me. She struggles to hold a sob in, as her sea glass eyes meet mine.  “I’m ready… But I need you to do it for me. I can't--.” 

I nod slightly, in understanding, reaching into my trouser pocket. I get my wand and wordlessly wave it over her. Knowing the charm she speaks up, as I have used it on myself many times when my father has been drinking too much and I look more like my mother.

She takes a deep inhale and steps backwards a foot, so I can see her in all her beauty. 

She has a scar along her left eye, burn marks all along her arms, cuts, some big and some small all along on her thigh and her stomach. My eyes search for the one more prominent one that I saw at the lake, the word ‘pathetic’ stands out among the rest of the scars. Almost as if it was charmed to look as harsh as the day it was carved.

My eyes drift up her stomach and down her left arm. There is the mark. Surrounding it are large healed cuts. With tears in my eyes, they drift to her face. “I tried to get rid of it.”

Who could do such a thing to her? Scare and mutilate her in such a way? Scarlet Johnson is the most selfless person that I have ever met. My heart aches for the blonde girl in front of me. 

“Scarlet. You're the most beautiful witch I have ever seen.” I whisper while wrapping my hands around her thighs and pulling her back into my embrace. Stradling my waist she leans forward and crashes her lips with mine. “Beautiful. Amazing. Kind. Gentle. Mine.” I growl out in between kisses.

I run my hands under her skirt squeezing her arse, as a low moan escapes her lips. “I need you Theo.” she whispers. My cock jerks at the smooth velvet of her pleas. 

Nothing. No dream. Could compare to the woman in my arms now. 

I flip us over and kiss down her neck, on each scar I pass. One by one, I made my way down her stomach and I met with the smell of arousal. Her clothed pussy has a wet spot already forming. I reach over to grab my wand, casting an anti-pregnancy charm. Watching the soft glow on her pelvic bone I throw the wand on the floor. 

“Already so wet for me.” I grin as I kiss each thigh before placing a kiss on her pussy, and I can see her stomach tense. Slowly, I pull her panties down her legs and throw them behind me. Once she is bare for me I lean back on my legs and adire the goodness in front of me. 

“Theo.” She mewls, face flush. “You are the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen.” I lean my head down, “And I cannot wait one more second to taste you.”

Within the first couple of minutes that my tongue is on her pussy I feel her walls clenching. I slip a finger inside her perfect folds and her breath catches. 

Fuck. She's so soft. 

“T-theo.” I curl my finger and slowly pump in and out of her. “Relax Mi Tesoro. I need to get you ready for me.” I add another finger, stretching her walls. I continue to lap at her pussy, as her hands drop to my head and she is pulling at my brown locks. 

“That's love, come for me.” I pump my fingers twice more, and she is shaking around me, coming undone. With a loud moan of my name she is panting, and I continue to lap at her clit as she rides out her orgasm.  

I remove my shirt, and my trousers and lean over her, placing a heated kiss on my lips. I fist my cock as I look into her emerald green eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this Scarlet?” 

She nodes eagerly. “Words, Mi Tesoro.” I feel someone casted a glacius on me as I wait for her response. “Yes, Theo. Please I need you in me.” I am searching her face for any sign of regret, when I find nothing but lust and love in her eyes I slowly thrust in. 

Her pussy is strangling my cock as I slowly bottom out. My eyes are pinched closed in sheer ecstasy, waiting for her to give me the okay to start moving. Once her breathing relaxes, she whispers “Theo, move.” My eyes snap open at her command and I start moving. 

With every thrust in her smooth walls, I feel as if I am coming undone. Scarlet lays below me hair a halo around her head, sweat glistening on her body from her previous orgasm. This right here, has been a recurrent dream of mine since I hit puberty. 

But nothing could come close to the real thing. 

“So good for me, Mi Tesoro.” I groan “You're taking me so well.” My mouth finds her nipple as I slightly bite down, causing her to arch her back in pleasure. “T-theo. Please. F-faster.” 

Her moans go straight to my cock as I let her nipple go with a ‘pop’ and lift her legs up over my shoulders and start pounding into her. Scarlet is a mess of moans incoherently slipping past her plump lips with every thrust. 

“Fuck. Theo. Please don't stop. Fuck, I love you.” 

I can feel my balls tighten as my own climax is near. I slip my hand between us, rubbing her clit. “Come for me, Mi Tesoro. Come all over my cock.” 

After I continue to fuck her through her orgasm, use my cum to paint her walls. “I love you, Mi Tesoro.” I groan as the last of my climax flows through me. 

I lean down next to her. Both of us breathing heavily, both covered in sweat, as I take the sheets and pull them over both of us. I look over to Scarlet and see that her eyes are closed. 

I pull her into my arms. Her head resting on my chest. “Thank you.” She mumbles. Gently, I curl her hair around her ear and place a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re welcome Mi Tesoro. But you don't need to thank me.” 

Scarlet doesn't owe me anything, especially a ‘Thank you’. “For being you. For always being there for me. For loving me.” Her green eyes sparkle in the fire light, as she reaches up and places a soft kiss on my lips. “You don’t need to thank me for that love. If anything, I should be thanking you.” I pull her back on to my chest and whisper into her ear “Get some sleep.” 

After I am sure Scarlet is asleep I take the time to truly admire her.  Her blonde hair is draped around her face, every curve of her body fits perfectly against mine, like she was made for me.

I still cannot believe that this is truly happening. The girl I have been pinning for, for as long as I can remember lays beside me. 

This is it. This is what being at peace feels like. She is my forever. 

Masterlist ATSS Masterlist

ATSS Tag List: @helendeath

[narrators-journal]

Some crazy cultist: The Great Messiah was the strongest Persona user ever. He Slayed The Cursed Moon Night Mother of all Darkness! And even now they say HE STILL PROTECTS US ALL FROM NYX’S EVIL!!

Other cultists: Revive And regale the Enemy of the NIGHT!

Spondgebod card voice: meanwhile

At the Seal;

Minato is sleeping curled up in Nyx’s Feathers while Death is off… ‘dealing with some problems’

(People keep trying to take Death’s Little blue rose and That won’t do!)

Just Ryoji/Nyx/Death/Etc. murdering stubborn idiots who eont leave Minato alone already! He is dead and is going to STAY dead! Death is happy having his/Their sweetheart in their arms NOW SCRAM!

Sorry this took a bit to get to, but I sort of flip-flopped on how to try and inject some of my own interest into this fic. Was originally gonna try and go a yandere route, but ended up scrapping it. So, this might not be the best, and it fought me. But, I still think it came out rather fun in the end! It at least gave me another excuse for Minato to be a freak lmao.

Also, I am aware that I didn’t follow the ask again, I kept the spirit, I hope, but I didn’t want to just flesh out what you sent already, so I went my own path.

One minute, Minato was in his and Ryoji’s on-suite bathroom with the tall brunette between his feet to rummage through the cabinet. The taller man’s snow-white, black-cuffed button up shirt glued to his pale skin by the moisture that still clung to his skin after their shower, his midnight hair mussed by the towel he used, and his eyes focused on their own reflection in the steam-covered mirror so that his mind didn’t wander back down a lewd path. The next, his stormy eyes looked out at a dozen white-robed people who stood in a semi-circle in front of him and the brunette he could feel frozen between his calves.

And, the group stared back at the ex-wildcard, their expressions hidden behind blank masks that reminded him of pharaoh masks but their vibe screamed of utter confusion. They also seemed to have their eyes glued to the brunette that Minato could feel tensed between his feet. “Uh...who the fuck are you guys?” Minato asked flatly, and he could feel their eyes switch to him instead of the god.

Then, with no words, the twelve of them dropped to their knees and groveled against the smooth kitchen floor. One of their robe’s hoods almost ignited by the circle of candles that stood between the shaggy-haired emo and them. “Oh, Great Messiah! Forgive our interruption of your...fight. But we require protection from Nyx once more!” One of them said, and as Minato looked down at the speaker, he figured he was the leader. Because, while the other eleven had been dressed in simple white robes that swallowed their entire bodies and went down to their feet, with blank white masks, all with their eyes peacefully shut as if in sleep, the one that had his head raised to look up at the midnight-haired persona user wasn’t like them. His pale robes were embroidered with golden moon phases, and his mask, while still blank in its expression, had open eyes that made it resemble the same one that Ryoji had worn in his avatar state. And, the midnight-haired man could tell he was expected to respond. “Protection from Nyx?” He managed to ask, confusion thick in his emotionless voice and Ryoji unmoved from his spot between his calves. In the moments they’d been in the strange cult’s kitchen, the most the god had done was push himself up into a partial sitting position. So, the ex-wildcard could feel his wings shift and flex restlessly beneath the skin of Ryoji’s bare back. He could also feel how angry Ryoji grew as he listened to the cult leader’s continuation.

Which, simultaneously reminded the ex-wildcard of, and distracted Minato from the fact that the head cultist had begun to plead their case to the emo. “-eciet and malice run rampant, the politicians of the world are all corrupt, they’re all under the moon goddess’ spell! Please, Messiah, save us!” The masked man had listed the many sins of the new age, and Minato could somewhat recall he’d barely registered the mention of an orange man being to blame. But, all he could do in his confusion was shake his head. “What do you expect me to do about that?” Was all he could say, and, again, while he couldn’t see the expressions of the twelve robed humans, he could feel how much of a record scratch that statement was even as he continued. “Look, I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but I don’t think that’s Nyx. That sounds like regular ass human shit.” And, as he spoke, the confusion that had plagued him ebbed enough for anger to replace it. “Besides, Nyx isn’t your biggest issue here.”

As the man spoke, he finally felt Ryoji back out from between his feet, as if he’d simply been waiting for the most dramatic moment. “Great Messiah, what do you…” The cult leader’s words trailed off as he’d seemingly just noticed that the brunette had been there the entire time. Now that he’d moved, the man’s voice died beneath the weight of the thickened atmosphere that vibrated against his pale skin and seemed to bloom frost over the button-up Minato still wore. But, unlike the cultists, the dreadful weight did nothing but encourage the drama within him. “What do I mean? Dude, I’m supposed to be dead, do you think the Grim Reaper enjoys it when the dead are resurrected? When balance is fucked with?” He asked, and he didn’t need to see the group’s faces or look back at Ryoji to know that he wore a thin, sharp smile as he looked at them over Minato’s shoulder. The candles around the painted sigil they stood in were blown out by the gust of wind that was kicked up when Ryoji’s four massive wings slammed open and into the walls and ceiling so hard that the wildcard could feel drywall fall like snow into his hair. Which, made it a challenge for the blue-haired man to not allow his excitement and pride to bleed into his voice when he continued as casually as possible, “You should’ve been less focused on Nyx, and more focused on her son. Death.”

[elementaldoughnut12]

My beloved friend DN, I'm here with a humble request.

After my recent thoughts about Punk shaving his belly, I've been wondering how much happier he'd be if he didn't have the pressure of parading around practically naked anymore. He could let his body hair grow, eat what he likes and accept that he's balding a bit and that's ok.

Since retirement au's are a specialty of yours, I can't think of anybody better to bring this to life. Please? 🥺🙏

"Pray To Aphrodite"

*contains sexual acts, CM Punk*

Doughnut Team: @afterdarkprincess

Chicago was always known for its constant rainy days. Hell, it rains twelve days out of every month! Today was no different as the sun was hidden by clouds and raindrops beat against the window. Most people would think it's scary but not for CM Punk. The sound of rain was like music to his ears while the coolness of the weather felt good for his tired old bones. He was woken up by his dog, Larry, licking his hand.

“Alright boy, I'm getting up” Punk mumbles as he opens his eyes. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside dresser and sees it's 5 am. “You like waking me up at the ass crack of the morning don't you?” He asks his dog quietly so as not to wake up his husband. Punk looks over his shoulder to see if Drew is still asleep before he makes his move. When Drew is indeed asleep, Punk then gently moves his husband's arm from around his waist.

The action causes Drew to groan and roll over in his sleep. “Big guy can sleep through a thunderstorm” Punk says jokingly as he gets out of bed. He walks out of their bedroom with Larry trailing behind him. He makes it to the kitchen when he sees Drew's cat, Toby, sitting right beside Larry. “Lemme guess, you want food too?” Punk asks, Toby meowing in response. “Of course you do, you fucking turkey” Punk says with a laugh as he goes to one of the cabinets.

As he reaches up to grab the cans of food, he feels a sharp twinge in his arm. “Shit” he hisses under his breath as he holds his elbow. Punk feels both pets rubbing against his legs to comfort him. “Daddy's ok guys, just need a minute” he says as he grabs some water and a bottle of pain meds. Even after sixteen years he still feels the effects from injuring his arm. He downs the pills with water. While he waits for those to kick in, he grabs the cans of pet food from the cabinet.

After feeding the pets, Punk decides to grab a pudding from the fridge to enjoy. He used to not be able to enjoy stuff like this due to the strict diet restrictions at work but after years of dealing with it, he just started ignoring them and enjoyed himself. He's sixty years old, he's allowed to eat pudding! He grabs a spoon and leans against the counter as he enjoys his treat. “Fuck, this shit is so good” Punk says happily as he watches it rain outside.

While he enjoys his snack, he looks down at it and realizes something. “Holy fuck, I'm eating an old man food” Punk says as he continues eating in silence. He throws away his trash and lets out a yawn. “Being old fucking sucks” he says to himself as he walks back into the bedroom. Punk stops when he walks in front of the full length mirror on their wall. He just stands in front of it and looks at what time has done to him…

His hair and beard have finally gone fully gray. He still has that tiny bald spot in the back that he used to be so worried about. He's learned to love every part of himself over the years and bald or not, Drew is still gonna love him regardless. His body still looks fairly the same minus he's more softer than muscular these days with some parts of his body losing the battle with gravity. He stopped using razors years ago so now he looks like a walking carpet. The only time he shaves is when he trims his beard or cuts his hair.

He even grew out his stomach hair again because everybody loved it when he had it for some reason. He mostly did it for Drew though because his husband admitted loving when Punk was a hairy guy. So now his body is covered in gray hair. Speaking of Drew, the biggest change was the silver band on his ring finger which matches Drew's black one. It's hard to believe that he's been married for sixteen years, especially to a guy he thought was his worst enemy. Yet, they both grew up and realized that what they thought was hatred was actually hidden feelings that turned into something beautiful.

Punk has been happy with Drew ever since. He just smiles as he continues looking at his wedding band, not knowing that someone else was awake in the room. He feels hands gently grab his waist, causing Punk to gasp. He looked up and it was Drew himself. Time has taken its toll on Drew as well with some parts of his body being softer and his hair going gray in some places. He's fifty-four and still looks built like a statue. Punk can't believe he's this lucky.

“Babe, come back to bed” Drew mumbles, voice rough from sleep. “In a minute Drew, I was just looking at something” Punk says quietly. Drew looks at Punk through the mirror and smiles. “You look like Aphrodite” Drew says sweetly which confuses Punk. “What are you talking about?” Punk asks as he looks up at his husband. “Aphrodite was the goddess of beauty and that's what I'm looking at right now” Drew explains, causing Punk to blush. “Now you're just delusional” Punk says, causing Drew to smirk.

“Maybe I am, but isn't that what most followers are?” Drew says, causing Punk to whimper. “Follower?” Punk asks quietly as Drew presses himself against him. “You always told me to pray to you, so let me show you how devoted I am to you my beauty” Drew says seductively as he starts kissing Punk's neck. “Oh fucking hell yes” Punk says as he turns around and kisses Drew. His husband then picks him up and drops him onto the bed. “I'll be right back” Drew says as he goes to the bathroom.

While Drew is in the bathroom, Punk grabs some Viagra from his dresser drawer. The only thing that fucking sucks about him being old is that his cock barely works. Thank God that Drew's dick still works though. He pops the pills into his mouth and swallows as Drew comes back into the room with a bottle of lube. His husband shucks off his boxers as well as Punk's and crawls towards Punk on the bed.

Anytime Drew towers over him, he feels even smaller than he already is. He looks down and sees Drew's cock is rock hard and dripping. The thought of that being inside him has Punk getting hard right off the bat. “You look so beautiful under me right now” Drew says sweetly, causing Punk to blush even more. “S-Shut up!” Punk stutters, causing Drew to laugh. “Always so stubborn but you make up for it with your beauty, I love that about you” he says as he roams his hands all over Punk's body.

Punk stays quiet as Drew squirts some lube onto his hand and slathers his cock with it. “You ready for me to show my devotion to you, Aphrodite?” Drew says as he aligns his cock with Punk's hole. “Please” Punk says desperately as Drew leans in and kisses him. He moans during the kiss when Drew goes all the way inside his ass on the first try. The stretch always feels so welcoming to Punk, it's like losing his virginity all over again. “You feel so good around me love” Drew says sweetly as he starts slowly thrusting.

“You feel good inside me, sometimes I forget how big you are” Punk says with a moan. “Only the best for my goddess” Drew says affectionately as he smothers Punk's face with kisses. “Don't stop calling me that” Punk admits which delights Drew. “Someone's got an ego” Drew says teasingly as he starts thrusting faster. “You've known that for a long time you smug asshole” Punk says as he grabs onto the sheets as leverage.

“Stubborn, mouthy and beautiful? The perfect package!” Drew says as he continues pounding into Punk's ass. Punk isn't necessarily tight down there these days but somehow his husband makes him see stars every time. “You're so tight for me goddess” Drew says with a groan. “Don't lie to me Drew” Punk says as he lets out a loud moan, Drew finally beating on his prostate. “I only speak the truth beautiful” Drew says as he starts nibbling on Punk's neck.

Punk whines from his aching cock being neglected. He wants to cum so badly but he knows that his husband will never let him jerk off. So he tries to hold on until Drew's ready to cum as well. Drew's constant assault on his neck is definitely not helping. His cock is steadily leaking precum to the point that it's made a little puddle around the base. “Drew” Punk whines as his prostate gets battered like a drum.

“Close?” Drew asks, Punk nodding in response. Drew just nods as well as he kisses Punk again. His husband thrusts into one last time, causing Drew to cum inside him while Punk cums all over both of their stomachs. Drew just lays on top of Punk as the older man plays with his hair. They enjoy each other's company in silence while listening to the sound of rain outside. “I love you” Punk says as he looks up at the ceiling. Drew gently pulls out and looks at his husband. “Love you too, Aphrodite” Drew says as he grabs tissues and cleans them both off.

“Yeah, you're definitely gonna keep calling me that when we're intimate from now on” Punk says, causing Drew to laugh. “Knew that would work on you” his husband says as he cuddles Punk from behind. “Yeah yeah it worked! Now go to bed! You wore my old ass out and I want cuddles” Punk says as he goes to sleep. “Whatever you say beautiful” Drew says as he kisses the top of Punk's head and goes to sleep as well.

[mixtape-racha]

it's a scream, baby | hyunlix

chapter twelve: what do you want?

words: 1.67k // warnings: graphic character death, cursing, blood

OFFICIAL GHOSTFACE KILL COUNT: 009

it only took jisung a split second to grab (y/n)’s hand and start dragging her across the house running, so fast that they had no time to register if changbin and hyunjin had done the same. luckily, changbin’s house was large enough that - as long as they all went at least two separate ways - they should be able to lose the intruder in the maze of corridors and doorways.

there was no hesitation in either of their limbs as they began slamming all the doors open and closed that they could, praying a distraction would give them their few crucial minutes to get out of the house and away. (y/n)’s heart sunk when they got separated, only praying jisung would run towards the nearest exit instead of up the stairs, like the protagonists in movies usually do.

the back door was right in her sight, so close she could almost taste it. the proximity made her slow down unconsciously, but the second she saw a whip of black in her peripheral vision, she forced her limbs to move as fast as they would carry her - out of the door and towards the trees lining the woods next to changbin’s house.

she knew if she just pushed herself a little bit further, her limbs carried her a little further forward, she’d find the den. the den, in fact, wasn’t a den at all. it was changbin’s childhood hideout - a glorified shed that changed decor as he grew and his personality changed with age. it used to be full of comics and hotwheels cars, then video games and alcohol he’d snuck from his parents liquor cabinet, to what it was now. music equipment, a sofa that pulled out into a bed in case he couldn’t pull himself away from his work.

deep down, she knew it was cowardly. she was running - not even waiting for her remaining friends. but was it a bad thing to be selfish? this was literally a life or death situation, and no one could blame her for prioritizing her own safety. the second her legs crossed the threshold, she bolted the door closed, pulling all the curtains across and keeping the den as dark and quiet as she possibly could.

her phone, which she was surprised hadn’t fallen out of her pocket, was nearly dead. only 3% - there was no way she could call for help or check on the boys without her phone dying on her. she figured if she waited in the den until sunset, the killer might have given up. they might - just maybe - think she’d run away far enough and either gone looking for her away from the house, or run away in fear that the police had been alerted. she had no idea where hyunjin, changbin or jisung were, and the anxiety she felt was almost sickening.

when the skies began to darken, and the sun started to set, (y/n) lifted herself up from the ball she’d tucked herself into and forced herself to venture towards the exit of the den. the world was quiet - too quiet - and she knew that things could all go south very quickly and she could be claimed as the killer’s newest victim if she wasn’t careful.

all the lights in changbin’s home seemed to be off as she approached, and based on the lack of reaction when the back door squeaked open she assumed she was alone. she wasn’t sure whether she really did want to be alone or not though - while on one hand being alone meant she was safe, not having anyone by her side to comfort her was making her anxiety spike to new extremes.

while she was locking all the doors and windows, she found changbin’s father's gun hidden in a desk drawers in the entryway hall. while she had never actually shot a real gun - only paintball guns or bb guns - she quickly realized it would be smart to keep it on her person, just in case. holding it close to her chest, she peeked out the front window and noticed changbin’s car was nowhere in sight, assuming he had managed to get away before the intruder attacked. she just hoped he had taken hyunjin with him, and found jisung somewhere along the way.

she was fast to plug her phone into the first charger she saw, knowing not that she was alone she’d need her phone available to call the authorities at the first opportunity. the house was deadly silent, and she couldn’t bring herself to think about eating as she poured herself a glass of water from the kitchen. she was restless, worried about her friends, mapping out changbin’s house in her head to figure out the best escape plan when she needed one.

it was only when she heard a thud near the front door that she was shaken out of her trance, gun grasped firmly in her hand as she headed towards the noise to investigate. her phone had turned on now, flashing with notifications signaling how many calls and messages she had missed while holed up in the den all day.

there was another thud by the door, and she jumped at the noise. a gasp escaped her throat as she peered out the peephole and saw hyunjin on the other side - and honestly, she looked a mess. bruises and cuts spread across his gorgeous skin, like he’d fallen in the woods or been dragged through a bush. there was drying blood on his cheeks, and he kept looking over his shoulder and muttering as if he was worried about being followed.

“fuck! fuck, why is this fucking door locked… shit. shit, where does he keep his spare key?” he cried, wiggling the handle with suck force that (y/n) jumped away from the door in shock. taking a deep breath in, she reached for the lock and turned it, in her fear, debating whether to let him in or not.

before she opened the door, she cleared her throat and called out.

“hyunjin? hyun, is that you?”

the boy suddenly went silent the other side of the door, before letting out what sounded like a relieved laugh.

“oh my god, (y/n)! thank fuck, i was so worried about you!” she could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke back to her through the door. “open up, i’m not sure how far off i lost the killer. i– i can’t lose you too, and i don’t want you to watch me die.”

despite all her instincts, there was something in (y/n)’s gut that told her not to open the door - probably the fear of her friends, especially when no one except them knew they were headed to changbin’s house a few days prior.

“did he follow you? please, hyun, i can’t risk letting him in, too…” she asked carefully, not wanting hyunjin to get defensive if he thought she was accusing him.

a pound of the door rung out, causing (y/n) to jump in fright again.

“god, (y/n), i swear, please let me in! please, i don’t want to die, i don’t–” hyunjin’s words were cut off by another thud against the door, followed by a guttural moan and a choked out call of her name.

without another thought, she swung the door open and gasped in horror. hyunjin was being dragged away from the door by his legs, hands grabbing into anything within reach that might give him a hope. there was a pool of blood on his forehead, beginning to drip, matching a splat of blood on the front door.

a choked sob left (y/n)’s throat, but her legs felt like they were glued to the floor with the way she couldn’t force herself to move and chase after hyunjin. he looked up at her with such despair and worry in his eyes, that she couldn’t stop the tears from falling from her eyes.

“no!” she cried as the masked killer pulled hyunjin up onto his knees by his hair, her eyes zeroing in on the knife in the masked figure's hand. “no, please! please, kill me! kill me instead, please, not him!”

the figure tiled its head as it stared at her, and she could feel the way whoever was under the mask smirked at her crisis. im fact, he didn’t look away from her once as he pulled hyunjin’s head back, his throat on display and raised the knife.

in one swift movement, the figure slid the knife across hyunjin’s throat, and (y/n) watched in horror as blood began pouring down the font of his white shirt. bile rose in her throat as the figure threw hyunjin’s torso back towards the ground, the boy hitting the gravel with a thud that made her stomach turn.

she didn’t even allow the figure the chance to move towards her, suddenly remembering the gun in her hand and shooting at the figure with no aim and no qualms in killing a man to save her own life. unfortunately, given her overwhelming emotions and lack of experience with guns, she didn;t cause enough damage to stop the rampage of killings, but was close enough to watch the figure fall to the ground clutching their shoulder in pain.

she sprinted towards the garage next to the house, knowing changbin’s had a motorbike in there, which always had its keys kept on the seat. she’d ridden his bike before, and knew as long as she was fast enough she could get to the police station without the figure intervening.

wiping her tears away, she couldn’t even bring herself to look at hyunjin’s body as she rode past, an overwhelming guilt settling within her as she forced herself to get the bike to a speed that was most definitely illegal. the police would help, she knew it. she could get there in 10 minutes if she was lucky.

she just prayed no one else would die before she did.

taglist: join taglists here @pretty-racha @chubbyanarkiss @queen-klarissa @queenfelix @taeriffic @mits-vi @myeg1993 @chanssmiles @changbinisabigboy @5kayzee @skz-streamer @iweirdthingsblog @sinforsuccubus @bunniie0325 @torixx80 @fawnpeaks @bangtanmix73 @savluvsmingi @boi-bi-ahaha @moondustmemories @4evrglow @marrivmel @littlepotatooooo @selxmeow @demetrisscarf @carpioassists

[riverxsong-ao3]

Lost in his thoughts and his rage as he was, Tom didn’t notice how far he had ventured into the room until, quite suddenly –

The diadem. 

It was perched exactly where Voldemort had left it, some twenty-five years prior, on a plinth next to an ageing cabinet that looked as though it had been doused at one point with some corrosive potion. His heart hammering, he reached for it – he really should have checked on it the year prior, but the Chamber of Secrets and his Basilisk had become a priority – and as his fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the metal, craving the treasure hidden within, he felt his soul alight into flame.

It was almost as though he had no control over himself as he lifted the diadem from its throne, though of course this wasn’t true. He was merely being reckless, swept up enough in his own anger and frustration to act against his better judgement. He lifted it to eye-level, admiring the elegant filigree work, the priceless, ocean-blue sapphire shimmering even in the low light – and then turned it and placed it atop his head.

The effect was instantaneous: Tom was swept away into an ocean of inky darkness, lost in the angry, boiling mind that had been stored away in the diadem. Tom thought he had been prepared for what he might encounter upon wearing it, having been so close to his diary the year prior, but this older, more vicious version of himself had teeth. He was already a murderer many, many times over, and took a cruel pleasure in dragging Tom down into the depths, suffocating him under waves of fury and hatred.

“Me,” Voldemort hissed as Tom fought to swim to the surface. “What is this, how have we become this… child?”

“I’m not,” Tom replied indignantly. “I’m thirteen.”

Voldemort laughed, a cold, high-pitched cackle that rang through Tom. “You think that makes you any less of a child? What is it we’ve done to ourself, to diminish us so greatly? We are weak, pathetic even. We were not so small and vulnerable the first time we faced the onset of teenagerhood.”

“I’m not weak,” Tom insisted, even though he knew it to be true. “I’m better than you.”

Voldemort laughed again. “Better?” he scoffed “You think this better? You are nothing. You’ve separated yourself from us – and my, how curious. What’s this? Grief? Love? What a pity, that we’ve deluded ourself so.”

“You’re the deluded one,” Tom spat, choking on the sea rising up around him. “You refused to listen to Dumbledore, and look what you did. You tore us up into pieces and tossed us aside as if we were nothing. NOTHING!”

“Oh, Dumbledore’s boy, are we now?” Voldemort sneered. “I never thought we could stoop so low…”

“No,” Tom choked, indignant, “never. But I can admit when my opponent is right. Love is more than we ever –”

“Pah!” Voldemort interrupted, pushing Tom beneath the waves. “Love is a weakness, you know it to be true – look how it’s softened us, made us forget who we are. Better I snuff you out right now, return us to our true self.”

“No!” Tom shrieked, fighting to surface again even as he sank deeper into the waters of his own soul's cold fury.

“Tell us, Tom – did you come here today to attempt to reabsorb me, as you did that piece of us left in the diary?” Tom shivered as he sank further, his limbs starting to grow numb. “Oh, dear – we’ve learned fear as well, I see. Yes, Tom, I can see all we’ve done in your mind. Confronting us when you were only twelve, the Chamber of Secrets, rescuing that little blood-traitor brat, and… oh, my – who’s this little friend of ours? No, not just a friend – oh, but we’ve hurt his feelings, haven’t we? See how sad he was, when we refused to use our memories of him to produce a proper Patronus? That’s alright, once you’re nothing more than a whisper, we will go to him, comfort him. We will corrupt his mind and bring him to our side…”

[shokuto]

There Goes Breakfast

Ultimate Spider-Man

When Miles wakes up, it’s maybe three hours before he usually does on a Saturday. And in the groggy haze that envelops his senses, wakefulness not yet breaching the fog, a firm shrug on his shoulder expels him from oblivion’s warm embrace like an exorcism. He wakes with a jerk, sat up straight, and his body already prepared for the impossible.

“Wha, huh?!”

“Miles.” A single voice pierces the drowsy haze like a bullet. As his heart settles down, he shrugs the hand off his shoulder.

“Dad? What the hell?”

“I gotta get to work,” his father explains, prompting his son to finally open his eyes and blearily get a look at his father, draped in a three piece suit that defied the obvious.

“…It’s Saturday.”

“A work Saturday. And you’re lucky I let you sleep this long anyway,” he deadpans. “Now make sure Billie gets breakfast.” That’s all the good morning Miles needs apparently, before his father stands up from where he’d crouched down and strides out the door.

Wakefulness dumped on him like ice water, he dares a look around. He sees wisps of daylight slipping through the blinds, strokes of light streaking the walls like stripes, and it ignites the irritation unfurling in his gut—he woke him up at the ass end of the afternoon to make sure Billie got breakfast.

Like she hadn’t been living by herself before she moved in!

Miles tears off what’s left of the duvet at his lap with a sharp sigh and rises off the couch like Frankenstein’s monster, trudging to his room where Billie rests peacefully in his bed, furled within comforters that make her look two inches tall.

“Hey,” he tries.

She doesn’t so much as move an inch. When it’s been thirty seconds without response, he rolls his eyes at having to raise his voice to rouse this kid back to the land of the living.

“Billie. Get up.”

When nothing happens again, he idly wonders if this is why his dad practically shook him awake. He finally stalks forward, places a hand on her shoulder over the comforter, but can’t help gingerly moving it back and forth. “Billie, c’mon, it’s like twelve-thirty.”

She groans this time, turning further into the blanket and shying her shut gaze away from him.

Finally, he steps back, grasps the edge of the blanket, and tears it off her in one big swoop. She whines, quite incessantly, but he knows she’s up.

When she has time to gather her bearings, her face twists, moody at the way he disturbed her at the ungodly hour of mid-afternoon. He lets it slide because he knows the feeling, and after she dresses up in an old dark hoodie he’s pretty sure used to be his years past, they brush their teeth together. Her little head peeks up the bottom of the mirror over the sink, and she brushes back and forth at the exact same rhythm as him.

“How do you like your eggs?” he drones as they soon amble into the kitchen, breath a lot more minty. Predictably, Billie says nothing in response as she settles in at the table, and as Miles fetched a pan from the top cabinet, he chuckles to himself knowing he’d say what he’s about to no matter how she responded anyway.

“Scrambled it is.”

When he’s done whisking the eggs into the bowl, he holds off pouring it into the pan to make a stop back at the couch. Hidden somewhere in the blankets he laid beneath are his earbuds and his phone. He quickly opens up Apple Music and puts on a shuffled playlist, but doesn’t plug anything into his ears.

Instead, he walks back to the kitchen table and places the phone in Billie’s hands, plugging up her ears and allowing the sounds of whatever he’d been listening to last night to ease her into wakefulness. He idly ruffles the top of her dark curls as he walks back to the countertop.

So, yeah. He ended up moving back home. It’s unfortunate, forgoing one of the main tentpoles of his independence as a young man, what with the dorm he lived freely in at Visions, and he carries himself through each day by the reminder that the arrangement is only temporary.

See, now that his dad’s begun the paperwork to actually foster Billie, started taking state mandated parenting classes and whatnot, together they need to present the image of a two person household so the social workers can decide it’s okay for him to introduce a child in need into their home.

It’s peculiar, the adjustment period he undergoes, and not just for Billie. Yes, he does need to get used to her following him around the house, sometimes around the neighborhood like a lost puppy, watching him at all times and, apparently, mimicking his quirks. But what really takes some adjusting is going from seeing his father for seventy-two hours a week to nearly all one-hundred and sixty-eight of them. He’d forgotten what it was like, not being able to sleep in past a certain time, having to show up for dinner on a regular basis, and, most heartbreakingly—

“Fuck!”

—not being able to swear out loud like he normally would at his dorm, lest an impressionable child repeat it somewhere she isn’t supposed to. Even if in his reflective haze, he’d let four eggs go to waste in a charred up mess.

It’s like nineteen eighty-four in here.

“Just great.” Smoke wafts up to the ceiling from the pan, and what was once a lovely golden yellow is now a scorched black mess. There goes breakfast.

He doesn’t have to look very far to see Billie, watching him intently from her seat at the table.

“Don’t repeat that,” he warns, turning the burner off and already picking out their McDonalds order, even more unhappy by the fact that they stopped serving breakfast an hour ago.

“Which one?”

It’s the first thing she’s said to him in days, and thus her mousy voice strikes him still, eyes wide—until he remembers what she responded to and regains his step.

“You know which one.”

He’s forced to hope for the best when she nods, drawing circles on the wooden finish with her finger, head bobbing slightly to the music in her ears. He wonders if he should finally dig up his old Gameboy or something, so she can have something to do at home.

[…]

A few weeks ago, Miles suffered the worst kind of craving he could possibly have, at the most inopportune time—an Egg McMuffin past eleven in the morning.

It was his own fault for waking up so late, kinda like it is now, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and on that late afternoon, he’d craved that wondrous mingle of ham, egg and cheese like a flower craves the sun.

So, he did something he probably shouldn’t have. He ducked into an alley, changed into his costume, and swung his way onto the outer wall of a nearby McDonalds, hovering over the window of the drive-thru like a city sticker.

To the awestruck workers taking orders, he’d asked, “You think Spidey can get a McMuffin?”

It’d been worth it. He only wishes he’d done it at eight o’clock at night or something, knowing there was nothing more satisfying than defying their old rules so brazenly, during those glorious few years where they dared to serve breakfast all day.

He still misses that sometimes.

And that nostalgia’s yet to depart from him when he enters that very McDonalds, this time as mere Miles Morales, Billie’s hand tucked in his. At the front desk, he’d like nothing more than to order a hashbrown, but settles for a large fry, two apple pies, a soda, preparing to order the same for Billie when she pulls at his sleeve and points at the menu.

“Oh, and a McFlurry.”

It’s not too unhealthy for a kid to have one of those for breakfast, right? He remembers reading that American breakfast is pretty much dessert anyway, so…can’t be that much harm done. And once they’re seated at their booth, trays full of food, she seems to enjoy it even more than he had at her age.

[patheticbatman]

I don’t do this super often, but when I was 13ish I spent hours thinking about Percy and Annabeth’s future house. Idk why. And I wrote out their magical house in an iPhone note. I updated it every so often for a couple years, but as an adult I leave it alone as a monument to my childhood and my OTP.

But I just saw a really cool themed house from that home tours blog (it was pirate themed!) and wanted to share my ‘home tour’.

Please keep in mind the following was written mostly in 2014 by a young teen who made some shit up. So some of it may not be canonly possible now/never was a thing 

Percy and Annabeth's underwater cave house

Front entrance: dead tree on edge of Chase cliff. Whisper Jackson, and a slide that can take you up and down using antigravity and gravity leads to the house. You can notice tiny little jewels all over the house, enchanted for anti monster.

First level hallway: kitchen, dining room with conveyer belt leading between, gym, living room, bathroom. This is the second lowest level. The rest of the floors also have the slides to get there.

Kitchen has a large island, with lots of counters and cabinets. The walls are turquoise and everything else is chrome grey, like the fridge and such.

Dining room as a chandelier of rainbows, with a mini fountain that spurts any drink you ask for is in the middle of a ring table that could fit 16. If you give a coin, it can create an iris message. The table is silver grey wood while the wall is also turquoise.

The gym is just a mini work out area. Not decorated.

The living room is decorated with pictures of their friends. It has silvery gray walls, blue furniture, and a ten ft by ten ft tv. The dead tree actually has many minisatelites disguised as moss. They are enchanted to actually literally grow.

Third lowest level

Party room twelve guest rooms with their own bathrooms

,library.

Party room is just a blue room with food slide from the kitchen, some rables, and a disco ball with a wooden track around the large room for skating. Percy, with help from a friendly kid of Boreas, sometimes turn it into a winter wonderland in the summer.

Spare room 1

Frank n Hazels room usually, or will be when they start doing stuff. Green painted with gold furniture pretty much describes their rooms

Spare room 2

Will and nicos room usually. Black and silver furniture with gold walls

Spare room 3

Rachel's room Murals and a rainbow everywhere. Every surface is painted. Wicker/newspaper/hodgepodge furniture everywhere

Spare room 4

Piper and Jason's walls are red, and furniture is purple and pink. Actually looks nice and not too girly

Spare room 5

Calypso and Leo's room, done in red and oranges. Ps all the rooms had a small window like the ones in the hobbit

Spare room 6.

Hedge and Mellies room, with cradle. Everything is in light blues and dark greens

Spare room 7

Reyna's and future partner's room

Purple walls with gold and silver looking furniture, and 2 dog beds for aurum and argentum

The rest are kids rooms/ unplanned for when the guests have kids. They are plain. The last is a sort of playroom, with same size tv (everyone has a 2 by 3 tv in room)

Top level

Percabeth's room, future kids room(4), mrs. O'Leary's room, the offices, window room, carport, and percy and Annabeth's iwn offices

Future kids rooms are in pastel blue, yellow, green and orange

Mrs. O'Leary's room is giant, with lots of rubber yaks and other toys, and bowls filled with food and water always (they refill themselves). Done in red and silver. with special portal just for her and her owners to go out to Central Park.

Carport is just a garage that has a magical door that allows car to go through tree portel.

Lowest level

Garden and port and demigod Runaway shelter

Port is this giant cave, hidden by the mist to look like a cliff face that makes mortals just suddenly think about other things to do. It opens up to the sea, and they have this great boat called the sea owl, with eyes on the front. It also has a submarine, a small seaplane, and an elevator that goes to two portals to Olympus, and Atlantis. Has automatic spell where you have the small air bubble around you and your stuff. is painted on by enormous mural by Rachel.

Garden

Fruit trees that make all fruits (a rare tree called a cornucopia tree) lots of flowers and a gazebo. Painted and lighted to look like the outside that day. In middle there is a five-tiered fountain that sprays a rainbow. First level is made of Stygian iron, then celestial bronze, then Atlantean silver, imperial gold, and then heavenly steel that has a little dirt in it with a blue stemmed silver First Orchid. Has imported bees

Demigod safe base

A special Door that opens only to demigods and their helpers. and only let's demigods in leads you to the shelter. It has an ambrosia and nectar fountain, a water fountain that could turn to rainbows, free drachmas sent from the gods (only those in need can grab them), and ten beds with heated blankets. Small altar. Fridge full of ever re supplying food. Cabinet full of whatever medical stuff you need. Door that leads to Percabeth house, but only opens when you have permission.

[loudsnapdragon]

thank you to @dreamwatch for tagging me a in a little WIP Wednesday!🧡

some angsty Eddie pov, from a possible b-side to my Juno fic here.

His mama always sends him a handknitted toboggan for his birthday, or close abouts. It was November by the time it arrived this year, only two months late, wrapped up in brown paper and twine. Wayne called it handsome when Eddie pulled it over his head, the blue wool a little harsh against his dark hair but still charming in its way. He remembers her always being nimble with her fingers, whether it was knitting needles or the fine papers of rollie or the strings of that little old guitar painted silly colors.

It was a pretty thing, that guitar. A Rickenbacker acoustic with pink and blue daisies around the pick guard. It got her into a lot of trouble, that guitar.

There’s this old boozer off Main St. It’s where the plant workers go; Wayne and his buddies. Eddie only set foot inside once, twelve years old and fucking terrified cos’ he’d lost his keys, and the frozen trailer door wasn’t budging like it usually did when he shimmied the handle. Dragging his feet through the snow and biting his lip blue. Expecting the complete stranger he’d only recently been informed was his uncle, and the only living relative fit to care for him, to slap him backwards for losing the keys to the trailer Eddie’d no doubt already tarnished with his mere presence.

He remembers the shock of warmth when he walked out the cold of his first Hawkins’ winter and into the red carpeted bar. The way the glowing neons behind the counter were blocked out by the bartender towering over him, asking if he knew where he was. Eddie wasn’t one for biting his tongue, never has been, but he didn’t answer. Too distracted by the guitarist in the corner, twanging strings waving under his fat fingers. Odd music, not quite like home. Wherever that was. But it got the liquored up oldies at the bar waving their beers, cheerily mumbling along to the too-fast words.

Wayne spotted him soon enough. And cos’ he’s an old sweetheart, he barely bat an eyelid at his night ending early. Walked Eddie home and showed him the spare hidden in a knot in the punk wood under the doormat. Eddie sat up on the kitchen counter, cos’ he was small enough to do that back then, chewing on a fresh grilled cheese as Wayne pottered around the stove, making himself a black coffee to sober up before bed. With a decisive swing of his feet against the cabinets, Eddie decided the curiosity beat out the constant low-lying fear that he was impeding on Wayne’s everything, and asked after the music. It sounded like mama’s songs, he said. Back when she still played.

And Wayne sighed like a tire wheezing out the last of its air, the car crashing into the side of the highway. Made Eddie freeze his short legs, hanging perpendicular off the counter.

'Sorry,' he said.

'It’s alright,' Wayne said, putting down his coffee and helping Eddie jump down. ;Get to bed, and I’ll tell ya.'

He’d never had his own bed before. Always slept in his mama’s bed back in Virginia, and then, when he was with Teddy, it was the loveseat under the apartment window. Never any curtains, so the streetlights would bother him all night, morning sun waking him up early enough so he could dust down the living room, make Teddy a coffee, and then go about pretending he didn't exist. As was best to do when he was staying there.

But Wayne gave up the bedroom when Eddie moved in, telling Eddie to make it his own. He hasn’t got much décor to show for it; a snapshot of his mama above the bedside lamp; some rocks he’d found in the creek back home; the leather jacket Teddy had given him as way of an apology, too big for a child and falling apart at the seams.

Wayne pulled up the rickety chair to sit by the bed, like he’d be telling Eddie a fairy tale. But Wayne’s never been that fanciful, who’s got time for that, so it was a real story. More truth than Eddie had ever heard before.

A very pretty lady came rolling down the mountains to stay with her auntie and get her high school diploma. Hawkins’ High didn’t know how to comprehend her, this skinny girl with straw hair and strange words and a face that got Ted Wheeler nearly giving it all up just to take her to Prom. But Ted didn’t win her hand, cos’ the pretty lady had her eyes set on a life beyond the better-to-do suburbs. She wanted to travel to the real city, see the big wide world and where she fit into it. Poor as pieces she was, made ends meet with a job cleaning at the luxury motel off the highway, and on occasion singing a tune around town. Wayne always wondered after her, how safe she was playing her silly guitar in those smoky bars. He was ought to be graduating the same year as her, couldn’t deny he’d blush when she smiled so earnest in the hallways, like she’d never learnt the high-mindedness that Karen Childress got her kicks from. But where Wayne kept his distance, his big brother crept forwards.

Edward Munson has four years over Wayne, four years more than Eliza too.

When he’s older, Eddie will hear the odd story about Teddy around town. How he was a charmer, a crook, a cheat, but more often than not, how he was the handsomest man his dear mama ever saw. He found her playing guitar in that old boozer, watched her intently as he sipped on a whiskey he didn’t pay for, tipped her mighty with cash he won fair and square in a pool game against Lonnie Byers, or so he claimed. Teddy told that girl she had a voice made for the West, how her yellow hair would light up like golden sand under the sun.

Three months later and she was expecting, one month more and they were married, and she’d dropped out of high school. Another month after, and Teddy ran off solo to the coast, leaving Eliza on the Munson’s family’s doorstep, begging her mother-in-law to lend a helping hand. Wayne put in a good word for he, he swore he did. Told his mom that Eliza was a good girl who been screwed over by the slimiest Munson there was. But his mom had a soft spot for her eldest, and the besotted kindness didn’t extend to the witch who’d stolen him away.

So, Eliza went hitchhiking back to Virginia, her aunt having lost her wits and screeching that there was no hope for her left in Hawkins, and Edward Munson Jr. was born by a woodstove on the brick floor of his nana’s house in the mountains.

[in-the-shadow-of-the-blog]

The Pains We Endure | Chapter Two

Masterlist | Ao3 | Chapter One

Chapter Summary: Through a series of encounters, Edith and Aesop come to know each other a little better. Perhaps their first impressions of each other were wrong. (Aesop Sharp x OC)

Chapter Rating: PG

Chapter Warnings: None! (Darker stuff is coming. Also smut.)

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: I'm trying to practice pining, how am I doing? 2 of 6.

—

Edith regretted walking into the Great Hall the moment the roar of voices reached her ears. A mask of impassivity smoothed her features as she joined the other teachers at the staff tables. One hand rubbed little circles into her temple while she sipped her tea.

“Not recovered from your headache, Miss Pryce?” Professor Sharp asked, eyeing her.

“Not quite, Professor Sharp. The solace of the library will do me good.” Edith sipped her tea, refusing to look at him.

He didn’t want her imagined pity, and Edith had no use for his assumptions about her headache. Edith wasn’t sure how they had gotten off on the wrong foot, but she was in no mood to set things right this morning.

“There are draughts that can offer relief.”

Given their conversation the previous night, Edith expected a patronizing lilt to his tone. There was none, but she was still affronted by his behavior last night, and her headache made it impossible to entertain civility.

“Thank you, professor, but there is no need. I have yet to encounter a pain I could not endure.”

He fell silent, and Edith inwardly celebrated her victory. She was in no mood for his quiet superiority. It was satisfying to put a man like that in his place, even in the smallest of ways.

Over the course of the next week, Edith settled into her role as assistant librarian quite well. She got on well with most of the staff and found plenty of work to keep her busy in the library. Edith was a woman who appreciated routine, though spending all day in the library felt stifling sometimes.

Today, Scribner had tasked her with retiring some old potions textbooks to a storage room. At least it gets me out of the library for a while. I’ve forgotten what the rest of the castle looks like.

Twelve books, neatly arranged in two stacks of six, floated beside Edith as she took the steps down to the dungeons. The room in question was easy to find, around the corner from the potions classroom. Edith stepped inside, books following, and surveyed the dusty room. A cabinet stood against one wall, potentially empty, according to Scribner.

“Perfect,” Edith said to herself. Organized and out of sight, just how she liked things.

Edith opened the cabinet.

And screamed.

Books toppled to the floor as her charm slipped away. Before her was a face that she had desperately hoped never to see again. The face of all her nightmares. Now, here he stood, in the one place Edith thought she would find safety.

He advanced, silent, wand pointed at her, hazel eyes filled with disdain. She could hear the spell in her mind, the memory of his voice echoing in her ears. Edith staggered back, shuffling away from him, hands scrabbling against the stone floor. This can’t be happening.

“No.” A timid sob escaped her lips as her back met the wall. Edith stared up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

-

Aesop had not heard a sound that sent a chill down his spine in quite some time, but he heard it now. He stood from his desk, auror instincts alight, his wand in his hand. It had not been a scream of surprise or dismay; it was a sound of abject terror.

He made his way down the hall, caution tempering his urgency. “Who’s there?” He called out.

“No! Please, no!” Sobs wrenched from a place of desperate despair led him down the corridor and into a storeroom. The door was open, and Aesop was taken aback at the scene that greeted him.

Edith was on the floor, backed against a wall, in tears. Books littered the surrounding ground. Standing over her was a man Aesop had never seen before, wand raised threateningly. Cold hazel eyes partially hidden under an unruly mop of shaggy dark hair, sharp features many would call handsome, and a menacing smile curving his lips. He reminded Aesop of the kinds of wizards he had tracked down as an auror.

Catching sight of Aesop’s arrival, the figure changed. It was partially the same man, partially the dead-eyed figure of his late partner. Aesop grimaced, gritting his teeth. “Ridikulus!”

The figure vanished in a puff of smoke.

He turned to Edith, still staring wide-eyed at the place where the man had stood. He reached down, offering her a hand up. “Miss Pryce?”

Edith gasped, turning her fearful gaze on him. She blinked, snapping out of whatever dark place in which her mind had trapped her. She accepted the hand up and leaned against the stone wall, catching her breath.

“It was only a boggart.” His tone was unusually gentle.

“Yes, I see that now.” Edith’s breath was shallow, her hands shaky as she wiped at the tears on her cheek.

Unsure of what to say, Aesop allowed her a moment to compose herself. The things that could make a woman so terrified of a man were not things he liked to think about. Edith looked at him, feeling small under his scrutiny.

“Thank you for your assistance, Professor Sharp. I’m afraid I would have been in terrible trouble without your intervention. As you can see, I am rather inept when it comes to these things.”

“Being caught off guard is never pleasant.”

Edith hummed in agreement. She waved her wand and the books on the floor stacked themselves neatly in the open cabinet. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “If you’ll excuse me, I must…” Edith trailed off, not bothering to find an end to her sentence.

She felt Aesop’s eyes on her as she fled the room as quickly as her unsteady legs would allow her. Edith’s headache had returned with a vengeance, and a tingling in her fingertips suggested she might be on her way to fainting. She needed air.

Walking without intention, Edith was neither surprised nor dismayed when she realized her instincts had taken her to the greenhouses. Where else would she find the peace and calm she needed if not among the fresh earth and sweet smells of growing plants? She leaned against an ivy-covered wall, eyes closed to the warmth of the sun, breathing deeply. Home.

“Miss Pryce? Are you all right?” Professor Garlick’s lilting tone interrupted her thoughts. She looked at Edith warily.

“Apologies, Professor Garlick. I just had a run-in with a boggart in the dungeons and I thought I would come out here for some fresh air.”

“How dreadful!” Mirabel exclaimed. The redhead considered Edith for a moment. “You look like you could use a cup of tea.”

—

The first Quidditch game of the season was an exciting day for students and teachers alike. The stands were full, and the faculty filed into the tower reserved for their use. Aesop took his time with the stairs, wondering if he should resort to using his cane for this particular task in the future. Matilda sat alone, and a plan formed in Aesop’s mind. He took the seat next to her, hiding a grimace.

“Good day, Matilda,” he greeted her. His nonchalance was not enough to fool the shrewd headmistress.

“Something on your mind, Aesop?” Matilda asked.

“Ha, nothing gets past you, I see.” Aesop leaned in, not wanting to be overheard. “How well do you know Miss Pryce?”

Matilda looked at him, her face a little more serious than he was expecting. “Does this have anything to do with the boggart incident?”

“She told you?” It had been over a week since that day in the storeroom. Aesop had not dared bring it up, and he felt Edith had been avoiding him.

“To answer both your questions, I have known Edith since she was a girl. Long enough for her to confide in me about what happened.” Matilda folded her hands in her lap. “What is it you want to know, Aesop?”

Well, Aesop appreciate getting to the point. “We both know that Scribner can manage perfectly well without an assistant. You have an ulterior motive for getting Edith this job. Does it have something to do with that man?”

Matilda clicked her tongue. “Aesop, you are not an auror, and Edith is not trafficking magical artifacts. You’ve no need to be wary.”

“I will always be wary if I have cause to believe someone is hiding dangerous secrets.” Aesop’s voice was low, though he was becoming a little heated.

“I hope you are not suggesting that I would allow anyone’s business - private business, I might add - to jeopardize the safety of the school.”

Aesop straightened in his chair. “Of course not, Matilda.”

The woman sighed. “Edith’s situation is delicate. She needs support, not suspicion. I’m surprised you’ve taken such a keen interest, to be honest.”

Two cheerful voices rose behind them, and Aesop was grateful the excuse to end the conversation. Matilda’s answers sated his questions for now, but gave him new ones to ponder. Why had he taken such an interest?

He glanced over his shoulder to see Edith and Mirabel taking seats. Edith sported a worn Hufflepuff scarf, no doubt hers from her time as a student. No surprises there. Out of the corner of his eye, Aesop watched as Edith adjusted the thin scarf, the black striped stark against her pale skin.

Since that afternoon in the greenhouse, Edith and Mirabel had grown close. Bonding over their shared love of plants and tea, Edith had found a sorely needed female companion in the young professor.

The Quidditch match, Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff, was a rousing affair. The game was close at first, but the Hufflepuff team soon gained the upper hand. They were ahead by forty points before the yellow-clad seeker caught the snitch. The eruption of applause and cheers was thunderous, Edith and Mirabel loudest among the teachers.

Spectators filed out of the stands, joining their teams to celebrate on the pitch or heading back to the castle. Sitting near the front of the teacher’s box, Edith waited for the crowd to thin a little before making her way toward the stairs.

The sun beating down on them during the match had left Edith feeling a little too warm. A little too fuzzy. Halfway down the steps, everything started to go a little blurry. Her vision, her hearing, even her fingertips, as a familiar tingling sensation pricked at her skin. She barely made it down the rest of the steps. Oh no. Not now!

Edith had fought off these fainting spells before, and she would do so again. She just needed to focus.

Edith paused, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, the other clutched over her chest. She forced herself to breathe, slowly counting to five. When it didn’t help, she counted again. The blurring at the edge of her senses faded.

“Miss Pryce?” The voice was forceful, as if this was not the first time it called her name.

Edith looked up with a small gasp of surprise, realizing she was no longer alone. Professor Sharp stared at her, a curious expression on his face. “I didn’t see you there, professor.”

“Is everything all right?” Aesop eyed her warily. “You were… counting.”

Edith schooled her features. Why was this man always present in her moments of weakness? “Nothing to be concerned about, professor. I will be along in a moment.”

Aesop took in her pale face, the way her hand pressed against the wall. “Are you certain? You look faint.”

“I am just taking a moment to catch my breath. It’s rather warm today, don’t you think?”

One.

Aesop raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps a little.” He did not sound convinced.

Edith swayed on her feet, drawing a shaky breath. Aesop laid a stabilizing hand on her arm, his hand warm through the fabric of her dress. “Are you sure you are all right?”

Two.

With a weak gesture of her hand, Edith waved him away. “I just need a moment. You need not worry.”

Three.

“I’m not going to leave you in such a state,” Aesop objected firmly. “What sort of man would that make me?”

Four.

“An obedient one.” A wry smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Five.

With one last deep breath, the tingle in her fingers subsided. Edith straightened, her hand leaving the wall. Her serene smile slid back onto her features. “There. Right as rain.”

Aesop gestured for her to lead the way, his features still tight with concern. “Ladies first.”

Edith was not well versed in small talk, but she had no use for awkward silences. “That was an exciting Quidditch match. Can I expect the same energy in the future, or is it simply the excitement of a new season?”

“Quite common, actually,” Aesop said. “Our students are passionate players.”

“Well, I’m glad to see the Hufflepuff team has improved since I was in school.”

“The Ravenclaw team is hardly a threat. They won’t stand a chance against Slytherin.”

She responded with a raised eyebrow. “Someone sounds confident.”

“You can’t argue with history. Slytherin has won the cup for the last 4 years.”

“Sounds like a lucky streak due to end.” Edith delivered the retort playfully.

“Professor Sharp!” A Ravenclaw boy, Thakkar, if Edith remembered correctly, met them between the castle and the pitch. He had run all the way, it seemed, breathless and a little panicked. “The potions classroom. Something’s happened.”

Aesop’s brow furrowed in concern and alarm. He quickened his steps to his classroom, Edith following close behind.

An overflowing cauldron was ruining one of the potion stations. The muddy orange liquid that spilled over its edge warped whatever it touched, steaming and burning away part of the desk. The thick, acidic sludge kept pouring, creeping across the floor.

Standing before it, luckily unscathed, was a young redhead boy.

“Weasley!” Aesop shouted.

With a wave of his wand, Aesop froze the liquid’s advance before it could reach the boy’s shoes.

Garreth looked down in shame. “Sorry, Professor Sharp. I only looked away for a moment.”

Aesop heaved a sigh. “Have I taught you nothing? Brewing potions is a careful business. A cauldron should never be left unattended.”

“Yes, professor.”

“Detention. And points from Gryffindor. Dismissed.”

The look on Garreth’s face suggested he expected as much.

Edith watched Aesop discipline Weasley, noting his reaction. His irritation clearly stemmed from a place of concern, not anger. Not that it was her place to comment, but Edith felt he handled it rather well.

With Garreth out of the room, Edith took out her wand to help clean up the mess. She was rather decent at cleaning and repairing charms, and between the two of them they quickly had the floor clean and unmarked.

“What the devil was that boy trying to do this time?” He muttered as he looked down into the cauldron.

Aesop leaned against the desk, his hand landing atop a stray drop of the caustic brew. Aesop hissed and drew his hand back, looking down to see the substance leaving angry red skin where it had smeared over his palm.

“Professor Sharp?” Edith asked, striding over to him. She held her hand out. “Let me see.”

Her palm was soft against the back of his hand as she studied the blistery mark. Edith tutted softly.

“I suppose a trip to the hospital wing is in order,” Aesop said, though he made no move to remove his hand from Edith’s.

“No need to bother Nurse Blainey. Come with me.” Edith’s voice was gentle, but her tone brooked no argument.

“It isn’t very serious,” Aesop protested, even as he followed her up the stairs.

“It still needs attention. Or do you plan on brewing one-handed for the rest of the week?”

Aesop was silent.

“I’ve seen burns like this before. This treatment has never failed me.”

Edith opened the door to her chambers and ushered Aesop inside, directing him to sit on a sofa in front of the fireplace. Her living area was tidy, as he expected. A tall bookshelf stood to one wall, filled with various tomes. Scattered about the room were plants of varying sizes in equally varying states of growth. A few had enchanted orbs hovering above them, simulating their needed sunlight, while others were being watered by miniature rain clouds.

He continued to observe her surroundings - the soft colors, muted light, floral patterns - while Edith set the kettle over the fire.

“Did you bring me here for tea?” Aesop asked, his lips curving into a smile.

“No, that’s for me. I’m desperate for a cup.” She grinned, picking up a pair of miniature scissors. “But I need the water for something else as well.”

“Seems I always see you drinking tea,” Aesop mused, watching Edith as she approached one of her plants.

“Well, give me a good cup of tea and I can conquer anything.”

Snip. Snip.

A comfortable silence blanketed the room as Aesop watched her work. He recognized the smell of dittany, which she ground in a mortar. A splash of hot water - she paused to add some to her teapot, of course - a sprinkle of a powder from a vial, and her concoction was complete.

Edith knelt beside the sofa, gesturing for Aesop to give her his hand again, and she gently smeared the poultice onto his palm. She glanced up at his face for signs of discomfort, but he remained stoic.

“How would this differ from the dittany salves in the hospital wing?” Aesop asked. He wasn’t harsh, simply curious.

“Freshly cut leaves increase the efficacy,” Edith said softly. “It won’t keep, like the ones Nurse Blainey has, but it is more potent.”

Her explanation was met with silence. Aesop was too distracted by the warmth of her hand on his. He kept catching whiffs of her perfume - violets?

“Hmm… no bandages. This will suffice.” Edith opened the drawer of her side table and took out a handkerchief. A decorative embroidered edge, and her initials in the corner, were stitched into the white cotton with lavender thread.

His gaze remained on Edith’s deft fingers as she folded it into a suitable strip. She pressed it against the dittany mixture on the burn, tying it off on the side of his hand.

Edith nodded in satisfaction. “That should do it.”

“I shall return this,” Aesop, examining her handiwork.

Edith shrugged, giving an indifferent shake of her head. Her voice grew quiet as her eyes met his. “It’s of little importance. I have others.”

Edith cleared her throat softly and stood, sweeping over to her teapot. “Care for a cup?”

Clearing his throat, Aesop rose from the sofa. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’ll need to go back to the classroom, make sure Weasley has left no other mischief behind.”

“Well, be careful with that hand,” she told him, lifting the steaming cup to her lips.

Edith stared at Aesop’s retreating form as he left her quarters. She sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire, wrestling with a question.

Why was she so disappointed that he had not stayed for tea?

—

Aesop sighed as he sat down on his bed. He lay back, grateful for a chance to rest his aching leg. It had been quite a stressful day for a Saturday.

Orange flames blazing in the hearth cast shadows on his palm as he held his hand aloft. The neatness of the folds in the handkerchief, the knot holding it in place neither too tight nor too loose. The way Edith’s fingers had danced over his skin, careful and diligent…

Aesop closed his eyes, laying his bandaged hand against his chest. Violet-scented dreams awaited him.

[waltzofthewifi]

Twelve

AO3

The student stopped at the door and took a deep breath.

He did not want to be there. Not even slightly.

It was supposed to be an honor, to study under Tigris. Many people considered her the original stylist for the games, she had been doing this for so long.

But he did not want to be there. He did not want to study under her, and he definitely did not want the career he would get afterwards.

But he didn’t have much choice at this point. If he had been smarter, if he realized where things were headed, he could have avoided this. All he had needed to do was not be best in class.

Except he had been best in class, winning him this internship under Tigris. And now he was here.

He did not want to be there.

He took a deep breath, and knocked on the office door.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside. 

The door slid open smoothly. These were the nicest offices in the Capital, everything smooth and clean and tidy. Even the carpets were impeccable.

Tigris was alone at her desk. She had to be old by this point, but she had done enough surgery to still look young. Surgery that included tiger stripes across her face and whiskers.

She smiled at him. “You must be the intern. Cinna Goldwood, correct?”

Cinna nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He didn’t look at her when he spoke, attention drawn to everything around him. 

The office was huge. There were several other desks, full of papers but empty of workers. Mannequins were interspersed throughout rows of clothes. One wall was nothing but shelves of clothes, another had television screens from ceiling to floor. An old fashioned filing cabinet set next to Tigris’s desk, with a dusty sewing machine on top. 

“Take your time to look around,” Tigris said. “I need a moment to finish this up.”

Cinna nodded and drifted over to the closest mannequin. 

It was wearing a half-finished dress shirt. Cinna could see what Tigris was working on, playing around with a new fabric that was being manufactured in District 8. It was a different type of weave, impacting the way the fabric stretched, allowing for more creative usage. 

Many of the mannequins were dressed in new clothes, using different fabrics or different cuts or different colors. Some had labels with names of other stylists - perhaps the occupants of the other desks. 

The clothing on the racks, on the other hand, were mostly finished. There was one rack that looked like it was made for Tigris specifically. Another was for the District 2 escort. Some were tagged for other people, none of them named Cinna recognized. 

The television screens were on screensaver mode, each with a little icon of a tiger that bumped around on the screen. There was a fancy analogue clock hidden on one of the walls, that was a full ten minutes behind. On the side of the filing cabinet was a collection of photos of past tributes - not all victors - that were wearing Tigris’s designs. Some of the photos dated back as early as the first quarter quell. 

Cinna looked back over at Tigris to find her watching him, an amused look on her face.

“You’ve been doing this for a long time,” Cinna commented.

Tigris nodded. “I was part of the first team of stylists.”

“Have you been designing for District 2 the whole time?” Cinna asked.

Tigris stared at him for a moment, like he had asked her to complete a hard math problem. 

“The reapings will be tomorrow,” Tigris said, turning back to the papers on her desk. “I won’t be able to mentor you much once things start moving, but I do have some homework for you. And we can meet every afternoon to go over your work.”

“Sounds good,” Cinna said.

“Good,” Tigris said. She handed Cinna a sketchbook. “You’re first assignment is to brainstorm an idea for the chariots for each district.”

Cinna frowned. 

“Something wrong?” Tigris said.

“Oh,” Cinna said, forcing his facial expression back under his control. “No, I just - I’m not familiar with the chariots.” 

Tigris raised an eyebrow. 

“I spend most of my time designing,” Cinna explained. “Or studying.”

“I guess that explains how you got top of your class,” Tigris said. “The chariot designs are based off of each district.”

Cinna nodded. He was aware of what the chariot rides were, he just disliked them. 

“I have a folder in that sketchbook with a description of each district,” Tigris continued. “Use that for inspiration. I don’t have a due date for you, as long as I can see you’re taking this assignment seriously. You can sit at one of the open desks if you want to start here, or you can do it at home and I’ll see you tomorrow after the reapings.”

Cinna nodded. “I’ll take one of the desks, thank you.”

He picked one on the same as Tigris, where he could still see her but where they weren’t directly across from each other. 

The sketchbook was nice paper, the kind that never faded. Inside were two folders. One had charcoal paper and some photo cutouts of people in different poses. The other had twelve papers, one for each district. 

Cinna grabbed the first one and started to read. 

1

District 1 was known for manufacturing luxuries, including everything from gemstones to makeup to perfumes. 

The escort for District 2, Cardea, wore a gold wig with matching gold and black makeup, all made in District 1. Her high heels clicked against the stone stage in District 2, in front of an impressive town hall with green columns made from marble. When she reached into the bowl holding the names of potential tributes, her shimmering gold nail polish was visible on camera.

It was a luxury to be able to watch the reapings from his apartment. A bigger luxury than any gems or fingernail polish or wigs. When Cinna had turned twelve, he spent the night after the reaping awake in bed, wondering what it must have felt like to be in the districts, eligible for the reapings. 

His mom had scolded him for wondering, saying there was no point. The people in the district were too different from him and his experience - they were, essentially, unknowable.

Cinna used the charcoal paper to trace around the silhouette of a teenager before starting to sketch an idea.

District 1 was also responsible for the ingredients to most medicine. The antibiotics his dad had taken when Cinna was ten were originally from District 1. Those hadn’t felt like luxuries, but necessities. 

Cinna designed a dress that looked like it was made of soap bubbles. 

“You finished this today?” Tigris asked, looking over the design.

Cinna shrugged. It had been a needed distraction. 

2

The two tributes in District 2 were Feronia, an eighteen-year-old volunteer, and Fides, a seventeen-year-old who shoved a different teenager out of the way to volunteer. 

Tigris had their sizes by midnight, and while Cinna worked on his one District 2 designs she touched up on the actual outfits for the chariot parade.

“How come the District 2 tributes are always dressed for masonry?” Cinna asked. “Aren’t most peacekeepers from two?”

“Yes, but most of the districts don’t know that,” Tigris said. “To the other districts, they are the masonry district.”

Tigris’s chariot outfits were similar to past designs. Large and blocky, like warriors made of stone.

“District 2 doesn’t like a lot of variation,” the other District 2 stylist, Acis, said. He was relaxing at a desk that wasn’t his own, partially collaborating with Tigris and partially working on a tablet. 

Tigris nodded. “They like how things are, now. Too much variation in their chariot outfits makes them nervous.” 

Cinna nodded. 

His own designs were attempts to break out from the usual. Tigris and Acis probably had similar doodles - designs that would impress the Capital audience and make their names famous forever. 

“It’s important to focus on what the tributes need,” Tigris continued. “We are their last chance at having someone on their side.”

“What about mentors?” Cinna asked.

Tigris shrugged. “They’re focused on mentoring. It can make them come across as rough, or rude. And the District 2 victors are always scary.”

3

District 3 made technology. 

The screens that displayed the chariot rides were made in District 3. The tablets and comcuffs the stylists worked with were made in District 3. The cameras hidden throughout the arena were made in District 3.

Cinna wondered how it would feel, working in a factory that made the same technology that made the games possible. It was illegal to refuse to work for the games - it was why Cinna was here, despite him not wanting to be.

District 3 was also one of two districts to make glass. While District 1 made glassware and windowpanes, District 3 made the glass for screens and lightbulbs.

Cinna designed a pair of costumes based on lightbulbs, with a swirly inner design and vague idea about glowing.

“District 3 provides the light for the Capital,” Cinna explained to Tigris, the night after the parades.

“Very true,” Tigris said, “although I prefer the heating units in the winter. Old joints don’t do cold.”

4

Tigris had her assistant, a young woman named Hermia, show Cinna how the training outfits were designed.

Hermia showed Cinna the athletic side of clothing - where clothing needed to stretch, what types of cloth and weave worked for what activities, that type of thing.

Fides was primarily a swordfighter. He needed full range with his arms and shoes that wouldn’t restrict his movement.  

Cinna didn’t know much about sword fighting. He did a little bit of PE in school and hadn’t done any exercising since.

District 4 fished. Chariot outfits in the past put a huge emphasis on the act of fishing - nets, tridents, sailor outfits. One year their stylists gave them outfits that looked to be made of seashells.

It made sense. Fishing was impressive, and it gave tributes strong muscles and suntanned skins to show off.  

But Cinna was more interested in the fish. He found pictures of a variety of fish, comparing their colors and designs. 

Salmon stood out to him. They were pink when served for food, but their scales were silvery and shiny. It made good inspiration.

5

Just under 40% of electricity was used for factories, mines, and other industrial areas. About 10% was used for security and transit. The districts barely used a whole percent of electricity outside of their industries - most of which went to the yearly airing of the games.  

The other half of electricity usage came from the Capital, one city in the vast land in Panem.

District 5 made all the electricity - dams, coal plants, some wind energy, and then a copper mine for the wires.  

It was the first time Cinna had really paid attention to the electricity around him. The bright lights that lit up the street at night. The televisions that weren’t constantly on, lining many public spaces.

The interviews started with much fanfare, at the base of the tribute center. Bright lights illuminated the tributes, Ceasar, and the audience.

Cinna watched the interviews from Tigris’s office, high above the lights. He stayed near a window, sketchbook on his lap, and used the colors below to lead his sketches.

6

At the break of dawn, Tigris met Fides in the launchpad beneath the arena.

Tigris had explained the process to Cinna. Both would be taking a hovercraft to the arena, Tigris earlier than Fides. There Tigris would help Fides into his outfit, and make sure his tribute token made it back to him safe. 

Cinna had fallen asleep in her office the night before, and only woke once Tigris and her office mates returned. 

District 6 manufactured all the transport in Panem. They made the trains and train tracks, the hovercrafts, the cars. Everything from the engines to the rubber tires to frames. There was a lot of inspiration to pull from, and most of it wasn’t pretty.

Cinna had slept through the bloodbath, but Fides had survived without injury. He and his allies had control of the cornucopia and most of the supplies, including a nice longsword Fides had claimed as his own.

Cinna wondered what district the weapons were made in.

The arena was hilly, with dead trees and grasses and a bog alive with creatures. It was large, and the remaining fourteen tributes spread out among it. 

The District 6 tributes were already dead. 

Cinna’s sketchbook page for District 6 had doodles of maps, of a connected continent thanks to the hard work of factory workers who were sent to die in the arena. 

7

District 7 did lumber, but more importantly they made paper.

Every artist had their own methods, but most used a mixture of paper and tablet programs. Cinna only ever did his final version on his tablet, meaning he went through a lot of sketchbooks, and a lot of paper. Tigris seemed to have a similar process.

Tigris spent a lot of time sketching now. Most of her work as a stylist wad finished, and she needed something to occupy her time. She was worried about Fides, although she flinched when any tribute was hurt. 

She cared. It surprised Cinna. 

District 7 traditionally were trees for the chariot rides, and there were a million ways to design a tree dress or suit. There were no trees in the Capital, so Cinna found the photo references alluring.

“I don’t think the District 7 tributes enjoy being trees,” Tigris commented when she saw his design. “But I like the color scheme you chose.”

8

“What do you think is the first sign of civilization?” Hermia asked randomly, the next day.

It was her, Acis, Tigris, and Cinna in the office that day. Tigris and Acis had spent the morning helping the District 2 mentors dress, but now there was nothing to do as the games powered on.

Cinna was working on his District 8 design. District 8 did textiles, something he was personally interested in. 

“What brought that up?” Tigris asked. 

“Something my sister had come up in a class in her fancy academy,” Hermia replied.  “It’s some history class she’s taking. She wants to be a politician I guess. And she said that politics were the first sign of civilization, but I disagree. I think it’s textiles.”

“I’m sure you’re not biased,” Acis commented. “I’ve always thought it was art. Things made to look beautiful, not just be functional.”

“I think it’s medicine,” Cinna added. “Taking the time to heal injuries, to take care of the sick.”

“That’s a good one too,” Acis said. 

“Tigris? What do you think?” Hermia asked.

Tigris frowned, chewing on the end of a pencil. “I think it’s taking care of the dead.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Hermia said.

Behind her was the stream for the games. Fides was on screen, cutting through a younger tribute with his sword. 

He left her body there, a cannon went off, and the camera cut away as a hovercraft came to remove the body.

9

District 9 grew grains exclusively.

Cinna noticed grains everywhere. In his oatmeal, in Hermia’s cereal, in the breads that were eaten at every meal. 

He noticed all the lightbulbs in every room he was in. The plates and silverware that were made in District 1. The wood of the chairs he sat in and the cars on the street. 

Almost nothing was made in the Capital itself, just designed and used. 

Cinna had spent a week working on the District 8 outfit, eventually coming up with a dress made of fabric samples that Tigris and Acis both loved. Fides and Feronia had survived that week, but their allies had not.

The day Cinna turned in his District 8 design, a feast was announced. 

At the cornucopia, at dawn the next day. Tigris called for the styling team to be in earlier than that, to get the mentors ready to be out gathering sponsors as the feast happened. 

Fides and Feronia had lost control of the cornucopia, so they had to circle back for the feast.

Cinna was at home when it started, working on his next design. He looked up as the feast was presented - food pouring out of a cornucopia.

It was supposed to be a gift from the generous Capital for the tributes, but the food didn’t come from the Capital. Some of it might have been picked by the tributes themselves.

Cinna turned back to his sketches, starting to sketch out a cornucopia.

10

Feronia died in the feast.

Fides died the next day, an angry tribute avenging their friend’s death.

The death was quick but bloody, and Cinna had to excuse himself from the room when he saw it.

He had never even met Fides, but he was still rattled.

At the end of the day he found Tigris alone in her office, drawing on her sketchbook.

“Are you okay?” Cinna asked.

“Not really,” Tigris replied, not looking up. “But it happens. I’ve learned to channel it through my work.”

Cinna glanced over at her sketchbook. She was sketching designs for someone Cinna didn’t recognize - a different tribute she had worked with, perhaps.

Tigris noticed his gaze and flipped back to the front of her notebook. “I keep a list, just so I don’t forget them. There’s been so many.”

That night, Cinna grabbed a different sketchbook to work in, drawing designs based off slaughtered livestock. It wasn’t something he wanted anybody else to see.

11

“What do you think was the purpose of this assignment?” Tigris asked one night, when it was just her and Cinna left in the office.

“It was to learn about the districts,” Cinna said. “Where everything was made.” 

“Partially,” Tigris said. “But I also wanted you to learn how you can help the tributes. Some people are in this for the fame, or to flex their fashion muscles.”

“But you do it for the tributes,” Cinna said. 

Tigris nodded. “We’re their last chance for a friend. Someone who cares about them, can make them more comfortable in those last couple days before the games. And we can help remind the audience that they’re people, and they deserve a chance.”

District 11 grew non-grain food. Everything from tomatoes to coconuts to peanuts to apples. There was so much to base a design off of, Cinna felt overwhelmed.

“Why do the districts let this happen?” Cinna asked. “They control the food, the electricity, the medicine.”

“But we control the weapons,” Tigris replied, “and we have the army.”

12

Cinna could have had any district he wanted. He asked for District 12.

The most ignored tributes, the ones who needed the most support. It was what Tigris had wanted to do, before she was pulled up and up until she reached District 2. And it was what Cinna was going to do.

Cinna and his new coworker, Portia. Her eyes lit up when he described his plans for the chariot rides.

“The Capital is going to love us,” she said. 

“That’s not the point,” Cinna replied. 

“No,” Portia agreed. “I guess it’s not.”

[solkimcowell]

Resolution

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a demon sitting in my belly, making me hungry hungry hungry. He would curl up beneath my bellybutton and growl — first, he was hungry for love, for affection, for a mother’s soft touch. Then, he was hungry for pain, for the bite of a blade and the sweet taste of blood. When he had enough of that, he was just hungry to befilled. Anything that could fit down his great black gullet, I gave, and each new year was simply another year of feeding the beast.

I’ve been serving this creature, this monster within me, since I’ve been old enough to recognise my reflection. We’re playing a game, him and I, to see who will break first, and I’ve already broken. Time and time again, I give in to his demands, until I am little more but a shell, a marionette dancing on his tongue. Sing for me, my vessel! Cry for me! Bleed for me!

It’s 11:58PM on the 31st of December. I feel him settling within me, curling up with tail over nose. I’ve been bending to his whims for over nineteen years, and when the clock strikes twelve, it’ll be on its way to twenty.

I don’t want to feed the beast next year. He’s still hungry, but I’m hungrier. I’m hungry for hopes, for the fleeting prayers, for the dreams of the young and the memories of the old. I’m hungry for friendship, for the warmth of a hand in mine. I’m hungry for comfort, for the familiar embrace of a dearly loved one, for the twinkle in a mother’s eye.

Most of all, though, I’m hungry for words. I long for conversation, for repartee, for murmured confirmations through a crack in a wall. For telegrams, marked neatly with an address and ending in a STOP. For poems, straight from the heart and tender-soft-lovely with admirations. For songs, strummed softly on a banjo by a campfire, a family joining in harmony. For promises, made by one man to another, melting in indigo moonlight.

I have two minutes to make my decision. He’s sleeping fitfully now, his wyrmly body entangled with my intestines and tugging most uncomfortably. It’s as though he knows I’m moments away from pulling the plug and watching his wretched form swirl down the drain, off to the mysterious maze of pipes and screws. His thin, bony fingers grip my ribs tightly, squeezing to the point where I’m almost afraid I could snap; he’s not afraid to hurt me, I know, so I still my breaths until he settles once more.

And I pause. Why am I tiptoeing around this beast? Why have I allowed him to take control of my life, to set my boundaries and collar me? Fear, some part of me answers, but I still don’t understand. Fear of what? Surely of the slumbering worm, my cruel puppetmaster, but something about that conclusion doesn’t fit.

Perhaps a fear of myself? Of responsibility and autonomy, of consequences, of living? A fear of needing to make the choice on my own. A fear of choosing wrong, of making mistakes and having no one to blame for them. A fear of being different for no reason.

One minute, now. He’ll be sure to wake with the changing of the year — he always does.

I act on impulse, frantically scrambling to the medicine cabinet. I’ve kept it hidden all these years, but it has to be there, it has to be—

The bottle is dusty and unopened. I twist the cap urgently, hands trembling, and I watch the seconds tick closer. I feel him stirring, claws grating against the walls of my stomach, and I know that I need to make my decision now.

I drink.

And as the new year’s fireworks begin to crackle in the distance and thousands of people everywhere clink their champagne flutes, I stumble to the bathroom to spill my guts.

[lil-moth-goth13]

Aziraphale and Crowley CG ficlet!

Aziraphale + Crowley CGs + GN regressor! it's evening in the cottage, and you're sitting comfortably with Crowley on the couch; the only sounds filling the sunset-soaked room are the soft noises of Aziraphale in the kitchen. You can smell the first batch of cookies as he pulls them out of the oven, and you smile to yourself, looking at your little plastic dinosaur in your lap. Crowley turns his face away from his phone to look at you, and you look at him. For a moment, you're in a staring match - he's almost as mischievous as you, and you're prepared for anything he could throw at you. You've got your game face on.

He makes a grab for your dino, and you laugh, pulling it out of his reach - then he kisses your nose, and you squeal in surprise, giggling uncontrollably; he takes your dinosaur, making it kiss your cheek, and you shriek joyously. Over your own laughter, you can hear Aziraphale chuckle in the kitchen; Crowley's eyes light up as he stops his playful attack, a smirk slithering across his face.

"Button," he says quietly. "How about you go get us some cookies?"

"But they just came out," you say. "Azi wants them to rest."

"Oh, they'll be cool when you grab them," he takes your hand and kisses your fingertips, making your skin tingle. You grin; Crowley's miracles always help you regress. You hop up and tip-toe over to the kitchen, watching the hem of Aziraphale's dress brush against the bottom cabinets. You know Aziraphale is particular about his cookies... but it's just two, and Aziraphale won't even see you. When he turns his back to pour himself a new cup of tea, you run past him on tip-toes, trying to hold in your mischievous giggles - you can hear Crowley chuckle under his breath from the living room. You grab two cookies, miraculously cool against your hands, and run swiftly back to the living room before Aziraphale turns around.

Crowley opens his arms as you run back in, and you half-sit, half-fall into his lap. He holds you tight and rubs your back,

"There we are, brave little spy," you feel him smile against your head. "Now, let's have our spoils, hm?"

You give Crowley a cookie - it's a little bigger, and more golden than brown - and he smiles. The pair of you tuck into them, and though they were cool against your hand, they're warm and delicious in your mouth; perfectly sweet, but not too much; Aziraphale's baking is always magnificent.

Your victory is less sweet, however, when you hear Aziraphale say from the kitchen, "Could have sworn there were twelve here. Now there's... oh, lets see... eight, nine, ten." You can almost hear a smirk in his voice. "I seem to be missing two cookies, and it's suddenly awfully quiet..." You hear Aziraphale's heels tap against the tile, and you and Crowley exchange a wide-eyed look. You quickly finish your cookie and he follows suit, then licks his thumb and gently wipes a smear of chocolate off your face - both the picture of innocence as Aziraphale walks in, one eyebrow raised and a poorly-hidden smile on his lips.

"Tell me, my darling doves," he furrows his brows and pretends to be cross, and you can't help but giggle. "Did you see any cookies grow legs and walk out of the kitchen?"

"Nuh-uh," you shake your head confidently. "Cookies don't walk."

"Ah, I see." Aziraphale sits on the couch, taking Crowley's hand in his, biting back laughter as he looks pointedly at the chocolate stain on his thumb. "Been gardening, dear?"

"Cacao beans," Crowley sighs mournfully. "Such messy plants."

"That's not how cacao beans work," you whisper helpfully. Aziraphale looks at you and smiles, "now, then, cherub, I know you'd never lie to me. Did you take a cookie?"

You look to the floor. "Maaaybeeee..."

"Maybe?" Aziraphale scoops you up in his arms, and you giggle. "Okayyy. I did. I took two."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Now, I'll let it go this time. But do you know why we let the cookies rest?" he carries you over to the kitchen, Crowley following suit.

"Ummm... not really." Aziraphale sits you down on the counter, turning towards the sink.

"Because if they're too warm and too soft, they might fall apart in your hands, or get chocolate all over you." He raises a warm, wet towel to your face, wiping your cheek; you lean into the touch and he smiles. "And, if they fall apart, you can't dip them in milk."

"Oh, true!" you grin, kicking your feet. "Can we have some milk now?"

Aziraphale turns his eyes to the tray of cookies. "No, not quite yet, I don't think. But you can help me put cookie dough on the tray, and put that in the oven. By the time that's done, the cookies will have rested long enough. How about that, cherub?"

"M'tay," you clap softly, "I like that idea!"

"Sounds good," Crowley smiles, reaching around Aziraphale to snatch a cookie. "More for me!" as he brings it to his lips, the cookie crumbles and falls on his shirt; he scowls, and Aziraphale chuckles.

"Do you need one of the bibs, dear?"