#i have expressed this to my mother many times but she was like “i dunno i think that's a line of weird i would not be willing to cross”

[ciderlikethedrink]

i need to wear gloves all the time. not just because it would be so cool & interesting of me but bbecause i HATE TOUCHING THINGS!!!!!!

[estrellami-1]

We’ll Help You

Started as Steve and Robin platonic soulmate fluff. Devolved into *vaguely waves hands* whatever the fuck this is. I considered writing more but realized it would very quickly become Just Words, instead of a story, and I want y’all to have this because personally I think Steve and Robin are Goals in this one. As it is, there will not be a part 2 to this one… at least, not one written by me! If y’all want to do something by with this, go right ahead; just tag me in it!

“Bye, Mom, Dad, I’m going to Steve’s!” Robin calls into the house.

“Have fun!” Her mother calls back.

“Use protection!” Her dad yells.

“Dick!” Her mother yells back.

“That’s what I’m saying!” He says.

Melissa sighs. “Richard,” she says, faux-sweetly, “Robin and Steve are not together. She’s told us this many times.”

“Yeah, and neither were we when you-”

“Richard!” Melissa takes a breath. “Bye, Robin. Have fun, okay?”

“Okay,” Robin says, and closes the door, getting into Steve’s car with wide eyes.

He chuckles at her expression. “You good?”

“My parents have scarred me.”

Steve makes a face. “What, did you walk in on them?”

“No, they were talking about when they had me! I don’t need to know this, Steven!” She hisses back.

Steve just snorts, shakes his head, and drives on.

Robin is suddenly hit with a familiar, unwelcome pain. “Fuck,” she hisses, bending over and clutching her stomach. “Steve? I need to turn around.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong?”

She wants to cry. “I, uh. Just started? And I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Oh.” A pause, “What medicine do you usually take?”

She blinks. “Um. Advil?”

“Okay. Then I’ve got you covered.”

“No- Steve, it’s not just-”

“Robin,” he says calmly, “I’ve got you covered. I’ve got supplies at home.”

She blinks at him. “Since when?”

His cheeks pinken. “Since we became friends? I just… I dunno. I knew we were gonna be forever, y’know? And I want you to have access to anything you’ll need. So I got some stuff.”

“What the fuck,” she whispers, tears beading in her eyes. “What the fuck, Steve, I’m gonna cry, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Steve shrugs. “I just want you to have what you need.”

She sniffles and leans her head against the window. “Fuck, I love you.”

Steve smiles, puts a hand on her arm, squeezes gently. “Love you too, Robin.”

They get back to his house and get settled in on the couch. “I’ve got a heating pad, if you want it,” Steve offers.

Robin blinks at him. “Marry me.”

Steve laughs. “I thought that’s exactly what we’re trying to convince your parents isn’t happening.”

“I don’t care,” she responds, groaning in relief when she positions the heating pad. She collapses back into the corner of the couch. “I want to have a dick.”

Steve laughs. “You can’t even look at a dick, Robin.”

“I could if it was mine,” she argues nonsensically.

“You don’t want a dick,” he assures her, then pauses. “If you were a guy, would you still like girls? Or would you still be gay?”

“I… don’t know,” she says, thinking. “I mean, there’s people who were born one gender and are the other now, right? And they still like the same gender. So I would too.”

“Okay, but are we talking you were born a guy? Or you’d turn into a guy? Cause if you were born a guy, that might change things.”

Robin groans in frustration. “I wouldn’t care, as long as Satan stopped throwing parties in my uterus every month.”

Steve snickers. “I can’t fix that, but I do have chocolate ice cream.”

“And again I say, marry me.”

He smiles at her, affection shining through. “We’d be the best platonic husband and wife ever.”

Robin smiles, best she can through the pain. “Only if I’m the husband.”

“Okay,” Steve shrugs. “I can be the wife.” He pauses for a second, then asks, “Is that… is that something you’d want? Being a guy?”

Robin hums. “No. Much as I hate certain things that come with being a woman, I definitely wouldn’t want to be a guy.” Steve hums, frowning, and Robin shifts on the couch. “Hold on,” she says, “I know that look. What’re you thinking?”

“Just…” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t get what the big deal is? I don’t have super strong feelings about being a guy. There’s nothing telling me, this is who you’re supposed to be.”

“Okay,” Robin says slowly, carefully, “and how about your feelings on being a girl?”

Steve shrugs. “Same. I don’t care either way.”

“Huh,” Robin says, and leans back. “That’s… I mean, that’s okay, obviously, but that’s not… what a guy would typically say.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Right, ‘cause you’re such an expert on guys.”

Robin groans and thinks her head on the cushion. “Okay, so call someone. Call Eddie, he’d know, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve says, and hops up from the couch. “Hey, while I’m over here, should I order a pizza?”

Robin snickers. “Call Eddie first. Maybe he’ll come over and it’ll be the three of us. Actually, don’t even tell him, just invite him over. I wanna see his face when you tell him.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Robs. Eddie, hey! Wanna come over? Pizza and ice cream with me and Robin?”

Robin hisses at him, so he says, “Sorry, ice cream’s been spoken for, actually. Wait, Robs, are you sure? The whole tub?”

“Do not test me, Steven,” comes her response.

“Yeah, okay. Yeah, if you want to get one for the two of us to share, that would be great. See you in twenty? Okay, cool. I’ll order the pizza. Bye!”

He orders the pizza without a hitch. He’s promised delivery within fifteen minutes and wanders back over to the couch, where he grins at Robin. “Wanna pick a movie before Eddie gets here and can veto it?”

Robin grins back. “You know I’m gonna pick something you hate.”

“I know.” His smile turns more genuine. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

He waves her off. “Course you do. You gonna pick?”

“I’m surprised you doubted me,” she says, and picks something he hadn’t realized he had.

The pizza arrives a short minute before Eddie does. They all eat before Robin makes Steve and Eddie sit so she can recap everything.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, shrugging. “I just don’t care.”

“So our question is,” Robin says, “do you? Is there something in you that says you’re a guy, or would be wrong as a girl?”

“Definitely,” Eddie nods, studying Steve. “Y’know there’s people in between? Who aren’t really a guy or a girl?”

Steve’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “They go by they or them, and a lot of times they’ll change their name to be something more in-between too, like Avery or Taylor.”

“Huh,” Steve says, tipping his head back to stare through the ceiling as he thinks. “So… so if I were to do that… and maybe go by Stevie-”

“Then we’d call you Stevie,” Eddie nods. “We’d say they’re so cool, they have a nailbat, I’m so glad I’m friends with them.”

“Oh,” Steve says. His voice is shaky.

“Stevie,” Robin murmurs. “You’re crying.”

“Oh,” he says again, wiping his face and giving a little laugh. “Sorry. I dunno why. I think… that makes sense.” They look at Eddie, then Robin, holds eye contact when they say, “That’s who I am.”

Robin’s tearing up, too. “Nice to meet you, Stevie,” she whispers.

They choke out a little laugh and move to sit next to her, pulling her into a hug. “Love you, Robbie.”

“You too,” she whispers. “Hey, can I still call you dingus?”

Stevie laughs. “Sure, Robs.”

“Cool.” She beams and pulls them into a tight hug. “‘M glad you figured this out.”

Stevie giggles. “Me too.” They turn to Eddie, “Thanks for helping me figure this out.”

Eddie smiles warmly at them. “Anytime,” he promises. “And hey, now that you know, there’s plenty you can do, if you want to.”

Stevie furrows their brows. “Like what?”

“Well, you could grow your hair out, or cut it. You could change your wardrobe. You could get makeup, if you wanted. Anything that’ll help you feel more like you.”

Stevie frowns. “I don’t know what feels like me.”

“That’s okay,” Eddie says, smiling first at them, then at Robin. “We’ll help you.”

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[mintmatcha]

hey mint! I am so curious about foster dad nanami. I just think he'd be great with kids especially the shy ones who don't talk much

cw: implied child neglect

The first child that comes into his care is described as "a bit of a lost cause."

It was the boy's fifth foster home in just as many months. The social worker made it clear that Nanami -a single man and first time parent- was not only not her first choice, but quite possibly her last resort.

"He can't be with other children," she explained on his doorstep, "He tries to take over and parent them. There's also a lot of trust issues with authority figures and some pretty bad tantrums, so don't beat yourself up if he's too much to handle."

She went on, explaining the faults of the kid as he sat in the car, watching with a distant expression.

"What does he like?"

The social work paused.

"Toys, games-- what does he like?" Nanami repeated.

"I'm- We aren't sure."

The boy was scrawny, all elbows and knees, and already outgrown the clothes he came with. The last home he had been in had shaved his head to get rid of lice, so his head was only dusted with a hint of dark, black hair.

"If you shave my head again," he said softly, but with conviction, as he stood at the dining room table, "I'll punch you."

The social worker had commented that meal times were an issue, so Nanami didn't push him to sit. Instead, he let him hover, eating bits of food whenever Nanami would take a bite himself.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to. I promise."

"That means you're lying," The boy dropped his current handful of rice back onto the plate. His voice was much too disappointed and wistful for a ten year old, "Anytime people promise me anything, they're just lying."

"What makes you say that?"

The boy peeked up through his lashes. "They promised me I'd stay with my brothers."

Over the weeks and months, Nanami found out more about Choso. He had four younger brothers and a 'baby still in mom'. The food hidden under the bed was for them if they needed it, as were the clothes he refused to part with, and the tears he shed at night.

It turned out he liked art. Choso would wrap himself around a limb and practice filling in his caretaker's long faded ink, pretending to tattoo himself.

"I know it's silly, but one day I wanna tattoo. Like, really tattoo."

"Why is it silly?"

Choso thought that over. "I dunno."

He continued to doodle in silence for a while and Nanami continued to read, unphased by this new tradition.

"Nanami, I miss my mom a lot," Choso said suddenly, "But I love it here a lot too, so... thanks for not sending me back."

Nanami rustled his now shaggy hair. "I would never turn you away."

Just after a year in Nanami's care, Choso and his brothers returned home. The parting was bittersweet, filled with promises that Choso could call whenever he wanted. The contact dwindled rather quickly, but the two never fully fell out of touch.

.

Seven years later, Nanami gets a call from a familiar number.

"Choso," he greets, "I hope you're sleeping well."

"Nanami." The tone of Choso's voice tells him that this isn't about pleasantries, "Are you still fostering?"

"On and off."

"My youngest brother was taken out of my mother's house this morning," the younger man sighs, "She's back on her bullshit and I'm not old enough to act as guardian, besides, I can't watch a toddler while at my apprenticeship-"

"You don't have to explain." Nanami's already pulling up his booklet of numbers, paging through for the numbers, "I'll make some calls and see what I can do. What's his name?"

"Yuuji."

[cyanide-latte]

Honestly the most gratifying thing about my undercut that doesn't have to do with gender is that now I actually get genuine compliments on my hair.

I have naturally very curly hair. It is also very dark but has been steadily turning white since I was 15 (I'll be 35 in October.) I've had it long before, and most often in my life I've had it cut very short in a boyish style.

And my entire life, the comment I heard most was "is your hair naturally curly?" (always said with a dubious tone even when I was little, because I guess other 5-year-olds must have been getting perms) And it's usually always followed by "I wish I had hair like that, I'd kill for your hair" or some variation thereof.

I was told this was a compliment. As an autistic child who hated my curls for the longest time, this frustrated me. It never sounded like a compliment, it never felt like a compliment, and if they wanted my hair so bad, they ought to find a way to trade with me.

As I got older, into my late teens and early twenties, I made peace with the curls, even though I still got those same "compliments". But since I'd been getting increasingly white hair since age 15, they were now accompanied by people criticizing my "highlight job" and my choice to "mix in blonde". Looking people square in the eyes and saying "I don't have highlights, my hair's just been going white since I was 15" usually got semi-gratifying results when people backpedaled like hell, but a lot of them also would then criticize me for not dying the white to hide it.

I was constantly trying to alter my style for my hair my entire life and I don't even like styling my hair, but it caused me no end of upset to hear these things. I figured I was always doomed to be miserable about my hair. My body is already sensitive as hell to so many things I can only use specific products on my hair safely, but it hurt that my mother and grandmother tried so hard to help me understand people did like my hair, when the comments I heard sounded like criticism and an insinuation that other people deserved my hair.

And then 2020's COVID lockdown meant I couldn't get my summer cut to shorten my hair so I wouldn't overheat. At least, the person I usually went to couldn't do my hair.

So between desperation to find a way to keep all the weight of thick, heat-trapping dark curls off my neck and shoulders, and the desire to try something new as a subtle means of better expressing my gender, I decided to try an undercut. My partner and I looked up photos for reference, used an electric razor that was typically reserved for his hair, and decided what to do. Several layers underneath in the back would have to be shaved off completely (more than we initially anticipated, believe it or not,) and I wanted the shave to come around my left side. Just shave the left half of my head, because for some reason heat would constantly get trapped there as well as at the back of my neck. (Dunno why that didn't happen the same way with my right side, but hey, we've established I'm pretty odd.)

It was a relief, both physically and in terms of gender euphoria when I looked in the mirror and heard my partner's loving exclamation of "oh! there you are!" And it was also a relief when my mother and grandmother loved my new hair, especially when my grandmother said "that suits you best of all. You should always keep your hair that way." (Grandma passed in February of this year, and she never wavered in her love of my new hairstyle.)

But then, it started happening. Not just with family, friends and coworkers, but random strangers, at least once a week, often more than once a week. Someone would come up to me and say "I LOVE your hair! It's so cool!" I'd never heard that before.

I have quickly learned an added benefit of the undercut is that, with the left side of my head being shaved, it's incredibly easy for people to realize that my hair IS naturally curly, and to see my white pattern where my hair is growing back in on that side. And I've gotten compliments on that too! Both people talking about how dynamic my curls make the undercut, and several others telling me that my white pattern is beautiful and they hope I never think to dye it.

It's slowed down a bit since then but it still happens every couple of weeks. A little while ago at work, a regular [teen] patient came in with her mom, who approached me to ask about my undercut because she (the mom) has been hesitant to let her child try an undercut, but on seeing my hair, she changed her mind and wanted to know about my experience. Said kid still doesn't have an undercut yet, but they've been changing up their hair and presenting more queer in their dress, and they've started shyly waving to me when they see me. And yesterday, during grocery shopping, as I was waiting for my partner to get back from grabbing something, an older lady slowed down, came over to me, and just said "Excuse me, pardon me, you just have the most beautiful hair. That style is so striking, and your curls are wonderful with it. That's all. I just wanted to tell you you have gorgeous hair" and then she left.

It's so strange how that impulsive choice to take a shot on a new style not only became something I love for me and my personal expression of self, but is the thing that finally, truly has brought me compliments on my hair for the first time in my life. Real compliments that make me feel good.

So I guess what I'm saying in this overly long ramble is 1: I'm forever grateful this has happened and is happening to me, 2: for anyone struggling with similar, this is a reassurance that things can and will get better, 3: change can be terrifying but this is a very good example of a drastic change that wasn't going to have harmful repercussions for me personally, and the fact it turned out so well is both a confidence- and courage-booster. It's worth taking a shot on, because so far it's brought me nothing but joy. Sure, it requires frequent maintenance to keep up with the shaving part because my hair grows fast, but it's a small price to pay for a cooler head (in more than one sense!) and the positive interactions that have resulted.

[youcouldmakealife]

LBTE: Jared (106-110)

Quick return to summaries, for: in which two dorks get married.

106 - Jitters

“It’s stressing me out,” Jared says. “Like, obviously I love Bryce, I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t, but like, figuring out how to say it and not like, embarrassing myself in front of everyone? I dunno. It’s hard.”

“You are your father’s son,” his mom says, and Jared can’t even argue that. His dad’s fucking awful at this kind of stuff, so Jared inherited it honestly, he guesses. Like, it’s so really clear his dad thinks his mom’s the shit? Jared’s over being embarrassed by his parents being happy in their relationship. But his dad kind of sucks at the expressing good emotions bit, to the point where him saying something really nice is the kind of thing that sticks with you for a long time because of how rare it is, but at the same time, Jared’s never doubted his dad loves him, and Erin, and his mom.

Jared is SO MUCH his father’s son, in a way he generally refuses to acknowledge, and yes, they’re both straight up awful at expressing their feelings, but no one doubts Jared loves Bryce after any time spent around the two of them. Ditto Don with Susan. (It horrified Jared and Erin as kids, how gross in love their dad was. Marcus Mathesons will be able to relate.)

“You’re not going to be a troll with your grandkids, are you?” Jared says, doubling down on the making her feel old since she can’t make him set the table twice.

“Oh no,” his mom says. “I’ll treat them like gold and spoil them rotten until they doubt every story you tell about me being a troll.”

Rude.

“Oh god,” she mutters. “I’m my mother.”

“Grandma’s a saint,” Jared says.

“Well,” she says. “At least I know firsthand that the strategy works. Table.”

She is going to do it and it is going to WORK and none of the M&Ms will doubt their grandmas are saints, no matter how much Jared insists only Elaine is actually a saint.

With a week to go Jared realises he totally forgot to ask Arvan for time off, and he only realises when he hears Raf ask Arvan for time off, that time off being, oh, Jared’s wedding.

“Um, me too!” Jared says. “And Chaz. We kind of need to all take that off.”

Raf gives him an utterly disgusted look

Raf will tell this story for YEARS, along with Bryce and Jared meeting. So many unflattering stories about Jared that Raf was forced to witness.

“It’s cool if you’re — you know it’s normal, right? To have — doubts.” “Cool, but I don’t have any,” Jared says. “…do you have cold feet?”

Bryce makes a very dismissive noise.

Please, Bryce has been ready for years at this point.

Him and Julius go over to his parents for his last dinner as like, an unmarried man — weird — and Jared’s half waiting all dinner for his dad to like, grab his shoulder and go ‘if you’ve changed your mind…’ or something, but he doesn’t. Best behaviour. Mom probably threatened him.

Honestly proud of Don for not doing that. (Susan definitely threatened him)

How’s the lake house?”

“It’s huge,” Bryce says. “You’re going to be so annoyed.”

I love that Bryce’s first thought about the place is ‘wow, this is so nice — that’s going to piss Jared off’, and he’s RIGHT.

107 - Preparation

“Nervous?” Julius asks him over breakfast.

“My feet are toasty warm,” Jared says, and after a very confused look from Julius, breakfast is briefly derailed to explain the concept of cold feet and no, Jared doesn’t know why it’s called cold feet, and then they’re looking up the etymology and Julius is making disgusted noises because it’s just based on some dude writing the words and it sticking, no actual clarification as to why

Nope, no proper origin to this idiom either. Enraging. I am Julius in this matter.

His dad insists on driving, saying it’s because Jared will be distracted, but actually because he’s a control freak who can’t handle not driving himself. Jared doesn’t fight it — he doesn’t know the area around the lake house at all, and if they get lost his dad will be unnervingly backseat stressed about it — but the fact that Julius gets dibs on the front seat, because ‘he’s a guest’, in Jared’s car, on Jared’s wedding day?

Jared sulks in the backseat, bags stacked between him and Erin like a barricade.

Shades of the blanket already. The brother Jared never had.

Elaine meets them outside, steering them towards the main house — apparently Bryce is getting ready in the bunk house, and Jared is very tempted to like, cut and run in that direction. It’s dumb. He’ll see him in three hours. He’s still considering it. “Don’t even think about it,” Elaine says cheerfully, apparently wise to Jared.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” Jared protests.

“Bryce made that exact face when we heard your car pull in,” Elaine says. “Gail and my mom have him covered, and Gordie’s been instructed to stop you at the door by any means necessary.”

Do not mistake Elaine’s kindness for weakness.

“Wait, are there bigger rooms than this?” Jared asks. Because if so, this place is insane: this room’s the size of their living room and dining room combined. Maybe Bryce was right that Jared would be annoyed by how big it is — stupid thing to be annoyed by, considering how many people need to stay over, but there’s big and then there’s obnoxiously big.

It is nice and Jared is annoyed, just as Bryce predicted.

How’re you feeling? Jared texts.

pretty great get to marry the love of my life today, Bryce says

Bryce.

“Yeah, me too,” Erin says. “But it’s a pretty dress, so.”

Cue another twirl.

With a dress that swishy, you gotta twirl -- Erin is only doing what is necessary.

“Honey,” she says. “There’s going to be crying today. You’re probably going to cry today.”

He refuses.

“Bryce has already cried at least three times already,” Elaine says. Oh god. Every time Bryce cries Jared wants to cry. This is going to be a disaster.

Jared often stubbornly believes things despite evidence to the contrary, but I continue to have no idea how he thought he would get through his wedding day without crying.

There are going to be many matching PJs in his life, won’t there? He can’t even bring himself to mind.

It’s gonna get REAL cute with three generations in the same pjs.

“Wait, you gave Erin the rings?” Jared asks. “Why does Erin have our rings?”

“Because I’m maid of honour,” Erin says, with a little eyeroll like ‘duh’. “I’m standing up there with you, so I get the rings.”

“Do not do something to them,” Jared says. “Don’t — pretend you’ve lost them, or drop them, or—”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Erin says, sounding almost hurt.

Jared does not believe her.

“I wouldn’t do that to Bryce,” Erin adds.

Bryce is the brother ERIN never had. Because her brother is much worse than Bryce.

“When have you even tied bow ties?” Jared asks.

“Haven’t since my own wedding, but I looked it up on YouTube just in case you needed the help,” his dad says. “Now quit talking, I’m focusing.”

“Okay,” Jared says, and it looks pretty good after the third time his dad subjects him to a ‘wait, fuck, I’m trying again’.

“Don’t tell your mom I fixed your bow tie,” his dad says. “She looked it up on YouTube too, and she even bought one to practice with, she’ll be annoyed with herself.”

This right here encapsulates the Mathesons. A lot of snark and plenty of faults, but these hobgoblins love one another a lot. (Also randomly sneaky about their kindness because can't be obvious about their loving acts, how embarrassing.)

His mom wipes his eyes for him. “I did a really good job on that bow tie,” she says, sounding pleased.

“A great job,” Jared says, and bites down a smile when his dad gives him a thumbs up behind her back.

<3 Mathesons.

108 - Impaired Judgment (and other excuses for falling in love)

I’ve said it before, but this was the original title of the series, shortened for a few reasons (mostly brevity), and it felt right to use it for this part.

“Your dad spent the entire morning of our wedding day convinced I wasn’t going to show up,” his mom says. “You’re doing fine.”

“I didn’t really think that,” his dad mutters. “It was just a possibility.” If Jared was marrying literally anyone else, that’d probably bring the freak out to a new height, except it’s Bryce, so it doesn’t.

Seriously, can you imagine Bryce not following through with it? I can’t. Jared can’t. Dude’s cried with joy three times today in the presence of his mom alone. Nothing could get him to miss this.

Chaz does this goofy salute at him when Jared glances over the crowd of people ready to witness the inevitable mortification, and Jared smiles back weakly.

The person unironically referring to his time at the altar as ‘inevitable mortification’ does not get to call other people goofy.

“I’m not hugging you,” Erin says, when his dad finally lets go.

“Didn’t ask you to,” Jared says, which apparently is the permission Erin needs to hug him.

It’s like he doesn’t know her at all. Of course that’s the permission. Also: every time Erin and Jared hug my grinchy heart grows two sizes.

Jared looks over, sees Elaine and Bryce coming out of the back door of the bunk house, their hair glinting gold in the summer light and Bryce’s tux tailored perfectly, some full on James Bond suave shit going on, and Jared just — he gets to marry him.

We have TWO soppy ass dudes in this relationship, I don’t care what Jared says.

Who would dare pointed cough at him in the middle of his wedding? It’s probably a Matheson. Or Julius. Jared bets it was fucking Julius.

Chaz had a ticklish throat, sorry for LIVING.

Who let Jared open his mouth, holy shit. Someone stop him.

An excellent summary of Jared’s vows and also Jared’s life.

“I was such an angry person when I met you,” Bryce says. “Angry, and unhappy, and not — I didn’t want to be who I was. I didn’t like me. I didn’t like pretty much anyone. But god I liked you. And I wanted you to like me back so bad. And somehow you did, even though I wasn’t someone who even close to deserved you. And my biggest goal since I met you has been to become someone who does. And I don’t think I’m there yet, and I don’t know if I ever will be, but I promise you that’s going to continue to be something I strive towards every single day for the rest of my life.”

Bryce Marcus in his feelings is my number one kryptonite, and it got me good again.

He shakes his head, because he knows Bryce worked on it. Draft after draft, probably, trying to articulate his feelings for Jared, managing to land on the most devastating words possible, because he’s devastating in the best way possible.

Jared inhales, exhales, tries to get his breathing under control. Bryce waits for him to try to put himself together, and if Jared hadn’t been sure he wanted to marry him before this — and obviously he was pretty fucking sure — that would have done it, all by itself.

I’m not crying, you’re crying.

109 - Wedded Bliss

“Have a great season, guys,” she says, and Jared’s all panicky, suddenly, wondering if she’s a fan, which team she’s a fan of, before realising like — maybe she is a fan, maybe she isn’t, no way to know. If he was her, signing a non-disclosure agreement, he’d be immediately looking up the names if he didn’t recognise them, wondering what made an NDA necessary in the first place. And even if she is a fan, she’s not going to snitch; like, she signed a binding contract that would open her up to being sued for everything she’s worth, and also she’d probably lose her marriage licence…thing or whatever.

Besides, no Flames fan would be able to tell an Oiler to have a great season with a straight face.

Jared going through all the possibilities before stating the obvious.

(This reminds me of a fun fact I learned recently: in a map showing most hated teams by state and province, Alberta’s most hated team? The Calgary Flames. Meanwhile the Boston Bruins has all of Eastern Canada and two of three territories, for the largest geographical spread, good work dudes.)

“No one’s going to look at a picture of you standing alone in a tux and say, ‘hey, he must have been getting married to a man who plays for his rival team’,” his mom says dryly, which — fair point.

I mean…

“Bear, come here for a sec? I need a favour,” Elaine says, and Bryce immediately stops mid-conversation with Chaz and Ash and trots over, like the momma’s boy he is. Ridiculous.

Jared blinks when Elaine’s phone goes off. “Much better,” she says. “Thanks, honey.”

“I didn’t —” Bryce says, sounding confused, and Jared shrugs at him.

Elaine knows all the tricks. Jared’s smile went from strained to soppy watching that jog.

But, then, fuck it. He doesn’t need excuses. They’re literally all at his and Bryce’s wedding, who’s going to complain about a little kissing?

“Hey,” Bryce says, wrapping an arm around him when he comes over, mouth surprised against Jared’s when he kisses him, but only for a second before he’s kissing back.

“Okay, no,” Erin says. “Stop.”

Erin. Erin will complain about a little kissing. (They're so happy they get to kiss in front of PEOPLE. While OUTSIDE. Downright giddy.)

Also, Jared is pretty sure at a normal wedding, him and Bryce would get first crack at the food, but nope, he’s got to wait in line like everyone else even though he’s starving. Julius won’t let Jared butt in front of him, all ‘just because you’re married now doesn’t make you special’. Julius is the fucking worst. Jared can’t believe he even invited him.

I’ve said it before, but: truly the friend Jared deserves.

“So Jared’s like ‘I’ve never hated someone more in my life’ and ‘what a stupid flashy car Bryce Marcus has, don’t you hate Bryce too, Raf, I hate him so much that I can’t stop talking about him’ and ‘how dare Bryce Marcus say a single word to me, doesn’t he realise how much I loathe him, that handsome bane of my existence’, and he’s blushing bright red every time Bryce walks within ten feet of us, and—”

IJ(aoe), Act I: a summary.

“You didn’t bring lube?” Bryce says.

“No?” Jared says.

“You forgot lube?” Bryce hisses.

From comedy to tragedy.

Jared has to get up to hit the lights — they played rock-paper-scissors for it and Bryce lost but then he looked so dejected Jared got up anyway

True love right there.

“Thanks for marrying me,” Bryce murmurs.

There are so, so many sarcastic responses on Jared’s tongue. So many. And Jared’s sure that Bryce is expecting one, wouldn’t mind, would probably even laugh. But like. He doesn’t want to say any of them. And if there’s any time he can be like, unselfconsciously sappy, he thinks his wedding night probably qualifies.

“It was my privilege,” Jared says, cheeks heating anyway, because apparently nope, there is no time that he can be unselfconsciously sappy up to and including his wedding night, but the smile on Bryce’s face, small and sweet and almost shy, the way it lingers when Jared kisses him, well, it’s worth any embarrassment Jared feels.

They’re so gross, I love them.

110 - Refuge

And they order Thai from their usual place, but Jared doesn’t know if the orders got swapped or someone was new or not paying attention or what, because his usual order is his usual order, except there’s shrimp instead of chicken in his noodles and he can smell shellfish the second he opens his soup, and Bryce is ridiculous when he calls them back, all ‘how can you not see ‘shellfish allergy’ in the notes’ and ‘do you want to kill him?’, like Jared would actually die and not just be moderately to severely uncomfortable if he ate it, which he hadn’t.

Jared is right on the verge of telling Bryce how ridiculous he is when he remembers his dad’s pre-wedding advice, and he bites his tongue and lets Bryce take care of it, even if Bryce’s version of taking care of it is a total overreaction.

Bryce is PROTECTING HIS MAN. And look at Jared listening to his dad’s advice.

There’s a tiny part of Jared that’s faintly appalled he hasn’t left the house for days, hasn’t put on a shirt in just as long — Bryce has offered to be the one to get dressed every time they order food

Bryce transparently wanting to be the provider. Also not wanting Jared to put any clothes on.

“So hey,” Bryce says. He’s trying to make it sound casual, but it doesn’t, and Jared squints up at him suspiciously.

"I want us to keep wearing our wedding rings,” Bryce says.

Bryce being the initiatior of the first step of many that leads to their eventual outing. (I mean, the wedding would also count, but these rings get scrutinized at the time and then down the line).

“You’re worth like, everything,” Bryce says. “You know that, right?” Jared presses his face tighter against Bryce’s shirt, Bryce’s thumb tracing the heated shell of his ear.

Oh kids.

“So you’re okay with it?” Bryce says.

“If you stop saying nice things to me for like, at least an hour,” Jared says. “Then okay.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bryce says solemnly.

“Okay,” Jared says.

“I love you,” Bryce says.

“Bryce!” Jared says.

“That’s not a nice thing, that’s just like, a fact,” Bryce says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jared says, then commences to pull Bryce’s shirt up and stick his head under it, because the only way Jared can maintain the absolute fiction that he’s not blushing is to hide his face.

Jared would protest vociferously, but: he is adorable.

Bryce sacks out early that night, exhausted from his day of lounging around the couch and like, complimenting Jared too much. Jared’s half tempted to poke him awake to just like, not have the honeymoon end yet, but that’s mean. He looks so peaceful, Jared can’t do that to him.

Jared’s a place Bryce can rest, and he takes that role seriously.

[jake-g-lockley]

Hello! Could I possibly get #11 with Frankie please? Thank you so much!

Silent Wishes (Frankie Morales x reader) 

Masterlist | Spotify Playlist | Want to be tagged?

Prompt: one touching the other’s hand and comparing pinky fingers, playing with their hair and patting their head randomly, hoping they’ll get it. 

Warnings: single mom troubles, two yearning idiots who are oblivious, sad undertones with loads of fluff

A/N: Thanks for the ask lovely!! Look I love the yearning idiot trope with Frankie, he’s everything to me :”)

Word count: 1.8 k words

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

He turned up at your doorstep one summer afternoon while you were trying to get your newborn to sleep. His eyes widened at the sight before him. You hadn’t seen him in 2 years and hadn’t written to him in a year and a half when he stopped writing back.

You noted the freckles that dotted his face like constellations, indicating that he went somewhere hot, his tanned skin a further confirmation to your suspicions. He wordlessly stretched his arms out for the crying newborn and you mechanically transferred her to him, watching as he gently cradled her against his broad chest, making soft shushing noises. You were shocked with yourself, you hadn’t seen him in months and you just handed your newborn to him like he had been beside you all this while. 

When you had woken up that morning you never thought that your best friend would finally turn up after months of complete silence. A lot had happened since he left and you drowned in your sorrows, one thing led to another and you were now left alone with a three month old and sleepless nights. You straightened your shirt and rubbed at the awkward stain on your shoulder, covering it up with your matted hair as you bit your lip

“You wanna come in?” you whispered, your throat hoarse from all of the singing you tried administering to your restless daughter.

Frankie nodded and continued to gently rock your baby as she began to quiet down in his arms. You ushered Frankie onto the couch, not before pushing away the assorted plushies and rattles. The both of you sat awkwardly, a veil of weird energy clouding over you as you watched your daughter finally succumb to sleep.

“What's her name?” Frankie whispered and you almost sighed in relief when you heard his voice, letting it sew the cracks of your heart.

“Aruna.” you said back and watched on as Frankie whispered her name and smiled down at her.

“She’s beautiful.” 

“Just like her mother.” He tried to say but his voice kept catching in his throat and he swallowed the urge to hug you right now.

“Thank you…” you smiled and Frankie almost sobbed at how beautiful you looked, despite looking like you hadn’t had a wink of sleep in months.

“So, where’s Aruna’s dad.” he found himself cutting right to it but he wished he didn’t when he caught a change in your expression.

“Dunno. I kinda don’t even know his name.” you whispered, embarrassment creeping up your face.

Frankie was screaming with joy inside, but he internally chastised himself. He shouldn’t feel this indulgent, after all, he left his best friend without a word for many months. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it was my decision to keep Aruna. How’ve you been?” you switched topics fast, pulling the attention away from you and back onto the pretty man that was cradling your child.

“Been okay.” he said, his eyes filled with worry that he tried his best to hide.

The both of you sat in silence when suddenly you realised that you hadn’t offered Frankie anything and you internally face palmed.

“Want something to drink?” you forced a smile and got up.

“It's alright.” he looked like he wanted to continue his sentence but he cut himself off with a deep breath and looked down at the sleeping Aruna again.

“I can tell that you have something to say, Frankie.” his head snapped up when you said his name and he blinked up at you, not wanting to intrude. 

“I-i don’t mind taking care of Aruna for a while, if you want some alone time.” he whispered.

You were caught off guard but somehow, you weren’t surprised. There was your old Frankie, the Frankie who protected you and cared for you with all of his very being. Your eyes welled up with tears and Frankie stood up, alarmed. He crossed the gap and pulled you into his arms, careful not to squish your daughter. 

“Thank you, Frankie.” you whispered and you felt his lips on your forehead, his kiss spreading a warmth from the top of your head till the tip of your toes. 

You pulled back first, leaning down to kiss your daughter’s cheek and giving Frankie one last sad smile before retreating to the bathroom. Frankie closed his eyes the second the bathroom door closed, tears that were pooling at his waterline rushing out, cascading down his cheeks, his heart pounding uncontrollably where Aruna’s ear was pressed against his chest. 

His years of yearning crashed against him as his heart hurt from the way you were living. Toys and books were strewn everywhere and he let out a shaky breath trying his best to stay silent for the tiny baby in his arms. He can’t help but feel like this was all of his fault as he scanned the situation around him. He hastily wiped his eyes and spotted your baby-wearing scarf not far from the couch. He gently walked towards it and decided to get to work

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You didn’t know how long you were in the shower, letting the hot water soothe all the knots in your lower back and neck. You let your mind go blank as you rinse the shampoo into your hair, losing yourself to the sound of the water hitting the floor. You left the bathroom almost reluctantly and you were surprised to see a pile of clothes on your bed waiting for you. 

You slipped them on and smiled to yourself, your reflection looking fresher than it had been for months. You slowly walked downstairs, your ears picking up a soft lullaby and the sound of tap water hitting dishes. You tiptoed to the kitchen and peaked around the corner, watching as Frankie bounced around to the rhythm of the lullaby he was singing, your baby-wearing scarf wrapped around him. 

He continued to wash and stack dishes as your eyes wandered to the living room and you realised that Frankie had placed everything back in its place. Your place was relatively clean, it's just that the past few days had been a little too chaotic with the little one not cooperating. 

You smiled softly at Frankie’s kindness and you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t realise Frankie had just moon walked past you and stopped when his eyes met yours. You raised your eyebrows and chuckled at his shenanigans.

“Benny taught me, nevermind…” he mumbled and rubbed the back of his neck and you grinned at him. 

He reached out and tucked a strand of your wet hair behind your ear and you searched his eyes. Frankie didn’t know what to do, so he awkwardly patted your head and you internally cackled at his nervousness but turned around and blushed, pretending to look for your daughter’s bottle. You glanced at the clock and realised that it was in fact time to feed her, so you rushed around the kitchen, preparing her a bottle. 

You turned to find Frankie staring at you, his position the same as when you left him a second ago. He had been unabashedly gazing at you, his heart playing out another unfamiliar melody. 

“You wanna feed her?” you asked and he nodded quickly, and you gestured towards the couch.

You pulled Aruna out of the wrap and Frankie sat cross legged on the sofa. You laid your daughter in the crook of his waiting arm and handed him the bottle. She took the bottle immediately without a fuss and you slumped against the chair, absolutely defeated as Frankie grinned at you, his pretty dimple on full display that made your heart melt at how gorgeous he looked. 

But you looked away instantly, your heart clenching at the fact that Frankie would never want to be with a sad single mom. You sighed to yourself and Frankie caught your shift in behaviour

“You okay?”

“Mhm.” you hummed, straightening your face. 

Frankie wasn’t convinced. Yet he diligently focused on Aruna, and burped her once the last drop of milk disappeared from the bottle. You watched with a longing smile as Frankie soothingly rocked her back to sleep before putting her into her bassinet. He quietly sat beside you and you scoffed approvingly.

“What?” he whispered

“You’d make a great dad, you know.” you whispered gently

Frankie blushed, his face flaming like a tomato.

“Well, just practice from babysitting the nephews.” he muttered.

You both sat in silence staring at the blank TV before you, your reflections something of a dream to you.

“Dude, I didn’t realize how small your fingers were!” he exclaimed softly.

You raised your eyebrows questioningly and Frankie pulled at your wrist without a warning, sending a shock throughout your body. He held your arm in front of him and examined it, comparing his pinky with yours. He was right, except his hand looked gargantuan beside yours. He stared intently at your hand, holding it gently. 

“Why’d you come back, Frankie?” you whispered. 

Frankie most certainly did not expect that question from you. He didn’t know what to expect to be honest. He thought you were about to slam the door in his face when he turned up a few hours ago. He had spent the whole night hyping himself up to go and see you, to at least say hi and see how you were doing. He missed you, and his poor heart yearned for you no matter how much he pushed it away. A picture of your smiling face was still tucked in his wallet and not a day has passed since he pulled it out to see whether you were still there with him.

He broke when you stopped sending him your letters, he had kept them stowed in a little box that he’d carry with him and he read them every night without fail. He knew what to tell you, what answer would exit his mouth if he had the courage to open it. He looked up at you, his big brown eyes melting with guilt and your heart softened. You somehow knew why he was back, you can now see by the way he looks at you, his mask shattered along with the swagger he had when you swung that door open this morning.

You scooched closer to him and leaned on his shoulder, your hearts beating to the same rhythm. Frankie sighs and pulls your legs over his, now cradling you the same way he had cradled your daughter. You and him would talk, when the time was right. Now, you breathed in his heavenly scent as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, his arms creating a protective barrier like no other.

Your Frankie was back and nothing else mattered. 

Reblogs are appreciated ~~~

Tagging: @joygirlmelii @wolfbook87 @minigirl87 @alexxavicry @lia275 @euphoricosmo @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @swiggy-needs-mental-help @ryebreadsworld @your-voice-is-mellifluous @lil-stark @absolutelybloodyhopeless @mintpurplemnm @bubblezuku

[ask-icancraft-it]

Balance

(( Taking a small break from the Western AU to fiddle a little more with my 'Little Moments' drabble series. With as lucky as Felix is sometimes, life's got to keep him humble ))

— “I didn’t know you were accident-prone, Fix-It,” Tamora shook her head as she tended to her boyfriend.

“I’m not—” Felix sucked in a breath as Tamora dabbed a cloth on one of the many deep scrapes along his shins. “I’m not sure what happened. I just lost my footing.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Ralph interjected, doing what he could to avoid seeing the blood dripping down the handyman’s legs. “You don’t have enough accidents.”

“Don’t start,” Felix rolled his eyes. 

“Y’see, Sarge,” the large man pulled up a chair. “I have accidents just about every day. Small ones; a few scratches, maybe a bruise, but never a broken bone or anything like that. But Felix here has these really long dry spells where there’s nothing, nothing…and —BAM! A big one.”

Tamora couldn’t help but smile at the handyman’s flat expression as his friend droned on.

“Three years ago, Felix fell off a roof and broke his leg. And a couple years before that, he was shot in the foot with a nail gun.”

“Funny how he neglects to say who shot me.”

Tamora pressed her lips together, eyebrows raised. She was learning so much history in such little time. 

“Doesn’t matter, my point still stands. Mother Nature has a way of balancing things out, and I think you could invest in a little more misfortune so you don’t… randomly trip off a path and scrape off all your skin.”

“These things just happen,” Felix flinched as Tamora continued cleaning. “There’s nothing to be done.” 

“Between becoming a superintendent for some highfalutin apartment building and meeting Sarge here, you were way overdue,” Ralph insisted. He caught himself, placing one of his large hands on Tamora’s shoulder. “Oh, but I’m not blaming you. Honestly, that hike you took us on was the most adventurous Felix has been in years. I think you’ll be good for him; help him balance his cosmic checks.”

“Thanks,” Tamora said with a wry smile. 

“Tammy, don’t humor him,” the handyman pleaded.

“I dunno, Fix-It…” the sergeant shrugged. “Seems you have a history of overdrafting your good fortune. Wreck-It may be talking some sense.”

“Thank you!” Ralph grinned. “Finally, someone who listens!”

“E-oh boy…” Felix sighed in defeat. “What have I gotten myself into?”

[my-little-loverboy]

A future to hope(?) for/The looming dread of horrors you can’t yet fathom

In which Zevlor (unwillingly) thinks through the course of his life, and fights the urge to set a perfectly innocent book on fire.

Tw. unprocessed trauma resurfacing at inopportune times, vomit + graphic nausea, inconsistent/failing memory, victim blaming (on himself,) abuse, graphic depiction of a panic attack, implied death, self hatred.

(Yall can thank @hallowsden for this btw, she had the idea of Zevlor having visions of his future that this entire fic revolves around)

The little pad of parchment in his hands taunts him. His name messily embroidered in the leather. (And the name of his baby sister below it. Guilt crawls up his spine as he turns it over, one name of too many lost.)

On its backside is a moon, the embroidery much cleaner, in the same yarn the book was bound in. It’s aged leather burns his hands, yet his calloused skin is not marred.

This first of many dream journals, and idea of his mother from when the dreams, or perhaps more accurately, visions began.

He remembered this one well, or did he? Was this truly the first? Surely not, (it is) surely he should toss it to the fire and dig up the true original. (He doesn’t)

“Momma- I had a funny dream!”

“Is that so sweetling? What was it about?”

(His head spins, he tosses the book onto his desk as he tries desperately to find the sound of her voice in the haze. It doesn’t come, only the words, flat and empty. He pushes on.)

“I was a hellrider! I had one of the big swords an’ everything!”

“Ooh you should tell your father, i’m sure he’d be more than happy to teach you to wield a sword.”

(An old scar, imperceptible under a myriad of newer ones, aches anew. The timbre of his fathers voice rings clear as daylight between his ears as an intense wave of nausea crashes over him, he cannot run. He pushes on.)

He sees himself, barely 5 years old then, running to his father. He scolds himself for his impatience, he should’ve known better than to disrupt him.

His memory jumps (thank gods) to years later, he’s almost as tall as his mother now.

“Momma I had another dream!”

Concern etched into her brow, his baby sister sleeps in her arms. (What did she look like..? The face forms slowly, older than she was then? Before he can stop it the face of her corpse is plastered onto the memory. The nausea climbs further up his throat, he swallows thickly, and he pushes on.)

“Hopefully not another nightmare..?”

“I dunno, it wasn’t a good dream, wasn’t bad either? I was old, older then you n’ dad. But I was… sad? My chest hurt like I was sad, but I couldn’t cry like when you’re sad.”

(Should he be crying? Has he not done enough?)

Her expression is complicated (she knows the word loneliness, he realizes that he did not) she reaches into the bedside table, the book now in front of him, the cover is blank.

“You remember when we found out about your sister, and I told you I might not have time for your dreams all the time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I think since you’ve been having so many not good, but not bad dreams you should try writing them down.”

His sister stirs in her arms. The memory falls away as her burnt flesh warps into something akin to an open mouth. He can’t look away, she cries for his help, for their mother, for peace. Her voice swallows him, and he’s out of his seat and retching into his chamber pot before he's consciously aware of having moved.

Time crawls, his entire body aches as he lets himself lay flat on the floor. He is safe here at least (he is not- he needs to run? Run where? Away, he can’t help her- he can’t help any of them. Pathetic oathbreaker he is he can’t save them.)

He wheezes, feels it more than hears it, barely even that over the thundering of his heart. It’s all a world away now. He realizes slowly that he is afraid, though he knows not what is causing it. A thick layer of mud between him and his body, he is afraid. He is afraid? He is afraid.

The book, it’s in his hand? Maybe not, his senses come to him slowly. His throat aches, has he been screaming? Or perhaps just sobbing. The nausea wanes and he sits up slowly, his body protests, he pushes on.

The acrid smell of bile hits him finally as he sits fully upright. The nausea returns. His body doesn’t have the energy to make him throw up again, does it? Hopefully not.

The book?

The book.

It used to have a latch, he thinks. One of them certainly did. A gift from a friend (don’t think about faces don’t think about faces don’t think about faces-)

His writing is cleaner than he expected, as far as expected for a child that is.

‘Momma says i’m supposed to write my dreams down. I think its silly, but if she thinks it’ll help I’ll try!’

It it silly? Maybe he should start a new dream journal, commission dammon to make the latch, he must know a leatherworker for the cover. He could bind it himself, he’s sure-

Off track. He’s off track. Flip the page.

‘I didn’t like this dream. It was so hot, I was tired, but I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was like when-’

Avernus. Flip the page.

Flip the page.

Flip the page.

Flip the page.

‘My chest hurt this time, it was hot again.’

Avernus. Flip the page.

‘There was a lot of screaming too, I don’t know who was screaming.’

He should flip the page.

‘A little kid with one eye was staring at me, maybe she was screaming?’

FLIP THE PAGE

‘I’ve been stabbed, it wasn’t like that kind of hurt. It was deep between my ribs, like something was missing?’

FLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGE

His chest aches

Deep beneath his ribs

Like something’s missing.

He sees himself, sitting on the floor of his office, is it his office? His room? He’s not wholly sure actually, he was so focused on the visions he’d not fully processed how far he’d moved when he saw his si-

(DON’T THINK ABOUT FACES YOU PATHETIC WHELP)

Yes, pathetic. A feeble excuse of a paladin, a worse leader, he feels his breathing get heavy again.

He flips the page, and with it he is unceremoniously stuffed back into his corpse. Again, nausea, again, he pushes on.

‘I start martial training today! Real martial training! Not just father yelling at me and hitting me with sticks and stuff, I’ll get to use a real sword! I think I will anyway.’

That at least gives him a reference for how long it’s been, did he really use this journal for that long? He was 16 that day.

‘I don’t like the commander. He reminds me of father, mother says that’s a good thing. I do hope he actually teaches me something.’

He was taught plenty, a firm hand did him wonders.

Did his father not have a firm hand?

Perhaps he did, but his father said little to help him parse his mistakes.

When did he stop calling them dad and momma?

(When did he start forgetting things?)

Flip the page.

He’s at the end of the book.

The end of the book? There were many years of visions, they only recently stopped, he thinks in passing that it’s because he’s fast approaching the end of his life. Just over a decade between him and the average lifespan of a healthy tiefling, he’s hardly healthy, perhaps kelemvor will weigh his soul sooner for that.

… of all things to ponder and not react strongly to his own looming mortality certainly is something.

Perhaps he is just exhausted.

He lays back on the ground where he sat. He is home, he may lay wherever he likes. (A strange anxiety claws at him anyway)

His visions from when he was at the grove pull themselves to the front of his mind. Did he see this perhaps? A mess of a man laid on the floor focusing extraordinarily hard on not hyperventilating (again)

He didn’t.

He saw the pod though, of being an absolute thrall. The gap in his chest “filled” (filled with deceit and gore, ripped further open with dirty claws.)

He's glad of all things, of hundreds- perhaps thousands of visions he had been able to decipher that one. The first and last one he’d been able to.

He still couldn’t save them, he knew of her lies and he still fell to the influence of a tadpole he didn’t yet have. (And would never receive)

He sighs, and closes his eyes a moment, don’t think of faces.

Who are you looking at? His face is familiar yet distant, it’s been an age since you’ve seen him. (Has it?)

Halsin? Halsin. Former Archdruid, one of the group you have to thank for your (pathetic, doomed) life.

He is sad? He has certainly been crying. You are comfortable, your chest nor joints ache, there’s a soft pressure beneath you. Like a comfortable bed, but it presses too close to your shoulders to be a bed.

You are tired.

Another looks down at you, pale as a ghost. The vampire, you think. His name eludes you. You feel guilty, it passes quickly, as does he.

You are tired.

Yet another, with a false eye, Wyll. He smells of Avernus, the smell is uncomfortable but somehow not unpleasant. Then another behind him quickly, one horn and a booming voice. You can’t hear their words, but they’re both crying.

You are tired.

More come and go, you are tired. You cannot move, cannot blink. (Are your eyes even open?)

(they are now)

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more sore than he wanted, with an awful headache and an odd, comforting calm. It’s rare that he doent’t remember his dreams, typically they sit vivid in his mind like memories would. He stands slowly, anticipating the nausea, the dizziness, the ache.

Nothing.

He pours out his chamber pot and returns it to its usual spot. The book remains on the ground.

He considers leaving it there, before tucking it into his desk.

His ribs begin to ache, it's manageable now. He’s not sure what changed.

As usual, he pushes on.

© cakeboxie •• 2024 •• Please do not translate/repost. reblogs are appreciated and requests are open!

Part of @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

~~

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!

[redbuddi]

Hey I was watching the vod for Ruff Trigger and you mentioned reading a whole bunch of 'Person Dies and is Reincarnated into the World of a Book Series They Already Read' books and so I was wondering if you've read 'I Favor The Villainess'? Because I may be a little biased because gay women but that one is really good.

Also do you have any specific recommendations for books/manga/etc in that genre?

I have! I tried it once a while back but for whatever reason it didn't hold my attention. I read a few chapters again after getting this and I dunno what I was thinking before, I like it a lot.

As for the many Reincarnation Manhua I am reading, and I am reading a LOT so do not question my knowledge, I have a data sheet and everything, here are my top five in no particular order. Note that these are specifically "Reincarnated into a Pre-Existing Story" Manhuas and not just "Reincarnated" ones, if they were the list would probably look a little different haha. Don't even get me started on the "Rebirth" category.

#1: Not-Sew-Wicked Stepmom

Status: Ongoing. Currently on season hiatus.

Synopsis: An overworked korean seamstress dies and finds herself reincarnated into the body of the evil step-mother from Snow White. Luckily she wakes up before the story proper begins, while the princess is still a small child, and so she decides to bow out of her bid for the throne and spend her days spoiling her adorable step-child. However, she soon realizes that her former self wasn't the only person trying to exploit the system for power, and that the world of royalty hosts beneath-the-surface a cycle of cruelty and abuse that could destroy the future of any child. Thus, she must do whatever it takes to ensure that the lovable little girl grows up as happily and healthily as possible.

Story Quality: 4/5 A well-paced and expertly woven narrative that keeps the story moving at all times without burning out the reader with too many rapid developments or twists. The only reason it isn't a 5/5 is because I don't know how it'll end.

Art Quality: 5/5 A sweet and expressive art style that does a good job blending in the typical CSP assets while still standing on it's own.

The Drip: 5/5 Every outfit the characters wear is stunning and suits them perfectly, which is to be expected given the series' fashion theme but still greatly appreciated in execution.

The Love Interest: 3/5 While he's a good character and I like him, I don't particularly care if he and the main character hook up. This could change as the series goes on, however.

Spiciness: 3/5 Occasionally suggestive, but overall fairly tame and normal.

Is it worth paying for? Absolutely.

#2: Beware the Villainess!

Status: Complete

Synopsis: A college student is reincarnated into the body of the nasty villainess of a romance story she had read shortly before dying. Determined to not suffer the same fate, she does everything she can to completely sequence-break the narrative and do things her own way, up to and including befriending the main character, rejecting her princely fiancee, and recruiting a derelict side-character as her right-hand man. But little does she realize that this world won't take her changes lightly, and the characters she knows are not as one-dimensional as they first appear....

Story Quality: 4/5 Clearly thought out and well-executed, the story does an excellent job conveying the ideas it presents. Currently my gold-standard for the "Villainess Sequence-Break" subcategory.

Art Quality: 4/5 Well-executed and expressive, but a little too generic for my liking. It does what's expected of it well, but rarely goes above and beyond.

The Drip: 4/5 Good outfits, including some that make me very gay, but nothing spectacular.

The Love Interest: 4/5 I wasn't with it in the beginning but ngl, by the end of the series I was really rooting for these two.

Spiciness: 4/5 Generally a 3/5, but occasional moments of sexuality do occur, although it doesn't really hit until the special episodes.

Is it Worth Paying For? Debatable. I don't regret paying for the whole thing but if you have better restraint than me you can tough out the wait-until-free episodes and save yourself some coin.

#3: Surviving Romance

Status: Ongoing. Currently on it's second season.

Synopsis: Chaerin Eun has been trapped in a romance novel for a while now, and today is the day her love interest will finally confess to her and the two can live happily-ever-after!

Things do not go as planned.

Story Quality: 5/5 While I am being careful to not reveal too much, the quality of the story doesn't just hinge on how surprising it's twists and turns are. It has something to say and so far it is doing an extremely good job saying it.

Art Quality: 3/5 I get what it's going for but I do still feel like it could be better.

The Drip: 5/5 This series doesn't let the fact that everyone is in school uniforms stop it from having some striking and downright iconic looks.

The Love Interest: ???/5 : )

Spiciness: 2/5 Good lord, could you imagine?

Is it Worth Paying For? I say yes, but only because it's a currently running webtoon and therefore the only episodes you need to pay for are the most recent ones. I don't know if my answer would be the same if this was a completed webtoon or a series on Tapas.

#4: Villainesses Have More Fun

Status: Ongoing

Synopsis: A bad-bitch korean business woman is reincarnated into the body of Reilynn Candimon, the villainess of the novel she had been reading, and a character that had greatly frustrated her. Using nothing but her powerful personality, she decides to make the best of this life and peace out from the main story to enjoy her riches. So why does the main character keep picking fights with her?

Story Quality: 3/5 A fun read that doesn't take itself too seriously. You wont be enraptured in a deep and complex narrative, but you'll have a good time and enjoy some genuinely engaging characters.

Art Quality: 3/5 Exactly what you expect from this kind of series and nothing more.

The Drip: 3/5 Some outfits are nice, but some of the ensembles the main character walks around in are downright tragic.

The Love Interest: 1/5 I deadass keep forgetting who it's supposed to be, and then I remember he's a cop.

Spiciness: 2/5 Pretty mild.

Is it worth Paying For? Only if the scanlation is really bad.

#5: The Villainess' Stationary Shop

Status: Ongoing. Currently on Season Hiatus.

Synopsis: A korean woman wakes up in the body of Meldenique Bebelloa, the villainess of a romance novel. In the original story, her character dies after trying to stop a romance between her fiance and her half-sister. Determined to not end up like that (and not too interested in the prince anyway,) Mel ditches her terrible family in order to live out her life's dream of running a stationary shop! (Essentially a store for school supplies that typically also sells toys and candy.)

Story Quality: 4/5 A kind of generic story is elevated by a cute and likeable characters, a lighthearted tone, and highly satisfying moments of catharsis. Be warned, this manhua is kind of addictive.

Art Quality: 3/5 Passable quality but nothing noteworthy.

The Drip: 4/5 With the extravagance and glitter of most other manhua, this series offers a delightful palette cleanser of cute and modest outfits that greatly demonstrate the character's personalities.

The Love Interest: 4/5 I'm not terribly invested in the romance, but the love interest is a stoic bad boy who is extremely easily flustered by the idea of kissing or even... holding hands?????? It's a fun change-of-pace and makes scenes that would typically be eye-rolling a little more enjoyable as the coolguy is the blushy one.

Spiciness: 2/5 The love interest would probably die if he saw a boob.

Is it Worth Paying For? I had fun with it but again, be warned, it is highly addictive.

[somberauthor]

so i was looking at your ‘what i write for’ list and saw helluva boss and nobody has asked you for any(to my knowledge), and i kinda want to change that. Could you maybe do an Octavia one where reader shares music with her? it would be platonic, and maybe you could make it kinda angst-y???(if you’re comfortable with that of course!!).

I'M SO SORRY FOR LIKE... NOT POSTING FOR A WHILE (I do that a lot and it's kinda not good chat...) I'm here now though, and I'm on summer break so I SHOULD be able to like... get through all of my requests now. BUT YEAH PLS ENJOY MY PROJECTION ONTO OCTAVIA!!!

You had been friends with Octavia for a while now. Neither of you could remember how at this point, you just spawned in each others lives one day and you two just couldn't be separated. You two had just met up at your house, talking about non-important things.

You both just stopped talking as you closed the door to your room, the silence quickly becoming unnerving. You cleared your throat as you went to your laptop, listening to Octavia shuffle onto the bed. There was a lot of teenage awkward tension in the air, and no matter how good of friends you two may have been, Teenage awkwardness never leaves until graduation.

''What music do you like listening to?'' you had asked this question many times before but she'd just respond with a shrug and just a simple ''rocks cool, but i dunno.''. This time was different though.

''I like the band Fuck You Dad. It's kinda... Metal-ish? I'm not sure what genre it would fall into other than metal.'' She shrugged, leaning up. The tension was still in the air due to the silence of no one moving, but it was lifting with every sound made.

''You want me to put the band on? I'll show you some of my favorites after if you'd like.'' You spoke, looking for the band's account on your favorite music platform.

''Sure. Put on the song My World Is Burning Down Around Me.'' She fiddled with her sleeve, seeming almost uncharacteristically afraid to say the title. I mean, it certainly was a title. It almost made you worried about her, but you'd rather just listen to the music before making yourself worried over something so little as music. You've thought for so long that you've found the song and your cursor is just... hovering over it. You found it almost a minute ago, and now the computers just getting antsy.

You click on the play button, letting the song begin and rush out of your speakers. She definitely wasn't lying when she said it was metal. You queue up some of your sad songs, so she didn't have to be the only vulnerable one. Once you finished up with the queue, you went and sat down next to her. You two spoke occasionally, the both of you much more focused on the music than simple conversation.

Once the song ended, a different song began, one that you happened to relate deeply to. You looked at her, sudden fear struck you. It was about the issues with your parents, and the fact your mother was a raging asshole. You looked over at Octavia, making sure she didn't seem bored or seem worried or upset. She seemed lost in thought, you just looked around.

''Y'know... I've never heard this song, what is it called?'' She looked over at you, snapping herself out of whatever trance had caught her attention. You jump ever so slightly at her voice. You answer her with a smile, looking over at her.

''Why do you ask?'' You ask, a quizzical expression carved on your face.

''I... I relate to it.'' Your eyes widen slightly, she had the same struggle? Nice. Or uh. Not nice?

''Same. You really need to catch me up on the Octavia Lore.'' You chuckle, earning a snicker from the owl next to you.

''Yeah like I'm the one who's secretive about my mom.'' It's true she complained as things were happening but... She had never told you about her childhood with her mother.

''Well... uh... hush.'' You chuckled once again, all the tension and anxiety melting away all at once with a single smile.

You two were gonna be inseparable for as long as you two knew each other.

[sboochi]

I have a few questions about your Big Four Au!

One - What are the guardians doing while Jack is missing, and especially Baby Tooth and Jamie? Is Baby Tooth there accompanying him or is he all alone? Is Pitch making any moves now that he knows Jack is gone and the guardians are all distracted?

Two - How does Queen For a Day play out? Since Jack is the embodiment of winter, him versus Zhan Tiri’s blizzard, maybe instead of the invention, he’s the one to overpower the storm and control it to defeat it? And if so, does that cause him to pass out like when he overused his blue lightning powers on Pitch and that’s what distracts the Big Four from checking in on Varian?

Three - How does Jack get home at the end? Does the combining of the moonstone and Sundrop shooting up into space being him back, like does that huge magic force being him back to his timeline like he’s a shooting star flying along with the celestial powers? And what’s the fate for his friends back in Corona? Do they stay in touch? Do people remember Jack? Is there a chance for them to always be connected or does he lose them forever and they forget about him, or like when the Sundrop flower was picked, is there a monument in honor of him after he vanishes?

Oooo so many questions ty!!

While Jack is gone, the Guardians are probably scrambling to find him, Jamie included. I've always headcanoned that after his defeat, Pitch is much weaker and can't attack them for a good while. Baby Tooth doesn't follow Jack, this is gonna be a solo journey!

Jack arrives in Corona after he follows a trail of black rocks that lead him to a magic portal. I figure something similar might happen in the end: his job there is done and the Moon allows him to go back home.

This is a place and time where magic is more present, that's why people can see him. Dunno if this contradicts canon RotG lore *shrugs*

So when he leaves, people will remember him. The story would leave it vague if Jack and the others will ever see each other again, but if magic portals can just appear, nothing says it can't happen again right??

The Corona people would absolutely make a statue to celebrate The Four, because I'm cheesy like that lol

Queen for a Day headcanons under the cut because I have A Lot to say!

Varian gets his father Quirin to agree to go express their concerns about the black rocks to the royal family

However, when Quirin lies to the king and starts to leave, Rapunzel and friends notice how distressed Varian looks. He tells them that the rocks are becoming a serious problem at the village. They tell him not to worry and Rapunzel promises him that they'll solve the problem together. Eventually. These rocks are hard to figure out guys.

The king and queen leave to go celebrate their anniversary on the mountain retreat

The scene where Rapunzel tries her best to give advice to the Coronians (??) plays like in the show, but here she makes the "oh god I hope I'll be a good ruler like my parents when I actually become queen" to her friends (Eugene still gets his own scene with her at the end like in the show so don't worry)

She asks Merida for advice - "since you're also a princess right?" - but she just shrugs and says she never listens to her mother's ruling lessons and can't help with this. They all look at Hiccup bc they know he's a future chief too, but he says something vague and changes subject (foreshadowing for when it's revealed he's running away from responsibilities)

The blizzard begins, but after the initial fun, it's clear that this is no ordinary storm. Jack tries to make it stop but he fails (he doesn't faint bc he got more powerful after becoming a Guardian)

Varian starts making a potion to destroy the rocks

Rapunzel's parents get stuck on the way to the mountains. When the gang finds out, Rapunzel wants to go find them but the castle staff begs her to stay. Eugene, Lance, the thugs - and Merida! - go instead

Quirin gets trapped in the crystal and Varians runs to Corona to get help

Xavier tells the gang about the legendary machine once used to stop a similar storm. They compromise and start evacuating people from the island to mainland, supervised by Jack, while Rapunzel and Cass get ready to start searching for the machine

Varian arrives and asks for help. With Merida and Jack away, Rapunzel has to decide between searching a possible solution to the storm or going to the village and lose precious time. Hiccup reassures her and agrees to follow Varian, but Varian won't forget this (oof)

You know what happens next: the girls find the machine, the storm stops, the others rescue the king and queen, yadda yadda

Hiccup and Varian fail to free Quirin and Varian swears that he'll get revenge on Rapunzel for abandoning him (Hiccup just. looks around awkwardly. because this is a villain arc in the making right?? uh i probably should leave yikes)

Comfort scene I was talking about before with Rapunzel and Eugene (the cupcake one)

[toastylicious]

I made an ib fanfic called "safe"

now im forcing you to read it :gun: Author`s note: this fanfic is bad. Very bad. But a part of it is based on a real event that happened with me and my little brother.

Summary: uhhh something happens, Ib and Garry do stuff.

It's a pretty cold night, but Garry and Ib are safe and sound inside of Ib's home. Ib's mother and father are out on a date, celebrating their wedding anniversary, and they let Garry babysit Ib. Though he turned down any and all payment from her parents, he was glad to spend time with Ib. Ib gave her parents a swift hug and a wave goodbye as they exited their home. She was excited, VERY excited to finally have garry with her in her home. And though she's been left alone with many babysitters, her parents never really left her with them at night. It would always be around lunch, if her parents needed to run errands, or had awkwardly-timed appointments, but it seemed they trusted Garry more than whoever else they employed. “Looks like it's just us, Ib.” Garry said, with a wide smile. Ib replied with a nod, immediately grabbing his hand. Garry was startled, but he went along with it, knowing she meant no harm. “Woah! Slow down, I'm an old man, yknow-” His comment made Ib laugh a little, and he couldn't help it but let out a soft giggle. Ib really was going fast, almost pulling him behind. She stopped in front of a white door, which was absolutely COVERED with stickers. Some of bunnies, some of butterflies, all arranged as if they were always meant to be in one image together. A little sign rested on the door. It was written in obnoxiously fancy cursive, most likely written by Ib's mom. On it was written.. “Ib's room… this one's yours, right?” Garry read out, and Ib replied with a little nod. She opened the door, and Garry had to crouch a little to even attempt to get in, as the doors inside the house were pretty short. Ib picked up a plush bunny, shoving it into Garry's arms. “Her name is Bunni.” Ib said, pointing at the plush.

“Well hi there, Bunny!” Garry said, patting the plush on it's tiny head. “No… it's Bunni. With an i. See?” Ib replied, showing him a little nametag that was on the bunny. The tag's handwriting was also cursive, though much messier and less fancy, with smaller hoops.

“My apologies, lady Bunni.” Garry said, handing the plush to Ib and bowing down to it. It made Ib giggle, and i'd be a liar if I said that he didn't laugh as well.

“Bunni forgives you.” Ib said, raising her head up high like a snob and pretending to pout. She couldn't keep that expression for long though, as she burst out laughing right after.

“Well I'm glad she does… Hey, did you write that yourself?”

He picked up the nametag that was hanging from the bunny. Ib replied with a proud nod. “Great job!”

Those two simple words made Ib feel like the smartest person in the world. “Thanks. Momma helped me with the letters.” Ib simply said, holding the plush close. She sat down onto her bed, tapping the other side of it twice, to imply that she wanted Garry to sit there. He listened, sitting down.

“You've got a pretty nice room, huh.”

He commented, as he sat down. The compliment made Ib smile. Her stomach rumbled, and she tugged on Garry’s coat to get his attention. “Garry… I’m hungry.” She told him, quietly. She was excited for him to cook again, as he had made some of the best meals she’d ever have. “Right…I should make something for you. Cmon, you have to help me make pancakes- I dunno where your parents keep the sugar!” He giggled. Next thing Ib knew, she was munchkin’ on some DELICIOUS pancakes in the kitchen! “There… Oh, don’t worry. I ate before I came here.” Garry replied to Ib’s worried looks, as she was the only one eating. She shrugged it off and ate some more. Next stop- Back to Ib’s bedroom for a bedtime story. “Well Ib.. which one would you like?” He said, looking at the large pile of books next to Ib’s bed. All of them were stories, though they were stacked on top of each other like a storybook jenga of sorts. Ib pointed to the book on the very top. She stood up on her bed, getting up on her tippy toes to reach it. “Uhh… the rabbit princess?” Garry asked, reading the title. Ib nodded, shoving it in his arms. “Right. Well you should get dressed in your jammies while I make a quick trip to the loo.” When he came back, she was already dressed, and ready to be tucked in. “Look at youuu! So fancy!” Her pajamas were made of silk, and were completely white. Though she sometimes was, as most kids tend to be, pretty messy, her pjamas were completely clean. 

“Aaaalright, let’s start with the story!” He tucked her in, and sat onto a corner of her bed, ready to begin reading. After about half an hour she seemed to be asleep, and he (by her parents' command) was free to watch tv in the living room.

“Night, Ib.” He softly said, turning off the lights. He was just about to go downstairs, when he heard a familiar voice stop him. “Garry.. When is mom gonna come home?” Ib hadn’t been separated from her mom this late.. Nor this long.. It worried her. 

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Garry reassured her, giving her a pat on the head. She clung to him, giving him a hug. “I don’t wanna go to bed, not until mom comes back.” Crystal tears started to form in her eyes, and Garry knew she wouldn’t be going to bed that easily. He didn’t really give much thought to his next actions, taking off his coat and wrapping her in it, like a burrito. It caught her a bit off guard. “If you’re gonna cry, you’re gonna be a burrito. Deal?” Garry said, picking the little girl up. It made Ib smile through her tears. She nodded, before he placed her down onto the sofa. He quickly went up to her room and grabbed her plushie, giving it to her. “Deal.” She said, snuggling up to him. He was sitting right next to her. “Waddya wanna watch, my sad lil burrito?” He asked her, making her giggle. She had stopped crying by now, but she still was sad. “Ponyo!” Ib said, with a little enthusiasm. Both of them have watched that movie like a thousand times each, but it was still a masterpiece of a film. Besides, it always made Ib feel happy when she was sad. “Ponyo it is..” He looked through a box full of VHSes, and right there it was, Ponyo. All throughout the movie, Ib seemed to never stop gripping his arm. She was fast asleep, finally, and Garry managed to carry her over back to her bed. Her plush was resting in her arms, and he had to balance it, so it wouldn’t slip out her arms while he was carrying her. “Good night, Ib.”

He said, turning off the lights and going downstairs. Right about then Ib’s mom had come home, attempting to be silent. Ib’s dad was out, parking the car. “Hello miss!” Garry had greeted Ib’s mom, as she placed her coat onto the coat rack. “Hi, Garry. I assume she’s asleep?” Garry had nodded, grabbing his things. “I must go, now. I’ll be seeing you soon!” He insisted, grabbing his things, and leaving. Though, he had forgotten one thing. His coat. About a day later he got a call from Ib’s mother, regarding his coat. Ib wanted to give it to him personally, and she had ridden her bicycle all the way to his house just to get it to him. There she was, standing at his front door. She rang the doorbell, hoping that he wasn’t at work. “Hey Ib-” Before he could say anything, she shoved the coat in his arms and left. She was… late for lunch. “STAY SAFE!” Garry shouted, but she was already gone. He made sure she went off safely by waiting for her to make it far enough so that he couldn’t see. “..” He went back into his house, finally having his coat back. -End 

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Morning After - a Malevolent fic

Nothing like the morning after a Rite to untangle a puzzle.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

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

CHAPTER ONE: Nibbles approves of the new guest. Now, if only he could stop being so scared…

Oh, Nibbles was not pleased.

Faroe had refused the yearly girls trip this year, and while Nibbles understood why, she was not pleased with it. She did not like being cooped up in this castle with so many potential enemies intoxicated (and fornicating) around, regardless of how good the protections on Faroe’s door were, and regardless of how powerful and sleek she felt after absorbing some of that magic dedicated to Mother.

Now in the light of morning she felt strong and surefooted and like she could outrun and outfight any foe who challenged her, a far cry from what many of Hastur’s guests (and probably Hastur himself) would be feeling. She felt full of life, full of power, and it felt good.

Not good enough that she wasn’t grouchy about the wait before all of the celebrants got out of her bloody house.

Faroe woke up at her usual time, stretched, did some small exercises that Dis had recommended to her in the morning. A Dancer came by with a light breakfast, and Nibbles could smell on the air that people were still here. She settled herself in front of the door and huffed, and Faroe lay against her and played her kalimba, and it was good.

Finally, finally everyone was gone, just in time for a very late brunch, and Nibbles stepped out into the hall again, taking in the old scents and new with big huffs through her nose.

“I hope everyone had a good night,” Faroe said, one hand on Nibbles’ long neck. “Do you think Dad is going to put together a birthday breakfast?”

Nibbles ruffled her hair with her nose—but something smelled off. Different. Someone was still here—

But it was familiar.

Nibbles sniffed the air again. Good familiar.

“I know we kind of celebrated my birthday already,” Faroe was saying, and Nibbles felt bad for not listening fully (but there was that smell). “But you know how Dad gets, and after what happened… I dunno.”

They walked by a sconce of blown out candles and their burnt-carbon-y tang, and suddenly Nibbles understood.

She stopped dead. Stomped her foot, once.

“Nibbles?” Faroe peered up at her.

And Nibbles jumped, legs kicking out behind her as she just leapt into the air and bounded in a circle around her Faroe, who looked utterly bewildered.

Nibbles did not care. She made a quick loop behind them and did a playful charge, head low, enough to encourage Faroe to swing up onto her back—and once seated so, Nibbles charged through the hall, joyful, excited, and the scent got stronger as they came closer to the dining room.

“Trust me,” Arthur was saying, his voice low and kind. “Once Hastur knows who you are, you’ll be just as safe as I am. He’ll want to reward you.”

“I don’t need any rewards,” said another voice, a tenor to Arthur’s baritone, and Faroe gasped. “You’re sure I’m… safe?”

If he was going to do something, he would have done it already, came John’s groggy bass, just as Nibbles rounded the corner.

He looked different than he did over a year ago, white shock of hair gleaming like fresh snow and charcoal skin free of the dirt of the road. He stood differently, tail sagging and half-curled next to his feet where he faced Arthur, expression tired, concerned. Why would he be concerned? Nibbles didn’t know, and she did not care.

“Odd?” Faroe said, voice low and full of wonder.

The man turned, eyebrows shooting upward.

Arthur grinned at them. “Look who it is,” he said, voice warm from excitement. “The birthday girl!”

Odd wasn’t in traveling clothes; he’d dressed himself in a shirt with nice embroidery at the collar and some soft woolen pants, clearly a bard’s clothing, if missing the leather jerkin Nibbles remembered. Faroe slid off her back.

“Lady Guinevere,” Odd said, his face breaking into a relieved, easy grin. “It is so good—oh, where are my manners?” And he swept into a low, courtly bow, and Faroe laughed as she ran to him with tears of joy springing to her eyes as she outstretched her hands.

He swept her up in a hug, his own eyes getting watery. “Knew that wasn’t your real name,” he laughed, picking her up off the ground for a brief moment with the force of the hug.

“Odd,” Faroe said, voice half a sob as she buried her face in his shirt.

“She still has your sweater, you know,” Arthur said, hooking his hands into the pockets of the ridiculous yellow outfit John had picked for him today.

Nibbles did not care. She tapped her hooves happily, pleased at the upturned curl in Odd’s tail, pleased at his tears.

“You kept that? I’m glad. It was my favorite,” Odd laughed, and reached up to ruffle her hair. “I told you, y’know. I said you’d go home, didn’t I?”

Faroe sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Yeah,” she said. “I… I did. Are you here for my birthday?”

Odd’s smile was tight. “I’m happy about the timing. How’s that?”

She hugged him again. “You were right.”

“Fuck, Guin, I was so worried,” he said, setting a hand on her shoulders as he got on one knee. “I thought about you all the time. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” she said, smiling. “I’m… I’m Faroe. Call me Faroe.”

“Faroe! It’s also a good name. Well, then, Faroe: happy birthday.”

“And that’s—that’s my dad. Arthur.”

Odd’s voice dipped low, conspiratorial. “I know. Nice guy.”

Faroe giggled. “He’s pretty great. What are you doing here? If you’re not here for my birthday, did you come here for the Rite?”

Nibbles recognized Odd’s expression immediately, those pinned ears, that faint, sour tang of fear.

“We’re not sure,” Arthur said, voice gentle. “We’re going to find out over breakfast.”

Lunch, John offered, just to be contrary.

“Brunch it is,” Odd finished; that lingering anxiety remained, but he put a smile on his face anyway. “Put in a good word with your other dad for me?”

“Will you sit next to me?” Faroe’s eyes were huge. “Please?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Odd said, and let her take his hand.

They turned, and there was the King in Yellow.

How a big fucking squid god could move so quietly was a mystery for the ages, but there he was—and unlike last night, he’d hidden himself somehow, hidden his presence, so that they would not feel it (and his attention) washing over them until they all realized he was there. Nibbles huffed.

“Dad!” Faroe cried, abandoning Odd to leap into those tentacles.

Nibbles bounded around his tentacles, one eye trained on the bard.

Odd… Shrank. His tail went tight against his legs, ears pinning, and he edged backward, like he was going to try and hide behind Arthur.

It was a funny idea, Nibbles thought, since Odd could easily see over the top of Arthur’s head, and also Arthur was his favorite.

That mask didn’t move. Those many eyes fixed on Odd, and Odd seemed to feel every single one.

“Hi,” said Arthur. “We really need to figure this out.”

“There was a note,” said the King in Yellow, the Lord of Interstellar Spaces, the thief of creatives. 

“There was?” Odd’s voice was tight, and he smiled like someone had put a knife to his throat and told him to act happy. “Did you find it… Illuminating?”

“No. We will discuss it later.”

Faroe popped out of his tentacles like she’d been mountain climbing. “Dad, this is Odd. He’s the one who helped me on the road.”

Nibbles understood that Hastur’s full attention had weight. That was the way of it with these little gods, especially such penetrative beings like Hastur, who dealt with the mind. 

Poor Odd trembled. He probably felt like he needed to kneel, or something. She trotted forward and butted her head into his chest, encouraging. 

Odd man swallowed, shrank further, took an oblique step backward. “Thanks,” he whispered. “Nice to see you, Nibbles.”

“A fucking note?” said Arthur. “From who?”

“Later.” Hastur sounded grim (but Nibbles knew he was just hungover).

“I can,” Odd mumbled, hands clutching his shirtsleeves tightly, “I can… go back to the composer’s room. He thought I should come, but I can—I can go.”

“But…” Faroe stopped herself, and blushed. 

“Why would you want to go, friend of my daughter?” Hastur rumbled in a voice like velvet under skin.

“Stop that,” said the composer. “He’s scared enough already.”

Faroe looked back and forth, visibly confused.

Odd looked to Arthur.

Nibbles decided her input was necessary. She gently pressed her head into his chest and whuffed happily, tail a blur.

“Ah,” he said, arms coming up instinctively; he gave her several nice pats on the neck, and then busied himself scratching the base of her ears, because he was a very smart man. She let him ground himself with her presence, steadfast before the power of the King, and the fact that he was giving her scritchies made it all the better.

Nibbles bleated.

“She wants you to come to brunch,” Faroe said, correctly.

“If I’m not…” He looked back toward Arthur, and at John who was watching the scene intently. “If I’m not intruding? Really?”

“You’re not intruding.” Arthur might not—he swore—be some kind of lover of the King in Yellow, but he definitely had pull.

Hastur sounded amused. “I am not in the habit of ravishing breakfast guests in front of my daughter.”

Arthur’s face went long.

“Dad.” Faroe lightly swatted him.

Odd let out a deep, fully awkward laugh. “I, ah… I didn’t realize that was… a consideration.”

Hastur’s tentacles moved slowly, undulating, the weird grace of deep-sea things. “Nor am I in the habit of harming those who have helped my daughter. Come as she wishes. Let us speak. Later… we will speak more privately. I have questions for you—but you are in no danger. On this, you have my word.”

Nibbles snorted, but she knew Odd would be safe; unfortunately, the poor man needed some extra reassurance. She gently pulled herself free of Odd’s grip, gave herself a vigorous shake, and put herself between Odd and Hastur.

“Is that so?” he murmured, just to her.

Nibbles ruffled his hair with a snort from her nose. He may not get it, but at least he appreciated her.

“If you insist,” Odd said, louder this time, like he was agreeing with both Nibbles and Hastur.

“I do.” Graciousness was nice, but he was King here. And he gestured with about eight-dozen limbs. “This way, please.”

Faroe wriggled down and reached for Odd’s hand. She was fearless with the king of madness. Hopefully, Nibbles thought, that would help. His heart was beating fast, his fear so sour in her nose. 

Hastur waited.

Odd took Faroe’s hand and let her lead him on.

“You’re pretty hungover,” Arthur murmured.

“Yes,” said Hastur simply.

Yeah, Nibbles already called that. She trotted with them, pleased at Odd’s presence, pleased that Faroe’s friend had come to join the gang.

------

CHAPTER TWO: A serious talk. A lot of questions. A few things revealed that ought not be.

Odd let Faroe lead him into the dining hall, the table long and clearly made for many more people that were attending; she tugged him over to the left side, guiding him to sit two seats down from the head of the table. It was still a bit too close for comfort, but he sat, and felt maybe a bit better when Nibbles settled over his left-hand shoulder, and Faroe sat next to him.

The place setting look like it cost more than his instruments; hell, the forks alone looked like they cost more than his instruments. He’d traveled in some minor kingdoms before, sure, but nothing like this.

Directly across from him Arthur sat, with surprising ease given his blindness and with John being too hungover to be a phenomenal guide. The man reached, fumbled with his napkin, and smiled blindly in Odd’s direction as John’s eyes sluggishly roamed across the table.

It was wild to watch. Deeply.

It was also a bit reassuring to know he wasn’t the only one hungover at this table, though Odd certainly was hiding it better than John was. Perhaps it was his pride warring with the leftover dregs of magic, but he could have sworn he was hiding it a bit better than the King, too.

A door creaked and another man walked in, wearing just ordinary clothes—no fancy Carcosan splendor—and sat down. And something about him was… familiar. Dark hair, an Asian cast; handsome, but there was something…

John sounded like he was trying to do the velvet tone Hastur had just done in the hall. Good morning, gentlemen.

Arthur snorted at him.

The man yawned. “Morning,” he said, his accent thick and sleepy as he pulled the chair to Arthur’s left out and sat.

Good morning, everyone. Who is this? Another voice, another echo of Hastur’s, spoke. There was a flash of gold in the man’s mouth as he did.

Arthur paused to see if Faroe wanted to do it.

She rose, clearing her little throat with pride. “Since everyone is here, I’d like to formally introduce Odd the Bard. He came to my aid after the great storm and showed great nobility and honor to me when I was in my greatest need.”

Odd blinked, cheeks darkening. “That is… Completely unnecessary, Princess,” he said with a laugh.

“Please, call me Faroe,” she said, her grin bright.

Arthur reached blindly out to the man next to him, patting his arm, gesturing towards Odd. “You remember that sweater? This guy.”

Hastur had settled in during this without so much as a sound. His focus stayed on Odd. 

“Oh, shit,” the man said. “I’d shake yah hand, if not for the whole table in the way.” He grinned, an easy motion that was deeply charming, and held a hand up as if offering it anyway. “Pahkah Yang, and my pahtnah here I imagine’d like to introduce himself.”

I’m Sunny, said the voice that flashed gold inside the man’s mouth. Odd could see where he got the name, if he always sounded that warm and friendly. Faroe has talked a lot about you. We’re happy to meet you.

This charming introduction did not distract him from the fact that this was, without a doubt, one of the wildest things to happen to him. No fucking way. Odd stared at the man and his passenger, blinking dumbly. “You’re Pahkah Yang?” he managed at last, pushing his hair back from his face.

Parker blinked. 

It’s Parker, Sunny corrected with a gentle chuckle. His accent is enchanting, though.

Arthur’s brow knit.

“Yeah?” Parker said. His face told a story of gentle suspicion and caution. “You know me from somewhere?”

“Me and half the Dreamlands,” Odd blurted. “You’re the Saint with the Golden Tongue.”

And with timing Kayne himself could not have directed, another man stepped into the room. Slight, almost too fine-boned to be handsome, too sneering and proud to be pretty. Blond-haired and chin-bearded, he stopped and stared.

In the span of a few seconds, wordless, he communicated several things. One: this man hated Parker Yang. His gaze locked onto the Saint’s back with an instant and virulent rage, reddening his cheeks, as if insulted to find him here at all. 

Two: Odd might be in the man’s seat. The startled blink at finding him there was a genuine doubletake.

This guy wore finery. No casual clothes for him, and he’d swept in here as if expecting a standing ovation. He stared at Odd. “What the fuck is that?”

Odd’s ears flicked.

“Fuck you, too,” Parker said without even turning around.

Faroe stood. Her cheeks were slightly red. “Care to say that again, Mister Larson?”

Arthur’s face went long.

Hastur’s laugh was so low, so quiet, that it was more felt than heard.

So this terrible moment was even more awkward than the hall. This man—Larson, apparently—cleared his throat. “I mean to say, your highness, that there is a… being … in my seat.”

Arthur, I think she’s gonna lose it, John whispered quietly, but not too quietly.

“This is my friend, Odd,” said Faroe, eyes locked on Larson. Her cheeks were so red, and her eyes gleamed like knives.

Arthur reached, hesitated, put his hand down. His left hand took it.

“I’m sure he is,” Larson drawled coldly. “He is in my seat.”

“Was Parker in your seat, too?” said Faroe.

Arthur’s mouth fell open.

Parker’s eyebrows rose.

Larson didn’t move. He must have had more backbone than his size indicated. The muscles in his jaw worked a few times, and he kept glancing toward Hastur as though expecting rescue.

Rescue never came.

“Your highness,” he finally said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

As if to prove a point, Nibbles set her chin on Odd’s shoulder and let out a small bleat that Odd was convinced was smug.

“I’ve had some time to do some research, Mister Larson,” said Faroe, and this was not the trembling little girl who had sat at Odd’s fire. This was the daughter of a god, and nothing coming would be good. “That phrase you used—’yellow peril.’ Like it was a joke. It wasn’t a joke. Was it?”

Again, Larson glanced at Hastur.

Again, rescue did not come.

Arthur’s eyes went absolutely huge. Red flooded his cheeks, too (identically, so how could anyone miss they were related?) and he started to stand.

Parker put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and kept him down. 

Faroe did not need help. “Well?”

“I… meant it as a joke, your highness, shared between us, once denizens of Earth, and intended no true harm.” Larson executed a delicate bow. “I offer my apologies to you.”

“To Parker.”

Oh, the twitch across that face; that, right there, was why he would never be a beautiful man. It was a sneer; it was rage; it was disdain. “I apologize, Parker Yang, for what was evidently an unwise joke.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t accept it,” said Parker. “Up yours.”

Larson’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “You arrogant little—”

“Mister Larson,” said Faroe. “I know I am young. But you insulted him right in front of me for days, and you thought I wouldn’t notice. I’m young. I’m not stupid.”

“Ha ha ha ha,” Hastur breathed, a rumble in the floor, and stroked her back with one tentacle, proud.

Arthur, at this point, looked like Parker might be physically holding him in his seat, gripping his arm.

Larson finally sounded serious. “I certainly never intended insult toward you.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Faroe. “Nevertheless, you delivered one. Parker? How many meals did you miss with us?”

“Fuck, I dunno. Couple weeks?” said Parker.

“Mister Larson, I will ask you to abstain from our family meals for two weeks of time. Consider it penance. And I also expect you to be civil when you return. Is that clear?”

Larson stared. 

Larson stared .

He turned bodily toward Hastur. “Does my lord, the King of Carcosa, find this acceptable?”

“I do,” said Hastur, calm. “My daughter is learning to take care of her people. Wouldn’t you agree she’s doing very well?”

Parker shook. He was clearly trying not to laugh.

Faroe spared her father a tiny, pleased smile, then looked at Larson again.

Larson had to do some quick calculations. “Of course, your highness. I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. I’ll join our little get-togethers again in two weeks, and fulfill the rest of my duties in the meantime. I live to serve and to please.” He bowed low. Then—clearly knowing his game piece was out of moves for the moment—he left. 

Faroe sat back down like nothing had happened. But then, she peeked at Parker.

Arthur! John whispered.

“I heard, John,” Arthur whispered back. 

“Thanks, kid,” said Parker. “Appreciate that. Don’t got too many folks in my corner, but you’re a good one to have.”

“I apologize I didn’t catch what he was doing sooner,” said Faroe, and then gave up all pretense of adulthood and leaped out of her chair and flopped into her father’s many tentacles. “Did I do all right?”

“Brilliantly. My precious one,” Hastur rumbled, a low and constant sound like a purr from an elephant. Or a god. 

Several things became very clear to Odd at this moment.

One, he had been thrust into the middle of a very complex situation with no information, no backup, but with allies if nothing else.

Two, he could relate to the Saint (Parker, he corrected himself) deeply. How often had “full” humans muttered ‘half-breed’ under their breath as he walked by, stepped around him like he would ‘infect’ them with his presence?

Three, he knew exactly how to handle this Larson fellow, and he would do so with complete and utter delight the moment he was able to; but two weeks wasn’t a lot of time to get his feet under him, and so he needed to prioritize.

“Pleasant fellow,” he said, giving Faroe a deeply dubious look. “I can’t imagine what in all the stars you could talk about without him running your conversations. However will you survive?”

Faroe giggled.

“Faroe,” said Arthur. “That… that was incredible.”

“I remembered what Kayne said,” Faroe said quietly. “And I realized none of you were allowed to deal with him. But I could.”

Hastur went as still as ice.

Arthur went white.

Parker frowned. “I don’t think it’s all on you kiddo.”

“I handled it, and I will again if necessary,” Faroe said primly, which she then abandoned by sliding into Hastur’s tentacles and disappearing from sight.

“Great show, honestly,” Odd said, cheerful, making himself rock back in his chair. “I’d love to see you do it again sometime. Nothing quite like someone deserving being put in their place.” His eyes flicked across the table, to Parker (who had handled all of this admirably, which made Odd sad in ways he didn’t yet want to examine) and to Arthur (who Odd already liked and now was begrudgingly growing fond of). “Forgive me for being short on conversation topics, I’m hardly interesting in comparison to a god, his daughter, and who appear to be his two closest confidants and their respective companions.”

“Nobody’s asking you to be,” said Arthur.

“He’s a performer,” said Parker with a kind of understanding that said he’d known more than a few, then addressed Odd directly. “Weird to think the conversation doesn’t actually ride on you being fun, huh?”

He said it… gently. Like he was removing a burden Odd didn’t need to bear.

Oh, Odd liked him. “Got me in one,” he said brightly, and privately hoped this meant that he’d successfully shepherd the conversation away from this horrifically awkward lull. “Known a lot of performers yourself, then?”

Dancers swept in, laying the table rich with incredible savory food—things Odd might not recognize, but would certainly know were very human . 

“Yeah,” said Parker. “Knew a bunch in the drag scene back in the day. Uh. Drag’s…”

Odd laughed. “I know drag. I’ve done drag.”

Parker blinked at him. “You have?” And he sort of blurted it. “Got the fuckin’ cheekbones for it, for sure.”

Faroe popped her head out. “That’s how Parker knew how to help paint my dad for the Rite.”

Odd decided to ignore the terrifying memory of the King’s gorgeously painted body in favor of leaning into the compliment and preening. “Ah, so you have good taste. Had a feeling when my eyes caught on you.”

He’s quite talented, Sunny purred.

So that was a thing. Huh.

So was the food. Damn. Odd was ravenously hungry, and was really struggling not to look like a starving dog, and in his opinion was doing an admirable job, especially since the food was so good.

A comfortable lull set in. Faroe ate in Hastur’s arms, while he held her plate for her and occasionally got her more of whatever she pointed on the table. Arthur ate, and had to be prompted to eat more. Parker had absolutely no trouble with his appetite.

Sunny really had no trouble with an appetite, and evidently, could taste everything. Oh! More of that cilbir, please, he said, and moaned most impressively.

John either couldn’t taste it or didn’t care. He kept murmuring to Arthur, who murmured back.

And Hastur waited.

Waited until everyone had eaten, until the Dancers cleared the dishes away, before finally speaking again. “Odd.”

Well, that was a shame. Odd had been doing a great job of ignoring the Great Old One sitting at the head of the table since then, and had even relaxed for a solid thirty seconds. His voice caught, and it took him a second to force his throat to work. “Yes, Great One?”

“The rest of my day will be dedicated to my daughter’s birthday, but I have time now. Walk with me.” He rose, gently letting Faroe slide to her feet, multitasking by dabbing her lips with a napkin (which she did not need, and giggled).

And something about that… like part of his attention was always on her, no matter what was going on…

At any rate, it hadn’t been a request. Hastur headed for the hall.

“Do… do we…” Arthur began.

“Worry not for your new friend,” said Hastur. “This is between us. I guarantee his safety.”

Arthur’s brow knit. He nodded. “He won’t hurt you.”

“You should be okay,” said Parker, who wasn’t as sure, but wasn’t really worried, either.

Odd fought the urge to run, because predators loved it when you ran (huh, why did that come to mind?) and slid his chair in behind him as he stood. “Well, wish me luck,” he said, forcing levity into his voice as he—well, he would have liked to have walked, but the dining room was a decent size and Hastur was pretty fast, so it was more of a trot.

(Maybe if he proved he could be trusted and follow orders, things like… chains… wouldn’t be necessary.)

Not a fun thought to possess after he slid through the door and it clicked shut behind him.

#

Hastur led him silently through the halls. Everyone they passed dodged aside and bowed; even the plants seemed to sway as Hastur walked by.

He was heading outside, into some kind of fancy garden with paths.

Carcosa was just as beautiful as Odd had heard. It really, really was, and he wished for a moment that he wasn’t so fucking sad, because it was really making it difficult to appreciate his new… Home, he supposed. Language informed thought, so maybe if he didn’t call it a prison it would feel less like one.

It wasn’t working yet. The beautiful stained-glass windows, the terraced balconies, the elegant stonework may as well have been iron bars.

He kept his mouth shut, though, following the god, silently relieved that Hastur wasn’t touching him, was letting him walk, was just… moving.

“We seem to find ourselves in a conundrum, Odd,” said Hastur, the Lord of Interstellar Spaces.

“The note left with me… It means something bad, doesn’t it?” There wasn’t a point in playing dumb, not with the Unspeakable. Odd’s tail drooped, tip brushing the grass in this beautiful garden, and he decided to not look at the god at all in hopes of staving off his inevitable breakdown where he begged for… Something, he wasn’t quite sure what yet.

The pause wasn’t long. It was, an able performer might note, absolutely perfect—not so long that most would consciously notice it, but just long enough to edge up the tension. “It stated you were a gift.”

“On the night of a Spring Rite.” Odd let out a small, feeble laugh. “You know, as someone who spent a lot of my life avoiding gods, I appear to have gotten someone’s attention one way or another.” A pause—he took in a shaky breath through his nose, and maybe he was feeling bold, or suicidal. “I suppose I should thank you for not… Laying claim to me, last night.”

This pause was less theatrical. It was strange, for someone who studied body language, to watch the delicate curling of those tentacles, as though the god was… puzzled. “You seemed… unenthusiastic.”

“I woke up bound, naked, in a box, with no knowledge of how I got there,” Odd said, trying very hard to keep his voice from hitching. “The last thing I remember, I was in Oriab, your Majesty.” 

“Oriab?” So that was as confusing to Hastur as it was to Odd. “I have little to do with Oriab.”

“I was on the Path, sir. I’m a member of the Songwalkers Guild, beholden to the Songweavers of Vulgtmog.” The gardens were lush with greenery, more beautiful than any Odd had ever seen. “I mean no offense, but I hadn’t planned to come to Carcosa for a very, very long time.”

The god was no fool. “You feared being taken.”

Odd shrugged, not risking a glance at the god. “Your reputation lingers, your Majesty. I also avoided anywhere that Pers’ agents were known to linger, and certain other gods, though many of the others were wary enough of angering the Songweavers that I had some protection.” He reached out, then, letting his fingers brush against the voluminous petals of some flower that only a Dreamer could have created. “It… It doesn’t matter now.”

“That was wisdom on your part.” He was pulling no punches. “I would have taken you in a heartbeat ten years ago. And Pers…” His chuckle was dark. “Perhaps would have, too, but is currently… not hiring.” That was confirmation of some rumors. 

“Well, thank the gods for small mercies,” Odd said with a soft laugh. “Your daughter is a sweet kid. Kind. She could have ordered me to hand over my goods, back then, but she didn’t—traded for them honestly and everything.”

“My daughter will be a glorious queen one day, admired as she ought to be, elevated by the worship of her people into deity.” So simply stated. So sure. It would be interesting when Faroe developed more opinions.

“I didn’t know she was the missing princess,” Odd said.

“I am aware. Do you think that matters?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged again. “I wouldn’t have treated her any differently if I had known. I didn’t do anything special, at least not in my opinion. It’s… It’s really sweet that she kept my sweater, though. It was my favorite.”

“You made a difference to my daughter in a terrible time.” 

“And I don’t regret doing so. I thought about her… Gods. Almost every day.” Odd sighed, hanging his head for a moment, screwing his eyes shut before turning, looking over at the nearly blinding fractal brilliance of Hastur’s yellow cloak. “I don’t deserve any kind of… Your Majesty, I don’t know what I’m doing here. The presence of a note from another god makes me seem like a threat, but the only connection I’m aware of is your daughter, and even if it—even if it kills me, I don’t regret being kind to a scared little girl. Am I putting her in danger?”

Hastur picked him up.

There was no warning. It was done swiftly, gracefully, though Odd still flinched. (And Odd would be a fool not to notice, again, that it wasn’t as constricting as the ribbons.) 

Hastur brought Odd high, to his mask. So many eyes glittered there, so much attention. “I lack spare time, Odd the bard, so I will be frank with you, if you agree to it. Shall I?”

(All of that… Oh, if Odd hadn’t been so fucking sad, he might even have liked it.) “Sure,” he said, because it wasn’t as if he had a real choice, and if he wanted any semblance of freedom in this gilded cage he should go ahead and play the game.

“What you did for my daughter in her time of greatest need would already have placed you in a position of reward.” He let that sink in for a moment. “And you did so while keeping news of her secret. It seems you are good at keeping such things to yourself.”

Well, he’d be a shitty bard if he was a blabbermouth. Nobody would talk to him. “I don’t need a reward for being kind to a little girl,” Odd said softly.

“Ah, indeed,” the King in Yellow rumbled. “I sought your reputation this morning. It seems you are very talented, Odd. Known for your creativity, your sensitivity, your skill.”

Well, fuck. “The Songwalkers don’t take just anyone, your Majesty,” he said. “It… appears as though the information you found is pleasing to you.”

Gods, Odd was so fucking sad.

”Yet you do not wish to be celebrated?” And one tentacle-tip just… brushed his cheek, then withdrew. Quickly. Almost as if embarrassed, or unplanned.

“My whole life I’ve never needed much, sir. Just a song and the Path. Everything else was just a bonus.” He gave the King a weak smile.

The few times he’d thought about going to Carcosa he had envisioned it… Later. Later, when his knees would ache too much to walk the Path, or he’d seen all there was to see of the Dreamlands and Carcosa remained as the one last bastion of beauty that one could experience. When he had drunk his fill and was ready to settle, when the Path would stop pulling at his heart and leading him to his next destination like an excited lover, and maybe he even could have worked with the Songweavers to help Vulgtmog form a lasting alliance with this changed King.

He didn’t know how to say that. He didn’t know how to keep it from pouring out of him like arterial spray from a slit throat. His tail lashed, a touch fearful, and Odd hoped he would not weep.

Hastur’s voice was low. “You are beautiful, Odd.”

He…

He didn’t know how to feel about that. He hadn’t expected it. Odd blinked up at this god, who was terrible and gorgeous and as final as a headstone. “Thank you,” he said. “I… I suppose I will be singing ballads of your own beauty soon enough. It’s everything I’ve heard and more.” What a shitty compliment for him to give. (He was so fucking sad.) He tried again. “You appear just as radiant in the light of day as you did last night, your Majesty. I merely wish I could have appreciated it more. I beg forgiveness, given the circumstances.”

That rumble… such a fucking sound, so pleased, so deep. It vibrates in Odd’s bones, his skin, even in the soles of his feet. “And a golden tongue, to boot.”

“Ah, but you have that in your court already,” Odd said with a thin laugh. “However will I fit in?”

“Nothing quite like you,” the King in Yellow rumbled. His tentacles rested against Odd, doing nothing, just… still. “But you do not want to be mine.”

“I…” He was caught. Well, at least he would die being him . “...I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, very softly, and the tears started to flow. “People like me who come to Carcosa don’t leave, your Majesty. I’m a traveling bard. It’s all I’ve ever been, and I have avoided Carcosa because I knew if you got wind of me you wouldn’t—” He sobbed, curling in on himself for one long moment; unconsciously his tail wrapped tightly around the tentacle holding him, and Odd buried his face in his hands.

A long moment passed, silent. Hastur wiped away some of Odd’s tears. “You have been honest with me, Odd the Bard. I will now be honest with you.” Odd could still breathe, wasn’t compressed. “My Composer is mine, now. He is marked. This was done at the request of an Outer God, and not my choice.” The very tip of a tentacle caught another tear, barely traced Odd’s cheek before being withdrawn as if it had acted out of turn. “I have come to regret taking him against his will, however well it has turned out in the end. An Outer God gave you to me, Odd. That is what the note said. However… I am uninterested in another who is mine, but not by choice.”

So that was a lot.

Odd forced a breath through his heaving lungs, steadying himself, taking a moment to dig his nails into his palm in hopes that a bit of grounding pain could let him focus. “An Outer God,” he said, low, despairing. “...I’ve heard rumors, of… Of your Composer. He’s a good man. He and John treated me kindly, last night.” Buy time with compliments, to let him breathe, to let him process—the Composer was marked against his will?

That was… horrifying. It would have been a violation not only for the marked, but for—

Several pieces of this puzzle slid into place, and Odd went a bit still at the idea. An Outer God. And an Outer God had gifted him to the King (the same one?).

And there were people in Carcosa who had no business being there, and all the rumors…

Another who was his, eh? It brought up the rear, but that statement was just as important as the others. Odd needed to chew on it. He didn’t have the time, though. “Another who is… yours.” He said, careful, wary.

“Your situation is challenging.” Hastur wasn’t taking that bait. “Given who left you here, I’m unsure if it is wise for you to simply… leave.”

As if Odd didn’t already know. “I am… Coming to terms with it, Great One,” he said, and did not try and mask how deeply, all-encompassingly, fucking sad he was—and then his heart gave a tiny little thrill of fear, because the King in Fucking Yellow did not keep people he wanted to show off in oubliettes—

He made them want to stay.

“I can—” Odd said, his heart racing with his surge of fear, the tears flowing freely, “I can learn to be happy here, Great One. Don’t break me. Please, I beg of you, don’t.”

A long, long pause. “Did Larson seem broken to you?”

“What?”

“Does Arthur… seem broken to you? Or Parker?”

He was going somewhere with this.

Fuck, Odd, get it together. “No,” he said, trembling. “I… No. He seemed… Arthur is sane.” He couldn’t speak for these two, for the Saint or this other human who did not possess the King’s favor at the moment, but he’d spoken to Arthur.

“My relationship with all three is… discrete. Yet all were pressed upon me by the same Outer God who so thoughtfully tied a bell to your tail.”

Mother-fucker.

“So… I was…” Odd usually was better at this sort of thing, but this was a lot. “So I am… Now, also, your…” Pet? Problem? Fuck if he knew. “What does this mean, Great One?”

“Caution, for one. The others… I cannot allow to leave, or I and my daughter will be penalized. You… I don’t know.” That touch again, just barely tracing his lips, and then that naughty tentacle was withdrawn, too. “Ah… if I had time… there would be no breaking. Do you think me a bull, to stomp and shatter precious things? No. I would seduce you, Odd. I would make you mine by your own choice, and it would be very good.” A pause. “But I do not have that time. So. Instead, let us keep you safe for now. In time, we will see if you can leave without drawing ire from your gift-giver.”

What? Odd furrowed his brow, peering up at the god. “You said something like that too, last night,” he said, voice low. “What do you mean, you don’t have the time?”

“In a few years, I am going to rest. This is not well-known.” Delivered perfectly, calmly, maybe almost too calmly. “At that time, the plans I have laid for Carcosa will keep it and my family safe. Given this, I have little time for… personal pleasure. ” The way he said those words should be illegal.

But that…

That didn’t seem right. And Odd was sure, in some way, that it wasn’t—but he was still upset, and the way the King mused on personal pleasures made him shiver in a very traitorously pleasant way, and he still needed time. Time to think, to process, to make his fiddle shriek his grief (certain) and to scream (maybe).

“So…” Odd said, slow, taking another breath as he rolled that piece of information over and over in his head, “For now, what would you have me do?”

“Rest. See my glorious city—though with protections, as parts of it are not safe for the mortal mind. Make music if you wish… and I wish. But know that in time, you will be free. You may contact the guild.” And as if he was trying to be reassuring: “Even if I were still in the process of taking whom I wished, I would hesitate to break you. So many are not worth preserving. You, however… I would sooner smash my own mask.”

Odd needed to think. There was something deeper here, something that bothered him, but Odd needed to think. “As you wish, your Majesty,” Odd said, bowing his head with reverence, noting how little it had taken for him to relax in the grip of that tentacle. “...He told me… He told me you had changed, for your daughter. I want to make it clear that I appreciate this kindness.”

“He is correct.” Hastur was long beyond denying that, apparently. “But do not mistake me for anything other than what I am.” The barest touch on his lips—then that tentacle withdrew. “What do you need for now?” He seemed sure Odd understood he couldn’t leave.

That the threat against Faroe, at least, would hold.

“...A day,” Odd said, giving a helpless shrug. “I’m still sort of hungover from the Rite’s magic. I’m going to have questions. I lost… I lost months, Great One. I have… I have a lot of things to think about, and I…” He sighed, going slack in the tentacle holding him.

“Months?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice was quiet. Solemn. “As far as I was aware, the Winter Solstice had passed less than a week ago, but yesterday was the Spring Rite.”

Something changed. This god had fucking body-language, if Odd could learn to read it. “Your guild must fear you dead.”

“Almost certainly.”

“And you have lost income.”

“Yes—though that’s recoverable. Money I can make again; I wasn’t robbed when I was—when whatever the fuck happened to me happened.” He let himself hang limp in Hastur’s grip and (perhaps traitorously) let himself enjoy it, setting his head down on his arms. “My… My instruments made it here, with me. That’s the important stuff. But… You’re correct.”

That rumble again, that fucking purr . Did it vibrate through his chest, or something? Odd could feel it lightly in the tentacle. “Perhaps I should hire you.”

Odd burst out laughing.

He didn’t mean to. As soon as it happened he tried to cut himself off, but it cascaded out of him like a frantic waterfall, because that was fucking absurd. “Hi-hire? Hire me?” He forced himself to take a gasping breath. “I just—you have to babysit —you pulled me out of a box with a bow over my dick, and you want to—”

You know what, maybe he was due for some insane cackling. God of madness, after all, and this was surely a bugfuck-crazy situation. Odd wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to calm down (he did, with great difficulty). “Hire… Hire me. That’s one I didn’t expect.”

Hastur was so fucking pleased with his own idea. “Indeed. What is your current going rate per performance, Odd the bard?”

“Scheduled? About a gold a day, plus tips,” he said, shaking his head. “I pay my Guild dues twice a year, about 10 gold each, and they ensure I have instruments, clothes, food, shelter available in all the major cities. Other places… depends on the tips I get. You’re serious?”

“Very serious.” And now, apparently very entertained (and one tentacle felt along his tail, found itself wrapped by that tail, and could not withdraw). “What would seem an extravagant amount to you?”

“I was given to you,” Odd protested, “almost assuredly as a slave at best. A sacrifice on the altar of the Mother at worst.” The tip of his tail flicked, tapping against the tentacle that held it.

“You were.” That was definitely purring. “And so do I not have the right to do as I wish with you? I will pay you. I will lavish you with wonders. And then, I will let you go.”

Well, that went directly into the pot to roil around when Odd had a moment to think. He stared up at the god. “I… I can’t argue with that,” he muttered at last, blinking. “I don’t… I don’t know.” Extravagant? What?  

“Today,” said Hastur, finally lowering him to the ground, “I suggest you shadow Arthur. I think the company will comfort you. You are welcome to walk my kingdom alone, but if you do not wish to, company will be provided. Though I do not suggest trusting Wallace Larson.” And the pride slipped through, deep and warm and so very real . “Though after my daughter’s words, I highly doubt you would find yourself so inclined.”

“Met a lot of full humans like him,” Odd said, finding his feet, tail lashing. “I know how to deal with them. I imagine he’ll likely steer clear of me anyway.” He took a breath and let it out, slow. “I can… I’m sure I can find Arthur, then. He and John were very kind to me. And… We’ll talk more… later?”

Odd was new to this. He couldn’t possibly be right—but it truly seemed, felt, deep and subtle, that this final touch over Odd’s hair, almost a whisper—held regret. 

Then all those limbs withdrew. “Do you wish an escort back?”

“I don’t know the palace yet,” Odd said, and he definitely wasn’t lying, but maybe he also was hoping that Hastur would take him so he could eke some sort of further understanding out of him. “I think… I think I would appreciate that. Um. My things are in Arthur’s room.” He paused, eyeing the god. “Is that… alright?”

“Yes. You are safe there. None of my people—friend or foe—can enter. His room is warded better than any save for Faroe and my own bedrooms. Come.” Did he maybe make that word deeper than he should be? Perhaps. But he began leading the way back inside. And casually, said, “Perhaps fifteen gold a day to begin, though I would prefer you to play. If you make music for me, it will be doubled.”

“Fif- fifteen?” Odd stared at him, momentarily stopping dead in his tracks. Evidently the rumors were true and the King in Yellow had, indeed, gone completely batshit insane. “Your Majesty, that’s more than I make in a month—that’s nearly my yearly dues to the guild! A day?”

Hastur stopped. Turned toward him. One tentacle-tip, fine and delicate, tilted his chin up. “Perhaps I want you to remember me well.” And he said it warmly and fondly and absolutely not in a dire way at all, but then he just left, and Odd realized he’d been brought back to the doorway, to the very hall, down which Arthur’s rooms lay. Piano music filtered toward him.

Odd stared at the spot Hastur had occupied.

Remember him?

Down the hall, John yelled something about minor sevenths, and Arthur laughed.

Odd tucked that away for the moment, next to the cryptic statements about time and Hastur resting and whatever the fuck all of that meant.

He did not want to think about that right now. What he needed was to get some of this, all of this, out, and if the Composer was busy composing that meant there were instruments there, and all he had to do was follow his ears and he would surely figure it out.

[oceansprompts]

marvel's midnight suns | misc quotes 4

Thank you for not making a bigger deal about my arrival…

I don’t think I can properly express my relief…

In truth, I’ve been in survival mode…

I do not believe in many of the common dark magics…

A risk is not a risk if it does not hold the potential for regret.

Well, for example, some species of bats can fly at speeds of up to 100 miles…

I’m sorry. I’m a bit on edge because I haven’t eaten in awhile.

No. And, for the record, I don’t sleep in a coffin just because I’m a vampire.

I know what it’s like to feel suffocated by a disease….

 I was fifteen when I found out my mother was Capital “E” Evil.

I want to throw her a surprise party, but I can’t do it alone.

Pisses me off so much, I could scream.

Don’t bother. Kinda just want to be left alone.

And since chaos magic is a helluva lot more powerful…

But, poof, here this was… waiting for me.

You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first case of corruption in recorded history.

I’ve already lost enough people I care about.

You, uh, reunited our twisted little family…

You ever miss people from your past?

So, it’s time for them to move over and let the kids take the reins.

Maybe a somewhat dysfunctional family with a ton of issues to work through…

I feel called out. Figured since your mom is the Mother of Demons and all…

They make me feel like a child sometimes, but you don’t, so, like, thanks.

It’s something I make all my friends watch with me.

Anyway we’ll get some more quality one-on-one time. It’s a little retro…

Like why have a kid if you’re going to get rid of them…

Okay, I think that you think that I’m one of those good people, right…

How can you be sure that I’m not, you know, evil?

I’ll spare you the sappy stuff, but you’ve climbed to the top…

She’ll never forget how her favorite cartoon characters showed up as exotic dancers. Nor will she ever forgive me.

Of all the changes you’ve had to deal with, at least the music is better.

Meh. That requires effort.

That you were a godlike hero walking the earth, single-handedly holding back the forces of evil.

But what if I hurt you?

Sorry, I… I don’t feel like myself.

Is it weird that I think she’s going to be waiting for me in my dreams…

Forgot how relaxing it is to just zone out and watch a good movie after a long day of battle.

I mean, it was just a dream, right?

It’s all destroyed now, along with these poor peoples’ lives.

Of course I’d like to know more, but I trust you’re doing the best you can.

Instead I’m just… Numb. I’m starting to feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty.

But I still wonder if I truly belong, you know?

It’s not all magic wands and midnight margaritas.

I dunno. There’s so much to be happy about right now. You pick.

I wonder what they would say if they saw me now, saw who I grew up to be.

Wasn’t exactly the popular kid, if you know what I mean.

I’m not so sure you want to know… or I want to tell you.

So, I’m setting it in ink, because I never want to forget how you took a chance on me.

I feel like I can trust myself again…

With all these people, it’s not crowded, exactly. It certainly feels more alive.

For a moment, nothing. Then she burst out laughing and opened the door. We have been close ever since.

A collection of DVDs. I know it’s irrational to want them back, but I can’t stop thinking about them.

It shouldn’t be this easy. I always pictured a gulf between us.

Well, I never thought I could replace you. I wanted you to know.

I figured if I was going to be teaming up with this group, I ought to up my game. Sound more…I dunno…scary.

Sorry, the mask’s gotta stay on. I hope that’s not gonna make things weird between us.

I mean, I can’t shoot laser beams, light my skull on fire or glow like the sun…

Maybe I’ll use the Forge to bake a loaf of sourdough…

No, I mean helping him turn his life around. The way real heroes are supposed to.

Alien-possessed architecture gives me the extra creeps.

[whatliesbeneath-ao3]

MANAGERIAL NOTE

Somehow you've made more of a mess than before. But still, you pick up another file and begin to read...

Mari wipes her shoes on the mat as she steps in the door, pulling off her coat and throwing it somewhere amidst their more-or-less-clean apartment. “Zi!” She calls. “I’m home! Huh, somethin’ smells good.” 

Her sister peeks out of the kitchen with a beaming smile on her face; whatever she’s made, she’s clearly proud of it, “Welcome home, Mari! I made dinner. And dessert.” 

Mari laughs, walking over. “Damn, right on time, too. How’d’ya know I was starvin’?” She asks, ruffling her sister’s braided hair. They were by no means identical, in equal parts their mother and father, but at the very least they were obviously sisters. Zinnia pulls away with a pout, fixing her affectionately ruined hair. 

“It’s a lucky guess.” Zinnia replies, serving them both a plate. Casserole wasn’t anything particularly special or new, but today was going to be different. Soon, in a few months, she’d be 20—Mari always told her that she could help her around more once she was old enough to become a Fixer—her life had been spent trying to gain permission to put in the effort Mari did.

“It looks delicious,” Mari pulls Zinnia’s seat out for her, and then her own. “What’s for dessert?” She asks, through bites of casserole.

Her sister shakes her head as she herself takes a bite, “You should savor dinner before thinking about dessert.”

Mari raises an eyebrow, smug smile poised for attack on her lips, “Well, I like to think ahead, that’s all. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it—’s good for ya, actually.” She reaches over to boop Zinnia on the nose with a laugh. “Speakin’ of,” She says, reaching into her cargo pants pocket. “I got your birthday present early. Well, I will. Gotta give it a minute or twenty.” 

Zinnia eagerly opens the letter, anticipating her sister’s usuals—a heartfelt card written in pictures instead of words, a coupon or cash or printed photos of them—or her favorite, so many years ago now—the twin white ribbons braided into her hair. Instead, her heart sinks as her jaw drops. Is she too young to understand? “What’s… this?” 

“It’s the details for an apartment in L Corp’s Nest! Isn’t that fuckin’ sweet?” Mari asks, enthusiastically, but notices her sister’s confusion. “Zi? What’s up?” 

“It’s just,” She sets the letter on the table, and pushes her dinner away, her appetite abandoned her. “I’m confused. We can’t afford this. And it says… a Wing resident…?” 

Mari’s eyes brighten—brighter than any sun—and it aches for a reason Zinnia doesn’t have the words for. “Yeah! I got a job at a Wing, and y’know, that’s the first class way into a Nest—dunno, I thought I’d never manage to be accepted by any real job, so I just about lost my marbl…es…? Zinnia? Seriously, what’s wrong? This is good news.”

“It’s,” She shakes her head. “Yeah, it’s… it’s good news. You said it’d be in a few months, so it’ll be after my birthday—and I’ll join you in working at that Wing, right? That’s… why we’re waiting?” 

Mari’s smile falls, and Zinnia’s heart shatters. 

“Mari. Sis. Wait—are you saying that you’re going to—”

“Zi—listen, I know, but it’s okay! Once I like, I dunno—I retire, then—” Her sister’s voice doesn’t make her flinch. The broken hearted expression on her face does, and Mari feels like she’s going to throw up. Something ugly rushes around inside of her, like a loose predator. She feels her jaw set—she feels the big bad wolf inside of her howl and hunger—and she hears her own voice say—

...

You find yourself mumbling a report you remember reading once or thrice on repeat, "'According to reports from employees who have been inside Big and Will be Bad Wolf’s stomach, it is a dark, empty, lonely place.'"

[hartshorn-and-isinglass]

I recently found out that the Muse first started playing their instrument as a child because they specifically asked their parents if they could... and for one, imagining what they would have been like in first grade is adorable, but also it struck me just how... unusual it is to have a young kid take the initiative on choosing in these origin stories. It's easy enough to assume someone was born to play when they can play well but there's something extra special about knowing that someone so enthusiastic about their instrument really wanted to play from the beginning. I dunno. This touches an especially mushy part of my brainrot, LOL.

So many stories of how violinists got gud involve an adult parking a 1/4 size instrument under their chin when they were four years old and them going, "welp, I guess I play violin now", and I have some feelings about that. I think at the absolute bare minimum, you shouldn't make kids play violin unless they actually express an interest. And I feel like this is important for violin in particular because of the sheer investment of time and money required just to get anyone to a basic, listenable level of competency, to say nothing of the risk of RSIs down the road. This is not an instrument you should make a kid play if they don't have some enthusiasm for it.

My private teacher in high school had one student a few years younger than me who absolutely would rather have been at the dentist than at violin lessons--like, her resentment was palpable. I could feel it in the air when I walked into the studio to prep for my lesson after her. At one point my teacher arranged for her to stay and 'shadow' my lesson, I guess to let her see an example of what a more productive session went like... she could not have cared less. Not long after that, my teacher finally had to have a talk with the kid's mom and be like, "this is just a waste of time for all of us, I'm not going to teach her anymore". I'm amazed they let that drag on for as long as they did--years! I didn't like the piano lessons I got railroaded into during elementary school but I didn't hate piano the way that poor kid absolutely hated violin.

(That was a surreal image to be confronted with at a time when my own mother was privately putting pressure on me to quit. I was lucky that my teacher was friends with my mom and that they had to see each other often enough that my mom was not going to risk outright cutting me off from violin without trying to make it look like it was my idea. Which I wasn't going to let her do.)

And it's a pet peeve of mine that people assume I must have been one of those stereotypical kids who was made to play violin starting at a young age. *sigh* I want people to know that I fucking chose this instrument. I want to believe it matters that I keep choosing it. I love this instrument even though it doesn't love me back.