#i'll call out your name

[serickswrites]

"I'll Call Out Your Name"

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, cruel whumper

Whumpee sobbed as they lay chained on the table while Whumper circled them. This couldn't be happening. They couldn't believe this was happening. "Caretaker will find you! They're coming to get me."

Whumper chuckled darkly as they leaned down to whisper in Whumpee's ear, "They don't care about you. No one cares about you. That's why nobody stopped me from taking you."

Whumpee sobbed harder. "That's....that's not true."

Whumper grabbed a knife from their belt and caressed Whumpee's face with the flat of the blade. "Oh, but it is, Whumpee, but it is. You see, Caretaker knew I was coming. I called them in fact. Warned them you could say. And still they did nothing to save you. To stop me." Whumper licked along the trail of tears on Whumpee's cheek. "Face it, Whumpee, you're mine until I'm done with you."

[ice-cap-k]

Kyanite

So... accidentally read the wrong prompt when writing yesterday's story, so it's getting flip-flopped with today's story. Consider this the day 2 prompt submittal for Whumptober.

Cross-posed on AO3 here: Kyanite

____________________________________________

The emperors blinked spots from their eyes as the flash of light dissipated. The supercharge of magic was depleted. The demon was no longer in the center of the circle. No more charred skin that flickered with the nether’s dying embers. Gone were the imposing horns and wicked grin. Missing was the brother who ceased to be a brother many lifetimes ago.

Where Xornoth once stood was now a cerulean crystal. Its jagged blue facets glittered coldly in the light of the dying flames. The remaining emperors blinked down at it, not really sure whether to believe their own eyes.

Joey was the first to come to his senses. There was an irony to that, considering the demon no longer held sway over him. After all that time under the influence of a master, the man looked lost. “Wha- what happened,” he whimpered. “Where’s Xornoth?”

“He’s gone.” The emperors turned to the man at the front of the circle. The elf’s red eyes were wide. His mouth stretched into a growing smile as the gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on him. “It’s over,” he added, sounding a little less stunned and a little more proud of himself. 

Cheers rose up among the leaders. Pearl clanked her sword and shield together in a triumphant battle “whoop” while Gem fired off colorful sparks with her staff. Katherine practically picked up the teal-haired elf at her side and spun him around, despite his apparent discomfort. Joey shrank away, confused by what was happening around him, but Shubble was quick to jump to his side. She would calm him down and better explain what was happening. Next to Scott, she knew the most about what Xornoth was and how he came crashing in to ruin their lives. If anyone could set things right and explain the situation to the newly freed man, it would be her.  

There were pats on the back and excited jokes to go around. Someone even passed out golden carrots to snack on and ease the exhaustion of the fight. No attempt was made to clean up the burnt remains of the demon’s lair. If anything, most of the emperors agreed it would be best to leave the magic circle where it was. Gem’s magic was an intricate art that was best left alone. 

However, Gem said that the magic of the circle would be fine if they took the crystal. That was fairly convenient, considering nobody wanted to simply leave it unattended. “Here Scott,” Gem said. She held the glittering blue stone out to the elf after the others had gone. He raised an eyebrow at it, but took the stone. “We couldn’t have done this without you. And he’s your brother,” she added with a good-natured shrug. “I figured that, out of everyone, you should be the one to decide what happens to him.” 

He smiled, rolling the crystal around in his palm. It really was quite lovely. Not in the way a cut stone looks after the jeweler has polished its facets and wraps it in precious metals to be worn and flaunted. Rather, this stone still had all the frayed edges and uneven facets of a raw mineral freshly plucked from the earth and rinsed under water. Impurities shone like prismatic white frost caught in the blue haze. Even the bladed offshoots of the rectangular base structure were hard white lines against the cold blue.

“Do you know what this is,” he asked, rubbing his thumb against one of the edges. 

Gem! Gem it’s me!

His question caught Gem off guard. “Xornoth,” she said, sounding a little baffled. “I know that light was pretty bright but I thought we were all on the same page here. Do you want me to explain how the magic works again?”

He shook his head. “I know that,” he says, sounding pleasantly annoyed. “What I mean is, do you know what kind of crystal this is?”

She let her eyes skim over the deep blue center and delicate white edges. So much like a glacier, or the sea shortly after the crash of a wave, or the sky split by lightning moments after the sun had set. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure it was any known crystal. I never thought the shape he took was supposed to mimic anything in particular. How are you supposed to name something that is a manifestation of a soul?”

Please, Gem! I'm here! I’m right here!

“That answer was a tad more philosophical than I was going for,” he said with a snort. His fingers wrapped tight around the crystal, effectively hiding it from sight. That couldn’t be comfortable considering all the sharp edges. “But I suppose that’s understandable.”

“If I had to describe it though…”  Gem started, then trailed off, humming to herself as she flipped through various names of rocks in her head. All those years spent honing the art of magic had familiarized her with all sorts of crystals, elements, and minerals. “To me, it appears to be a kyanite crystal.” Magical soul rock philosophical questions aside, she had to admit that the resemblance between the stone in front of her and the semi-common crystal was there.

“I would agree,” the elf said with a nod. “I suppose that’s considered a gemstone. I could make a necklace out of this to keep track of him.” 

Can’t you hear me?  Please help me, Gem! Don’t let him do this.

The crystal was promptly dropped into his pocket. 

“You’re not going to risk polishing it, are you?”

He sneers. “Of course not.”

“Good. At least it will match your outfit.”

The elf winced. “Yes. I suppose it does. I should probably get changed after this,” he says, looking down at his ruined clothes. The armor kept him safe for most of the battle, but there were netherack smears and soot stains on every scrap of fabric visible beneath the diamond plating.

“Ugh, same,” Gem says. Her hand immediately goes to the burnt spot on the brim of her pointed hat. That was going to need a patch. “This was my favorite.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

No! Please don’t leave me, Gem! Gem!! GEM!! PLEASE!!!

She started down the steps, leaving just the elf standing at the edge of the magic circle. He waited a moment or two to make sure she didn’t come back before pulling the rock back out of his pocket. There were small cuts on his palm from where he had gripped the crystal tight. Those bladed edges were no laughing matter. He had feared she might have noticed something during their short conversation; heard something that he had hoped he could muffle by covering up the crystal. That had been worth a few small cuts, but despite the wizard’s skill in magic-craft she hadn’t seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. He was lucky.

One facet was smudged with his own blood. Through the red and the blue and the misty white veins, though, he could see Scott.

____________________

Scott could see the sharp toothed grin through the glassy blue haze of his prison. The face looking back at him was so much like his own, he shouldn’t have been surprised it had his friends fooled.  It was like looking into a distorted mirror.  Instead of the warped features of the demon staring back at him, it was an almost kindly round face with brightly colored locks. Xornoth had kept up the illusion of teal hair, but illusions only worked if you didn’t know they were there.

Scott hadn’t seen his brother’s true face in over a lifetime. They had the same rounded face and wide eyes. The same shape to their nose and the curve of the jawline. But despite the magic in place, Scott could make out the pink sheen of Xornoth’s hair and glowing red-black eyes. Those same fiery eyes looked deep into Scott’s prison, glaring and triumphant. 

“They can’t hear you,” Xornoth says, sounding just like Scott. His words practically bounce off the walls, echoing back to Scott each word ten times over. “None of them can.” 

“They’re smart,” Scott says. His voice cracks, sending fractals of light breaking across the crystal’s rough surface like a prism. The fact that Gem of all people hadn’t noticed a thing made him nervous. It was her spell that Xornoth had twisted. She should have noticed SOMETHING. “They’ll figure it out sooner or later. And when they do, they’ll get me out of here.”

“They don’t care about you. They didn’t notice anything was off about you. All they care about is their own little empires,” the elf on the outside said with a shrug. “And even if they did, by then I’ll have seen my plans for destruction through to the end, and have contingencies in place.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Scott insisted, and if he could have pounded on the surface of the crystal, he would have. “They’ll stop you!” He didn’t have a physical body to lash out with, but he had his anger and his hate. Those emotions flared up in a kaleidoscope of broken light.

The crystal lurched. His brother’s angry string of curses sounded distant. Everything swirled in a confusing motion of sudden movements and ringing noises. By the time everything seemed to right itself, it occurred to Scott that Xornoth had dropped the crystal. He could see his look-alike holding his wrist. Shards of ice were falling from his fingers where Scott’s magic had managed to reach him through the crystal’s surface. His face was twisted in a pained snarl. “Why you little…” 

Scott almost laughed. At least he wasn’t completely helpless in here. When Xornoth picked the crystal back up, he did so with the fabric of his sleeve covering his hand. 

“Stop me? Just like they stopped me today, hm?” Scott felt a shiver run down his spine as Xornoth ran his thumb along one of the smoother sides of the crystal. “Then I would invite them to try. Really, I should be thanking them. If it wasn’t for your friends, I wouldn’t have you right where I want you: in the palm of my hand and at my mercy.” The echoes of Xornoth’s words do nothing to dampen the venom dripping in his voice. Fingers wrap around the length of the crystal and squeeze tight once more. The walls of Scott’s prison haven’t moved, but they feel like they’re pressing in so close they might just suffocate him. The claustrophobia is made even worse by the sudden rise of temperature as if the man outside was actively trying to make Scott as uncomfortable as possible. If he could gasp for air, he would.

“You know, I once saw a possible future where I hadn’t acted fast enough…” Xornoth’s words were muffled behind his grip. “My god showed it to me. A future where your little wizard friend trapped me in Eudialyte.” 

Scott had never heard of such a thing, but through the faded back of his consciousness, a picture of a red-black crystal with blunted edges hanging from a gold chain came to mind. And the more he focused on the picture, the more he could make out from the faded edges. The crystal was on a necklace.  The necklace was around his neck. It was not a vision of Xornoth wearing an illusion to look like Scott. It was of Scott himself. And he knew deep down that Xornoth was there as well, hanging from the chain. He had the vague sense that his brother was showing him all of this. 

“But I also have power, brother. And when there is a second possible target that matches the description of the first, there will always be an opportunity to divert such underhanded tactics." 

The pressure on the crystal lessened. Scott felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. The walls didn't feel quite so close.

"Even if you fooled them today, my friends will still figure something else out. They won’t let you have your way. They love their own empires enough to keep you from ruining it all.”

“You say that,” Xornoth says with a roll of his eyes. He’s clearly tired of this conversation. He pulls open his pocket once more and drops Scott’s crystal inside. “But I suppose you’ll just have to sit back and watch them try.” 

[kenmaiii]

after two years i finally draw the favorite

[potionwine]

Thinking about Margrace as Joshua's name post-Phoenix Gate.

Mar-grace.

In FFXVI the Undying choose their own names (Cyril explains this in-game), and many of them have names drawn from Final Fantasy XII, including their leader 'Margrace' himself, from Al-Cid Margrace. The page for Al-Cid notes that Margrace is likely an alternate form of the title 'margrave', an old title for military commanders on the border.

That aside. This is the name chosen (by the boy himself?) for the boy who should have rightfully been known henceforth as 'Your Grace', 'His Grace'.

Grace (style of address), from the Oxford English Dictionary:

With a possessive adjective: a title of respect, esp. for a person of royal or noble rank. Frequently (in 'your Grace') as a form of address. Now archaic or historical. Formerly (in England until the reign of Henry VIII and in Scotland until 1707) used for a monarch or prince; now replaced by Majesty or Highness. Even so, "Majesty" for the sovereign of England was not used exclusively; it arbitrarily alternated with both "Highness" and "Grace", even in official documents, until "Majesty" finally became the official style to the exclusion of others (source).

Grace (other meanings):

1. Divine favour, benevolence, or providence bringing about worldly benefit or advantage. 2. A person's lot, destiny, or fate; luck, fortune. 3. The quality of being pleasing; attractiveness, charm; esp. (in later use) refined elegance of manner, expression, form, or movement, esp. regarded as natural or effortless; gracefulness.

Whatever the etymology of margrave, the name Margrace in-game is probably meant to call to mind the meaning of 'mar' as in damaged, spoiled, ruined. All the grace that ever belonged to his family, his home, his birthright—marred, of course.

Mar+Grace, the last heir of the oldest unbroken ruling dynasty in the Twins at the time of the opening events of the game**.

The living ghost, carrying the desecrated corpse of his legacy in his new name. Introducing himself by his humiliation: "Hello, I am Margrace", "Hello, I am the ruined dignity of my house." "Call me Margrace", "Call me the wreckage of one fallen from divine favour." "My name is Margrace", "My name is blemished fortunes and diminished nobility".

It's appropriately brutal and dramatic for such a character, especially since the game is frustratingly silent on how Joshua personally feels about the loss of his duchy which is a rant for next time.

**Footnotes:

In the Year 860 (Prologue year/Phoenix Gate), Rosaria is about 260 years old (est. Y600). Older, if you count from the time of the Rose Alliance (est. Y550). The Rosfields have been on the Rosarian throne since the inception of the duchy in Y600, and prior to that House Rosfield was already known to be the chief of/the preeminent house of the Seven High Houses that united to found the duchy. House Rosfield has held ruling power for 260-310 years at a minimum.

For reference, England's longest-reigning dynasty was the Plantagenets, who held on for 300+ years. Rosfields aren't doing half bad!

Veldemarke would have been older had it not been overthrown by Barnabas; therefore Waloed is the youngest nation state at the time of the prologue (only 17 years old). Also we do not know much about the governance of Veldemarke, although as a 'kingdom' it was likely some type of monarchy.

Sanbreque was formed 100 years after Rosaria, and at any rate is not actually a hereditary monarchy. The Holy Emperor is voted into office by his fellow Cardinals, likely the five who form the Council of Elders. We are also explicitly told that Sylvestre 'won his throne' in 865; there is no indication either way that his predecessor emperor was a Lesage. The wording suggests the throne is not Sylvestre's by lineage or birthright. How this is supposed to relate to the concept of Sanbreque having a 'crown prince' (Dion) is unclear and contradictory, since an emperor by election should probably not have the authority to unilaterally decide on the succession of the throne, and his issue—legitimate or no—should not automatically be in the line of succession.

Dhalmekia is a republic with elected officials.

The Iron Kingdom apparently has a royal family, but nothing else is known apart from it being impotent and sidelined by their state religion.

The Northern Tribes likely do have hereditary rule, and Jill is referred to as a princess, but once again little is known.

Ergo—and I am ceaseless in this propaganda—Clive and Joshua are really, properly posh! Absolutely baffling that Anabella would allow anyone to put down the pedigree of her sons when they are so blue-blooded precisely because she is! For someone with such entrenched ideas of blood purity she should not stand for it, no matter how she feels about her eldest.

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #2

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, angst, captivity

@whumptober Day 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.” / “They don't care about you.”

-

“Mother…” Kane whispered, like a prayer. It wasn’t like she could hear him anyway, so it didn’t matter if he screamed it at the top of his lungs or remained quiet as a mouse. “Please save me.”

Realistically, Father would be calling his underlings to rescue him. It was a scenario he’d played through his head many times. Vampires would burst in, unlocking his cell door with a key they’d swiped from a safely hypnotized hunter, and take him home. Home, where he would finally be safe.

Sometimes, though, he got less realistic. Mother and Father would come break him out themselves, hugging him and telling him how much they’d missed him, how worried they’d been. It was easier to imagine with Mother. Father had always been distant, even before his flaw became apparent. But Mother… he and Mother used to be close, when he was a little boy. A century ago.

They don’t care about you.

He knew it in his heart to be true. They hadn’t missed him before his capture, and Kane knew they certainly wouldn’t miss him now, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. Still, it was nice to dream.

The telltale footsteps of hunters echoed from down the hall, the delicious, terrifying scent of human drawing nearer and nearer. Another reminder that he was completely, utterly alone.

[dresden-syndrome]

1/V-1964. EESU State Security department.

Each time there's a party at the State Security, Radím has to be there. A trophy, a symbol, a beloved toy. There aren't many things he hates more than that. Being made to feel especially defeated, humiliated, frightened. As well as hungry, at times when Herr Günther isn't being generous enough to hand-feed him some meat from his plate. Radím knows precisely all the officers loved to see him like that.

Each time Herr Günther or Genosse Hoffmann takes a cold heavy beer mug, pressing it against his lips. "Drink that, kitten". He has no right to refuse. A few minutes is enough for the effects to kick in.

Each time the men in the room, respected and honored officers of highest ranks, begin flocking over him the moment they hear their commander's permission. As their big sneering faces get closer, he feels a strange tiredness setting in, his body getting lighter and weaker, the rough, dreadful questions disappearing one by one, the walls starting to spin.

Each time the officers would hear Radím's quiet, weakening, incoherent cries. Calling for his dissident friends as strikes of burning pain pierce his skin. Calling for Herr Günther, only to hear him laugh. He can't understand where he is, what are they doing or what are they trying to say.

He doesn't remember he's not allowed to speak his mother tongue here.

Day 2 of Whumptober

Prompt: Delirium / "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back"

Art taglist: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump

[one-piece-aus]

I can't wait for your whumptober <33 can i request Sanji for day 2? :・'°☆

Of course, Sanji is one of my favourites to write angst for~ and I'm happy you enjoy my Whumptober ^-^

Whumptober Day 2

Prince Sanji x Reader

Warning: Sad drinking

"Sanji, we- we can't be together, you're a prince."

"I don't care about that life, all I want is you." Sanji held your hands and pulled you closer. "I can't imagine my life without you, [Y/n]."

You smiled and rested your forehead against his. You stared into those blue eyes, they were so full of love and adoration for you. Moving your hand out of his grasp, you delicately laid your fingers over his cheek.

"You are the only man I can ever love," you said as your other hand moved to hold his cheek.

Sanji placed his hand over top of yours, caressing them. "What if we ran away together?"

You laughed, thinking his suggestion was a joke. "Are you mad? We'd be caught within a day."

"Not with the route I planned out, they'll never find us."

You giggled and had to take a step back to calm yourself down yet as you glanced back at him when your laughs stopped, you saw his eyes with the look of when they were determined to do something. Could he- no?

"You're serious?"

"I wanted to ask you for a long time." Sanji stepped toward you. "But I needed to find a way to make it possible, I didn't want it to be some distant dream, I wanted- needed it to be real."

His hands cupped your cheeks, brushing your hair to the side so he could see your beautiful soft eyes.

"You mean... you really do want to run away... with me?" You could hardly grasp the idea to be any more than a dream.

"I already planned out the path we'll take, I packed everything I need, we can leave tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?"

Sanji nodded.

"That quickly?"

He nodded again.

"I... I don't what to pack... I-"

Sanji took notice of your worry and held your hands to bring your attention back to him. Your doe eyes peer at his soft expressions giving to a reassuring smile.

"Just bring what is important to you, I can buy the rest if we need to."

"Are... are you sure about this?" you asked, still wondering if he thought this through.

Sanji brought your hands to his lips and kissed them. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You travelled through the forest boarding the North side of the kingdom's walls, stopping in front of the massive oak tree he told you to meet him by. With the sun only setting, you sat down by its roots and rested your eyes.

When you woke up, the full moon hung high over your head and you rubbed your eyes, a little confused about where you were until you remembered why you were here. You glanced around wondering where Sanji was. He should've been here by now.

"Sanji?"

Crickets chirped in response. You rose to your feet and began walking around the tree, calling his name.

"Sanji? Saaaaaaaaanji!"

Minutes passed, minutes turned into hours. Your mind started to whisper that he set you up, that he didn't mean anything he said. You didn't want to believe these doubts but as dawn approached, you frowned and picked up your things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And I left," you told the ravenette beside you, finishing the last of your drink.

"A sad ending to a beautiful love story," the lady commented, tapping the side of her cup.

She had found you at the bar alone and decided to take the seat next to you, inquiring why you were moping in the tavern all alone. Now here you are, your life's story spilled and an empty mug in front of you.

"You know..." You started while staring into the mug. "I really thought he meant it... he seemed so genuine..."

"You wouldn't be the first to be fooled," the ravenette said, taking a sip from her drink.

"Yeah, I guess..." You pushed the mug away from you.

"I know from experience too," the lady set her drink down and set a bag of coins on the table. "Men like them, they don't care about you. They'll say all the things you want and once they have your heart... they leave..."

You lay your head on the bar, zoning out. You felt numb, empty. You didn't have a clue what you were going to do next. You only knew one thing.

You'll never love again.

Tags: @bookandyarndragon @roseoftrafalgar

Part 2 here

[lunaetis]

hellu & welcome new followers to my humble blog ! if you were lured here by my wonderful mutuals' tags, i want to apologize in advance for the mess & the shenanigans of a certain space raccoon. it will not be the last time HJKLHKLK i'll put out a plotting call soon so i could jump into you guys' DM and get something going. other than that, thank you for hitting that follow button ! hope you enjoy your stay here ! i don't bite, but my muses do, some unprovoked. pls take care u vu

[tatooineknights]

Day 2: I'LL CALL OUT YOUR NAME BUT YOU WON'T CALL BACK

Fragments of the Death Star spun behind him, imploding alongside a great many feelings that Luke had withheld for over a year. The Imperial shuttle was oddly quiet once the roar had died down, his exasperated breath calming as he set his course for the Endor moon.

It was done.

"This is Luke Skywalker," he stated into the com after a long period of silence. He remembered the frequency that Leia had used many months ago, back when he was still on Hoth. In a covert war requiring security clearances and the risk of exposure, it was a brief form of communication they could still share when separated. He didn't know if she still used it, it had been almost a year; but it felt good to give her some kind of assurance. Just as much as he needed to hear it himself. With a sigh, he continued on. "Reporting in. I survived."

Static.

He didn't know what he was expecting - if she sensed him dangling hopelessly underneath Cloud City, hopefully she could sense he was alive and well. "I survived," he whispered to himself again, looking down at the glove that covered his right hand, feeling the intimate wiring and electronic sensors that replaced flesh and blood. He looked to the console and finished punching in the coordinates that would take him to the surface of Endor.

Luke stood from his seat and walked over to the exit of the vessel, where the physical form of his father lay motionless. "Thanks to you," he said, putting a hand on the shoulder. It was so cold and firm, trapped in the now, with nothing but an echo of what was. Just a few minutes ago, the man formerly known as Darth Vader spoke to him. Before that, he saved his life. Now, he was gone.

"Father."

Looking at the face of Anakin Skywalker was almost too much to bear, those few minutes prior. He'd hated this man for years, lived in fear of him for months, and now, all he could see was the scarred face of a father that sacrificed himself to save his son. That face was gone; he was only able to look on it for a few moments before it faded with the Death Star.

The helmet was positioned next to him, looking back on Luke as if it still contained a tormented soul. Luke's brow furrowed and he picked it up, studying it intently, searching for someone starring back. Where was he? What became of his spirit? With an exhale, Luke brought the helmet to his forehead, pressing his head against it and fighting back more tears he swore he wouldn't shed.

"This isn't you - not anymore," he said, clasping the helmet back onto the phantom armor. After all these years of longing for a father, Luke had one for about half an hour. So much closure he'd never get. He stood up and walked back to the cockpit, changing the coordinates of the console to a more remote location on the Endor moon.

He'd cremate this memory and let it go to rest, the good and bad.

"I survived."

[unladielike]

...So since reblogging asks hasn't really helped in instigating more interactions on my blog (because I guess people don't really enjoy continuing asks into threads anymore?), I'll be posting a brand new starter call! Anyways, you know the drill. Like this post for a starter and if you're a multimuse, please specify a muse. Oh, and alternatively, if there's a verse you specifically want to request from Vivian, do specify that too; otherwise, I will default to using a more modern, slice of life setting.

[teathattast]

echoes on the hillside, creatures in the night

feel you getting closer, see it in your eyes

we could live forever, immovable and pure

anything you ask for, tell me and it's yours

[landwriter]

67 and/or 38!

alright the last one of these I tried to answer is currently an 8K WIP so here goes nothing [ins. ralph wiggum ha ha I'm in danger gif]

We've got Hands by Barns Courtney on deck, a fun little rock anthem about meeting a cutie at a show and then losing their number and trying to find them. Going looking in the streets even!

This would be a fun missed connections AU - both humans or else a Dream who is taking mingling with humanity a LITTLE too seriously, a little like a bender, and a Hob who organizes shows, sometimes does security for them. It'd be a little love letter to a very specific brand of twee indie romcom films. i will not name a setting or a time period because that was the thing that ruined me last time!!

So one night, at a show - not one of his - Hob sees Dream, it's a fuckin' coup de foudre. The thunderbolt. Love at first sight. Dream is wearing a leather jacket, black lipstick, and a determined sort of expression that suggests he is a) utterly shittered and b) here looking for a fight.

Hob gets it. He does. He used to go looking for fights all the time. He watches from across the crowd as Dream finds his. When he takes a punch grinning, like a fucking lunatic, not even defending himself, Hob shoulders his way across and intervenes to try and make peace. Dream has, of course, chosen the most unlikable possible person to get into it with, and when certain Objectionable Comments are made, well, it's a bad look, he knows, but Hob decks the guy anyway before his buddies throw him out. And then Hob is left to deal with Dream, who is kicked out too, for starting it, except kicking him out actually means taking him home, because Dream is too drunk to get back to his, and also refuses to tell Hob where he lives.

Dream is flirting with Hob the entire way back, and saying things like "You need not have come to my defense," and sort of feeling up the arm Hob has offered to steady him with, and just. Just staring a lot at him, with very blue eyes. Hob resolutely deposits him on his sofa with a glass of water and a quilt he actually knit himself, and then goes alone to his room. After a second thought, he locks the door. He does not trust his resolve, not with this man.

Sometime in the morning - morning for decent people who weren't up until 4 AM, not yet morning for Hob - he wakes up and sees Dream standing in his room, like the world's hottest hungover sleep paralysis demon. "What the fuck," says Hob, muzzily, "I locked that."

"Why," asks the world's hottest hungover sleep paralysis demon, "Are you afraid of me?"

Hob, more awake, remembering last night, says, "No. But you were very drunk. And very persistent."

"I'm not drunk right now."

"Clearly still very persistent," says Hob, not only more awake at this point, but also considerably more in love with this stranger.

"I feel like shit." He says it while looking at Hob and sounding tremendously regretful. Hob honest-to-god blushes. Later, he thinks. In the actual morning. After a good breakfast.

He lifts up the covers. "Well, come on then," he says. "We can still snuggle."

Dream crawls in, and Hob nuzzles his face a bit into his hair. Dream sighs happily and settles himself into Hob's arms, presses his bony back into Hob's warm and naked chest. All the tension melts out of him. Hob wonders what sort of breakfast his stranger would like. Starts mentally planning something, and then dozes back off to sleep. When he wakes up at his morning - noon - the space next to him is empty and the bed is cold. But there's a phone number on his hand, and a smiley face.

Only Hob drools, when he sleeps, and the last three numbers are hopelessly smeared. He panics, a little. Starts dialing numbers, looking in the phonebook, asking around at shows with his stranger's description. It's the opposite of trying to find a goth in a haystack. That would be so, so much easier than this.

Dream, for his part, had to leave for work, but it's fine. He's sure this man will call him. He knows where he lives, of course, but Matthew insists he has already acted 'sufficiently fucking unhinged' and 'cannot show up on some guy's stoop, he lives in Greenpoint dude, you will get the cops called on you'. So Dream tries to wait. He thinks, over and over, of this man who threw an easy punch in defense of his honour and then looked, bizarrely, bashful about it, who threw the same arm around him and used it to tug him closer and huff softly into the back of his neck the next morning, and Dream knows it's not exactly the normal speed of things, but he's in love. He's in love, and his happy confidence that he was going to be phoned the same afternoon - or, maybe he was busy, the next day then - or on the weekend, surely? - or - has vanished.

It's not his stoop. That's what he tells himself when, on the fifth day of not hearing anything, he finds himself picking up oranges and putting them back down again at the bodega a block from the mystery man's apartment, staring at the door as if sheer willpower might summon him. He starts getting flowers for his sisters at a Greenpoint florist. At his lowest moment, he does an entire load of laundry at a laundromat three blocks away, and spends the whole time staring out the plate glass windows furiously people-watching. Maybe he doesn't even live there. But it had seemed like a home. It had - felt like one. More than Dream's own apartment ever has.

Hob is giving up hope as the week wears on. New York is huge. Brooklyn is huge. What if he was just a tourist? What if he lives in Delaware? He didn't look like someone who lives in Delaware. He's even fallen behind on his fucking errands because he's been going to every show he can find, shows that he thinks would be his stranger's scene, staring at crowds looking for black hair, black lipstick, blue eyes.

And after nearly a week of these mortifying shenanigans, he finally sees him again - at the bodega of all places - and Dream looks, frankly, furious, until Hob holds up the back of his hand, the faded incomplete phone number (he morosely started avoiding washing the spot after fearing it might be all he would have as a memento), and Dream realizes that Hob had wanted to phone him, he had.

Hob hands him the sharpie he always keeps in his pocket, says, "Here. For next time. Something that lasts longer."

And Dream, of course, takes it from him, wearing the same wondering small smile he had when Hob invited him to come cuddle, and then he's staring at Hob again, except this time he's not drunk, he's not drunk, but they are in Hob's local bodega, which Dream apparently either does not know or care to consider, because suddenly strong hands are wrapping around the back of his neck and he's being kissed, sweetly and hungrily, and Hob is making a piteous noise of happiness into his mouth, and Dream is slotting a thigh between his legs, mother of Christ, right in front of the sandwich counter. Hob pulls himself away and breathlessly asks, "Can I take you home? Again?" and Dream smiles and takes his hand, the one with the faded blue scrawl Hob can finally wash off, and pulls him out the door.

They're half way down the block before Hob remembers he forgot to buy the gnocchi. He makes them go back for it, because he's pretty sure they'll be hungry in a couple hours. And he still owes his stranger a good meal.

[vegaseatsass]

DFF 11 spoilers

I still refuse with all my heart to believe that Non is dead, but in the version of events where this is true - so the version of events Tee believes is true - Tee "rescued" Non by delivering him into labor that killed him, like he watched Non work himself to death before his eyes, but first, his response to Non's life-threatening wounds, the idk, potential internal bleeding, whatever is going on in Non's body that has him so run down he can't yell at his bully without nearly collapsing from coughing, was to. Hand Non a first aid kit and be like "you know what to do, right?"

lmaoooooo TEE. A whole mess of a young man.

[breezy-cheezy]

Whumptober Day 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

A fic for the aftermath of the fight with Phantylia, written before I played patch 1.3. All went more or less according to Jing Yuan's planning, but even he didn't quite forsee how...difficult the fallout would be.

All relationships in this fic are purely platonic, thank you!

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

Five figures stand at the edge of the Ambrosial Arbor, deep in conversation. Heavy mists float lazily in the air as one of the figures lets out a heavy sigh.

“Phantylia…a truly fearsome enemy,” Jing Yuan says, placing a hand against his ringing head in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure there. There’s a strange, faint buzzing noise…“If she hadn’t attempted to turn me into a pawn of Destruction, I’m afraid victory would have been far from certain…” 

The general trails off as he sways before the others present, and Dan Heng’s arms twitch upward as if without thought. Jing Yuan notices this and removes his hand, straightening back to his full height and mustering a wry smile. “Phantylia had established a link between me and herself,” the general says, nodding toward Dan Heng. “Your well-timed strike gravely injured her —thus, her connection to the Arbor was severed.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[bookwyrminspiration]

Kihrin: here, I'll take you to meet Teraeth--

Doc, Terindel™:

[tsarisfanfiction]

The Wrong Brother

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Family Characters: Michael, Will Michael isn't the brother Will needs, but he's the one that's there. Whumptober day 2, "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back" and delirium! More of an emotional/angsty whump this time, as the prompts might suggest. Also Michael&Will, because there isn't enough of that in the world (there will never be enough!)

The raid on the Kronos supporters had been a success, technically.  Michael hadn’t enjoyed deferring to Clarisse, who had taken command as the head counsellor of their main war cabin, but capturing the flying chariot had had up for it – or would have done, if Clarisse would admit that the Apollo cabin had the claim to it because they had been the ones to seize it.  They’d disrupted the titan’s forces and gained something useful out of it, but Kronos’ supporters were good fighters, and the monsters were cold, ruthless, and numerous.

Unfortunately, the chariot hadn’t been the only thing they’d brought back with them.  No-one from the raiding party – the entire Ares and Athena year-round campers, almost all of the Apollo year-round campers, most of the Hephaestus kids, and several of cabin eleven – had come back unscathed, and in several cases the injuries had been severe.

Will was the only year-rounder from the Apollo cabin that was more than simply passable at healing, and he’d pushed himself too hard patching everyone else up.  Chiron had helped, but there were some things only Apollo kids could do, and Will had borne the brunt of the responsibility, much to Michael’s frustration.

He carefully didn’t think about why Will was the only skilled healer in camp all year around, or about the yawning gap where an older brother with healing at his fingertips should have been.

Michael had done what he could, but despite his own accelerated healing, he’d been part of the casualties and it was a lot harder to force people to not overwork his brother when he was covered in bandages himself.  Even if he hadn’t been injured himself, there wouldn’t have been much he could’ve done to lessen Will’s burden.

But perhaps Will would’ve been okay, if exhausted, if they hadn’t somehow ended up with an illness passing through the camp – one of them must have caught it on the raid, and while most campers were shrugging it off without much difficulty, Will’s exhaustion combined with being in close contact with several infected had eventually resulted in a very ill younger brother.

Chiron had isolated him in a small room off of the infirmary, both for his own protection and to make sure there wasn’t a more violent strain about to break through the rest of camp.  Most of the demigods were banned from visiting, to be safe, but after a few arguments, Michael had forced his way in.

Will might be the camp’s top healer, but Michael was the head counsellor of cabin seven, for all that fact hurt if he thought about it for too long, and technically that put him in charge of the infirmary, even if his bedside manner was shit and he couldn’t do much more than administer the basic medicines or wrap up open wounds.  He was also Will’s big brother, and refused to leave him alone while he was sick.

Unfortunately, Will didn’t seem to register his presence at all, barely reacting when Michael tipped nectar down his throat or changed the cool cloth on his forehead.  It hurt, and it was worrying, but there was nothing more Michael could do except try to keep him comfortable, and send agitated prayers their father’s way.

The second day into Will’s quarantine, Michael nudged the door open with his foot, arms full of cloths and worried siblings behind him.  Just like the first day, Michael didn’t let any of them follow him in to the room, and was immediately glad when he entered to find Will crying.

“Will?”  The cloths were discarded at the foot of the bed with no ceremony as Michael hurried to his brother’s side.

"Lee?" Will sobbed, hand reaching out for empty air, and Michael’s heart twisted.

"Lee's not here, Will," he said, ignoring the way his voice broke on their brother's name.  He caught Will's reaching hand with both of his, hooking a foot around the chair he’d left in the room to drag it close enough to sit on without letting go.  "It's me, Michael."

"Lee!" Will protested, and Michael had to tighten his grip as his younger brother tried to reach out again, muffling a curse when Will started to reach out with his other hand instead.

"Lee's not here," he repeated, hating that he had to say it at all, that it was the truth, that Will was too sick to remember - or maybe sick enough to hallucinate.  Lee had always sat bedside vigil whenever any of them got sick, even before he became head counsellor, and Michael could understand why Will was calling for him.

Gods knew he might have done, if it was him sick in that bed instead.

"He's not here," he said again, shifting to catch Will's other hand with one of his and trying to place it down on the bed again. Will fought him, tears seeping down his face, and Michael’s own eyes were prickling with poorly-buried grief, too. "It's just me, Will. Just Michael."

Illness sapped Will’s strength enough that his hands couldn’t break free from Michael’s grip, but that didn’t stop him from trying, or from getting more and more agitated when he couldn’t.  “Lee!”

Fuck if it didn’t hurt, hearing Will call for Lee so desperately.

Michael had always been awful at the bedside manner thing, but he’d been Will’s big brother for five years now.  Hugs weren’t really his thing, but they were Will’s, and various siblings had dished them out at various points during Will’s time at camp.  Michael had, on rare occasions, been one of them.

Clearly, one was needed now.

He dropped Will’s hands and wrapped his arms around his younger brother instead, leaning awkwardly onto the bed as he pulled Will half-upright and guided his head to rest in the crook of his neck, leaving one hand buried in tangled blond waves.  The old cloth that fell from Will’s forehead went ignored.

“Lee,” his brother sobbed again, quieter, and Michael found himself being hugged back, Will clinging to him like a limpet.  “Lee, don’t leave me.”

The quiet plea tore into Michael, not just because Lee was gone, had left them for good, but because Will was talking to him like he was Lee, and Michael could never be Lee.

“It’s Michael, Will,” he repeated again, and fuck, his eyes stung and there was salt trickling into the corners of his mouth.  “Lee’s g-”  His throat closed up entirely, stifling the word gone until it felt like he would choke on it, or throw up.  “Not here,” he amended, and if he buried his face in Will’s hair, well no-one else was allowed in the room to see.

Will didn’t get the message, more tearful pleas for Lee assailing Michael’s ears, and Michael felt completely useless.

Lee would’ve been able to do something.  Lee would’ve got Will’s attention, had enough healing skill to bring down his fever and break whatever was making Will think he was still there, still with them.

Michael could do none of that, assaulted by grief he’d tried to bury because he was head counsellor, he didn’t have time to break down and grieve when everyone else needed him to be strong for them.  Quiet sobs dragged themselves out of his throat, muffled in Will’s hair.

“I miss him, too,” he admitted to blond locks and unhearing ears, his words drowned out by Will’s increasingly desperate cries.  They raked through Michael’s chest, a reminder that he wasn’t a healer, couldn’t even comfort his little brother properly.  “Fuck but I wish he was here.”

He hiccupped and hid his face further into Will’s hair, hating himself for it because he shouldn’t be using Will as a shield from the world but he was, because it was the loudest he could be without worsening his siblings’ grief and it was obvious that Will wasn’t registering anything he said.

“Lee,” Will whimpered, and Michael couldn’t even tell any more if he was being somehow mistaken for their brother or if Will was just begging Lee to come back.  “Lee.”

Michael pulled him tighter.  It wasn’t like there was anything else he could do; he wasn’t a healer, couldn’t magically get Will’s fever to break if the medicines weren’t already working on it.

He wasn’t a necromancer, either.  Lee was gone and never coming back, and Michael was absolutely shit at everything Lee had been good at – listening, comforting, helping.  He was Will’s big brother but right then he was the wrong big bsicrother and that wasn’t something he could even try to fix.

All he could do was hold Will as he cried, and try to pretend he wasn’t breaking in the process.