#it was supposed to be a fucking drabble

[radiance1]

"Look into the beady little eyes your past self, and question if you wish to destroy him."

Dan did. There was obviously something wrong with his past self, because that's a literal teddy bear, looking at him with his beady little eyes. It would be so, so very easy to destroy his past self if he wanted to.

Instead, he just, sorta, picked him up.

Was he always so tiny and innocent? So, trusting? The boy didn't even move back when he reached for him, no, he walked forwards into his hands.

No survival instinct?! He has none! He's tiny, utterly defenseless and doesn't even have the basic instincts of self-preservation! Even a blob ghost has something akin to such instinct.

He lifted his past self up to eye level. Was I always this... cute and cuddly? He shook him, up, down, left, right, the only thing that caused was for the other him to laugh.

He squeezed his past self.

A loud sound- not unlike that of a squeaky toy, was what was produced as a result. Then he just, stood there, unmoving, his brain churning to try and provide understanding yet also trying to restart itself.

His past self tilted his head, reaching a paw forwards to poke him on the nose.

He blinked.

His younger self blinked as well.

He pulled back his lips, bearing his fangs as he snarled as his younger self.

The boy copied him, his mouth shifting as what were undoubtably the cutest little fangs he's ever seen were bared at him in a cute and less intimidating imitation of his own snarl.

That's it.

It's decided.

He's keeping him.

He no longer cares about going back to his timeline to repay his grudge against the Batclan, who he suffered humiliation after humiliation from because they just would not fall or submit.

He's content to stay with this version of himself. This, smaller, more unthreatening version of himself that seemed to have a crippling lack of fear.

Because he's undoubtedly felt the same sense of loss as he, himself did, in the future. This one has no family, no friends, and would most surely not survive with just himself and would be hit harder when he realizes that he's alone.

...

His timeline doesn't need or want him anyway.

===

A few heroes have travelled back in time from their ruined timeline, everything utterly destroyed and despair premating the very air and choking your lungs with every breath they took.

Either that or the dust, really.

The air in the past was fresh, clean, full of hope and new opportunities. They wouldn't waste it, they would protect it, this time. Prevent the fallen from falling, and having children not be bound under the protection of a ghost shield and parents living their lives in fear because they knew what was out there.

They just had to get rid of one man- no.

One monster.

Dan Phantom.

[fabbyf1]

You Were The Best (You Were The Worst)

“What do you want?” You. Only you. Always you. “Tell me what you want, Logan.” 

“Oscar, ple—”

“Tell me what you want, and you can have it.” 

“You,” Logan said, not looking away from his eyes. “I want you.” 

“Well, then I’m all yours, baby.”  OR: the angsty estranged-best-friends-to-lovers fic. They haven’t talked since Logan left the grid.

Oscar Piastri/Logan Sargeant | 15k | Read on AO3

[lighthouseshepard]

ahhh been too afraid to pm you but hi from a silent mutual!!

writing prompt: john and yorick chat while arthur sleeps :))

HI HELLO!! im also always too afraid to pm everyone! thank you so much for sending this in and so sorry it took me a while! been a very busy few days (:

"Is he fully asleep, my king?"

John groans in annoyance among the relative darkness he'd been sulking within. Ever since Arthur's eyes shut once he fell into an exhausted, heavy slumber nearly thirty minutes prior, he'd been reluctant to try and exercise what little muscle control he possessed to squint them open again. Manipulating those muscles usually woke him regardless of how careful he was, leaving him with a splitting headache neither of them could explain. And at the moment, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the hard won sleep, as fitful as it was.

Yes, he's asleep, he hisses impatiently. Yorick's voice came from somewhere to their left, still attached by the chain threaded around their waist. Arthur's right arm twitches, fingers scrabbling for some imaginary thing, before falling still.

"Excellent," says the skull. "Our master requires much rest after that entire ordeal."

Our master? John snorts. The subtle stirrings of a cool night's breeze brush against the skin of his left hand, welcome after the wet, stale air of the cave. He's your master, not mine. 

"He is master to both of us!" Yorick exclaims, far too loudly. "Just as you are a king to him and myself. An inseparable pair, the dies irae, intertwined inexorably, dominion over one another and all else."

Jesus fucking Christ, John mutters, wishing he could wince. What does that even mean?

“Exactly as I said. Would you like me to repeat it?”

No, no. Can you quiet down? You're going to wake him.

“Certainly, my king.” His reply drops to a tone only slightly less loud than before. 

 And stop calling me that, he adds irritably. I'm not a king.

"You were once a king," Yorick states matter of fact, jaw clacking solidly as he speaks, a peculiarly troubling imitation of human life. "I do not see the issue with proclaiming this."

Once, he emphasizes. I'm not... I'm not that being any longer. I don't claim to be any kind of ruler anymore.

"Fair enough! What shall I call you if not a ruler, then?" 

John, he grinds out, the last droplet of water among the barren desert of his patience threatening to dissolve. John is fine.

"Alright," Yorick says, sounding pleased. "King John, how may I serve you?"

John heaves a haggard sigh. Unbelievable, he groans, and attempts to turn his attention away for a brief, blissful second to collect what surely remained of his sanity.

The thing that called itself vanguard spoke incessantly. Within the caves, climbing out into rain-damp earth and sky, walking to find shelter for nightfall in the hopes of catching at least a few hours sleep - it had not stopped talking the entire way. John had half a mind to untangle Yorick from Arthur's belt when he wasn't paying attention and throw him as far as his eyes could see. He'd never liked the thought of the vanguard anyway, had never wanted Arthur to take the head, keep the tooth. Something about a creature which existed simultaneously in the Dreamlands, the Dark World and their own reality never sat well with him. 

A hypocritical perspective, possibly, considering. Yet that similarity alone made him nervous, straddling a razor's cautious edge. He knew what he was capable of. Yorick remained a mystery.

They'd found an oak tree, its canopy stretching out far enough to provide cover from the last stray rain clouds rolling by, so long as Arthur kept curled at its trunk. He had fallen under almost immediately. One or two words exchanged between him and that damned skull, and he was out, John's name half formed on his lips in what sounded like the start of a question. It would likely be forgotten upon waking. Already Yorick was taking time meant for him.

Regardless, John knew him to be valuable, an asset they couldn't afford to get rid of. Certainly not now, with nothing to their names except the clothes Arthur wore and the bag he carried, no money, no food. If Yorick could be a wealth of information like he claimed, they'd have to put up with him a while longer. 

And then John could toss him into a lake.

In the stretch of thankful silence, Yorick apparently finally listening to his demands, he reaches over and inspects what remained of the wound. Dried blood coated Arthur's wrinkled shirt close to his heart, stiffening the fabric. Laying his palm flat and hesitantly across his chest, John takes solace in the flighty pulse tangibly felt there. Not too long ago there was none at all.

Arthur murmurs something wordless under his touch. John retracts his hand quickly, mildly guilty at having potentially disturbed him.

“You dislike when he sleeps,” Yorick says. Despite his position by Arthur's hip, rolled sideways where he'd come to rest as they laid down on dry grass, his voice still seemed to come from somewhere else around them. 

John waits a second for more to follow. Nothing comes - it's a statement, not an inquiry.

I don't dislike him sleeping, he huffs. He has to rest, obviously.

“Yet it troubles you regardless? The absence of him.”

I don't, John sputters out, struggling to keep his voice level. I'm not… lonely if that's what you're suggesting. Will you just shut up already? We're both going to wake him up at this rate.

“Our master is blind to the world in multiple senses of the word,” says Yorick. “Deep within a dream. He will not wake for some time.”

How do you know he's dreaming? he asks, perplexed. You can't… see into his mind, or-

“I know a great many things.” Another beat of silence, decorated by the cricket song in the surrounding brush shielding them from view. Again John waits for an explanation, growling agitatedly when none is forthcoming.

Such as? he prompts. What is he dreaming about? 

“I do not know the specifics,” clacks Yorick. “Yet I'm aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. There is a string of piano keys tied like wire around his ankles, a bathtub overflowing, a yellow sun-”

Okay, I get the specifics! John mutters. So a nightmare, clearly.

“Precisely! Excellent conclusion, King John.”

He was starting to immediately regret accidentally adding John to that title. Is there a way we can help him, then?

As if on cue, subconsciously aware he was being discussed, Arthur lets out a low, pained breath of air. Instinctively John’s hand jolts to attention, fingers delicately skimming the wound like he would find answers or assistance there. His legs were twitching, again his arm reaching and then recoiling from something John couldn’t see or understand. 

Nightmares were the only times he felt useful, whenever Arthur slept. Lingering in the corners of his mind, stuck between drifting into his own thoughts and keeping an active listen for anything that might hurt them while he was out - it wore him down in ways be couldn't explain. Yorick was right, even though John would rather revisit the Dark World than admit it. He did hate when Arthur had to sleep for the emptiness it left him with. Being able to wake him from a bad dream as soon as he caught the signs left him aware of a strange, disjointed sense of selfish pleasure. Even if it came at the risk of Arthur’s unhappiness, helping him out of a nightmare was one thing he could do consistently right.

“He will not wake until the nightmare is complete,” Yorick says nonchalantly. “He is too deep.”

Which will take how long?

“I know a great many things,” he says for the second time. “Yet this, I do not.”

Another whimper, softer than the last. John taps the side of his head, tugs at his shirt collar, goes so far as to flick his nose multiple times in a row, as hard as he could manage. Nothing caused him to stir. He could slap him, sure, but in this state he might break apart altogether.

Great. John heaves a sigh. So we just have to listen to this, then? Until he’s, what, done dreaming?

“That is correct. We could always pass the time discussing, my King.”

Discussing what? He snorts. The maggots we just crawled through? No thanks.

“Or,” Yorick adds, “you could always return your hand to his chest.”

What? 

“Your hand,” he repeats, jaw clicking knowingly. “It is the one thing which calms the dreams. I’ve witnessed it many times before.”

You didn’t even have eyes, then, John says sardonically. What could you possibly have witnessed?

“I have no physical eyes now, but I can see you and the master. I was aware then, and in a way, I am aware now.”

In the shrouding blackness of Arthur’s slumber, John imagines the two points of white light where the prince’s eyes once rested staring sideways up at them, awash in tendrils of green smoke. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, kept in the dark, left to wonder how everyone was looking at him? 

Carefully, he puts his hand back in the center of Arthur’s chest. Fingers splay out, one wooden pinky, the rest a thin collection of bruises and scars and broken, chipped nails. That fidgety pulse returns, a bird’s caught wing under his palm. The rhythm remains so for nearly a minute, stuttering and jumping to some melody John couldn’t follow along, and he’s about ready to give it up for nonsensical, stupid advice before he hears Arthur sigh.

It’s not the same troubled exhale as before. This one comes calmer, more even-keeled. As he focuses on his heartbeat he notices it begins to slow, calming bit by bit into a steady, softer pattern. Arthur’s movements drift to a halt. He shifts among the roots, mumbling something too quiet to comprehend, and eventually falls silent.

“He sleeps much like the dead in appearance,” Yorick states thoughtfully. “I believe the dream has come to a close, for now.”

Good, remarks John, at a loss for anything else to say. He wasn’t going to tell Yorick thank you; but it was tempting. The gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing is a placid current, subtler than the new rain beginning to break through the clouds overhead in the night. He could plainly picture him, sprawled out uncomfortably, breeze touseling sweat damp hair, a downward curve in a mouth which always seemed to be frowning lately. Protected just enough beneath the oak, protected enough beneath John’s palm.

Well, at least one of us is content.

“I am much content, King John.”

That makes a total of two. Can you please shut the hell up now? 

“If that is what you wish," the skull says amicably. "Then I will."

It is, John bites. Just thirty minutes of fucking silence. Please.

Yorick says nothing. Relief settles over him as the break distends. Minutes pass until he finally accepts his desire had been properly observed. Crickets sing around them once more.

Sleep well, he whispers, hand firmly over heart. Perhaps we can wait a little longer to get rid of him.

[owl127]

Can youuuu…mayyybe…please write something containing a 🗡️ character and a jockstrap. Ugh something about jockstraps, mouth guards, and feminine girls doing masculine things is so hot🥵

read on Ao3

Reading @lexa-griffins talk about wanheda’s dagger got me inspired, so… *throws confetti in the air*

Lexa’s boots kicked dirty on her way to the bus stop.

“Lexa!” The cries behind her continued, along with the annoying click of cleats against asphalt. “Lexa, wait!”

Ignoring the girl running after her, Lexa climbed onto the bus without looking back. The driver looked her pursuer and rolled her eyes, signaling for the dirty athlete to hop into the campus bus.

“Thanks, Carla!” Lexa heard, and of course she would be friends with the bus drivers, because apparently, Clarke Griffin is very friendly with people. Girls in particular.

Lexa looked straight ahead as Clarke Griffin, captain of the soccer team, president of the debate club, LGBTQ+ alliance vice-president, and a fucking player sat next to her. Clarke swore at the mud tracks following her and lowered her socks with a long sigh.

“Lexa—” Clarke tried, but Lexa mmf-ed and turned her back to the alpha. “Okay, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re the one tracking mud on school property.”

“Brittany is like, nothing, she’s—”

“Have you slept with her?” Lexa turned to look into Clarke’s eyes, searching for honesty, trust, anything that would make the last three months she dedicated to this woman worth it. She found honesty, yes, but regretted it immediately.

“Not recently!” Clarke defended. “She likes to cheer in every game, and she keeps saying we’re seeing each other, but Lex, I haven’t been with her since before I met you!”

Lexa squinted her eyes, watching a bead of sweat forming on Clarke’s forehead.

“Okay, maybe once after we met, but we weren’t exclusive back then!”

The logic part of Lexa’s brain argued that Clarke had a point, and even Lexa had been on a fruitless date after she met Clarke. Had she thought about Clarke all the time? Totally. Did it in the end it help her see she was actually into the charming athlete? Yes, but irrelevant at the moment, since now the unreasonable part of Lexa’s brain kept replaying Brittany’s voice: “And that’s Clarke, number 10. She’s the captain. She’s also delicious.” A pink tongue over lipstick gloss had accompanied that statement, and a graphic image of that girl on her knees for Clarke had made Lexa escape the match as soon as she could.

Clarke had seen the iteration from the sidelines and had abandoned the bench in obvious pursuit.

“Are we exclusive?” Clarke asked when Lexa refrained from commenting. “I… I thought we were.” The girl swallowed, setting her face in the same hard angles as when she kicked a penalty. “I want us to be,” she said, extending a hand between them.

Lexa signed and took the offered hand in hers, feeling how warm it was, despite the fall leaves rushing past the bus window. She loved how warm Clarke’s hands were, a dichotomy to her always freezing extremities. Lexa mumbled something, and Clarke leaned closer, asking, “what was that?”

“Maybe I overreacted,” Lexa confessed, the almost empty bus a witness to the fact. “I hated seeing that girl talking about your dick like she owned it.”

Red crept into Clarke’s cheeks, making its way to her ears. “Well… she doesn’t,” Clarke said, one hand around Lexa’s waist. “You do,” she whispered, and Lexa’s face flushed with heat. “I want to be exclusive. If there’s any girl out there bragging about my dick, I want it to be you.”

“How romantic.”

“You’re into it,” Clarke argued, her bright eyes following Lexa’s scarf until it hid inside her jacket.

Logic once more piped up in Lexa’s mind that the girl had a point. The thong she had worn to celebrate Clarke’s game dampened with proof.

“You didn’t bring your phone or anything?” Lexa asked. “You just ran after me?”

“Of course. I couldn’t let you go looking pissed like that! And Octavia will pick up my shit.”

“So it’s not the first time you abandon your team celebration to pursue a girl?”

Panic flashed in Clarke’s eyes and Lexa felt merciful. “I guess from now on you’ll only be doing this for me.”

“Yeah.” Clarke kissed Lexa’s cheeks, sighing in relief. “My apartment is not far from here,” she said, the kiss lingering. “And I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s heart picked up, her cold hands warming up in her fingerless gloves. “If it’s out of desperation, we need to stop.”

“You’re so kind.”

With Octavia and the rest of the team still back at the football complex, there was no reservation for stripping as soon as they stumbled into Clarke’s apartment. The spare key with her neighbor was worth it (the assistant professor had looked the couple up and down and threw the key in their direction before closing the door and turning her TV colossally loud). Clarke’s shirt and cleats didn’t make it to the hallway, and Lexa’s pants puddled by the bathroom’s door. Lexa pulled the athletic shorts down and met the hard resistance of a jockstrap cup.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” she asked, drumming her fingers on top of the hard carbon fiber.

“Right now it’s pretty uncomfortable.” Clarke chuckled and kissed Lexa’s neck hard enough to bruise. “But that’s your fault.”

Lexa focused on Clarke’s high ponytail next, letting the blonde tresses free under the white light. “Yeah,” Lexa said, “it is.”

“Feeling possessive, huh?” Clarke nipped at the soft skin under Lexa’s chin while stepping out of her shorts, completely nude. Clarke moaned at the hands exploring her broad shoulders, digging into her trapezius, and scratching her deltoids. Lexa admired Clarke’s curves, but she salivated at her muscles.

A moan froze in a gasp as Lexa felt for Clarke’s erection, now free from the confines of jock straps and tight, athletic shorts. “Very possessive,” Lexa said, moving her hand in deliberate slowness, pushing eager hips back when Clarke tried to increase the pace. “You can be the leader of your team, but here” — a strong squeeze that made Clarke whine — “I’m captain.” The exhale on Lexa’s shoulder was nothing but a moan.

“Fuck,” Clarke said, her head surrendering to Lexa’s biceps as she mercifully started moving her hand.

Clarke smelled like sweat, and heat, and vetiver, and Lexa had it all for herself. She inhaled deeply, her brain creating a new pathway for that scent of love, need, and lust. Lexa prided herself on being an omega in full authority of her body and desires, but as Clarke groaned on her neck, Lexa surrendered to the primal need of control.

“Come for me, babe,” she said, softly albeit with a command, and poor Clarke followed like a trained puppy.

Lexa held her close as Clarke trembled, expending the last of her strength over Lexa’s olive skin. When Clarke’s knee threatened to buckle, Lexa guided the exhausted girl under the hot shower stream.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke mumbled as water covered her mouth. Lexa distracted herself with shampooing Clarke’s hair, and the fresh scent of mint and vetiver filled the fogging air.

“About what?”

Clarke turned to look Lexa in the eyes, all half-lidded and yawning. “I’m sorry for not being clear about being exclusive before. I was afraid.”

Lexa nuzzled the shampoo suds away from Clarke’s cheek. “Afraid?” she asked.

Clarke hugged her under the water, their wet bodies molding together. The water soothed Lexa’s skin, but Clarke remained her major source of warmth. “I was afraid you’d say no.”

“How could I not?” Lexa kissed her girlfriend — seemed safe to call her that way — until they were out of breath. “I hate sports, and you got me outside in a chilly morning just to watch you kicking some balls.”

“It’s one ball.”

“Whatever. Come here.”

Clarke obeyed, her hand sliding down beautiful curves to elicit a moan from Lexa. She responded in kind, hardening between them.

Octavia was pissed when she arrived home from their game and there was no hot water.

[puppetmaster13u]

Oh boi even more of One au in like 3 hours lol

I like to think that like how in @phoenixcatch7's Doll au there's gas versions of like cures and such in the batfam's gas masks since they don't need to breath when possessing the puppets right? I like to think there's an organic version of that with the meat puppet bodies, at least with Bruce, where the plates on his neck opens up into vents of sorts, pictured here with a few spikes removed for visibility reasons.

This gas could be some cures for like Joker venom & Fear gas and such, or it could also be sedatives, paralytics, could even vary between each member. (For example in the Cryptidverse Steph has Anesthetics on her claws, Jason has reflective powder that mimics embers/sparks, Cass has paralytics, etc). Honestly I am just brainstorming so this could definitely change lmao

I do like to think they start developing their own venom though, gotta' have those fangs & tusks for some reason lol

[cordeliawhohung]

People are so fucking outrageous you take some time for yourself that you told us you were taking and now they're up in your asks demanding stuff tell them to pay you for it, sincerely someone who doesn't mind waiting for whatever you post

on god i literally spent the last few days driving hours on end and just got back yesterday, today is my first full day back home. and i've been traveling out of town for the outreach clinic i have to work at the next few weeks, and even then i've still been writing allskdjf

lmfao i don't want to shit on that anon too much, and i'm def not trying to be rude or anything, but i'm also going to hijack your ask real quick to address stuff since i do have quite a few new followers.

while some users might not mind questions regarding when someone is updating/if they have anything planned for an ongoing series, and things like that, i specifically have it in my rules to please not do that, which is why i got a little short with them even though they arguably weren't being rude or malicious (unlike a few anons in the past have when asking things like that). this one is especially annoying because it's been literally eight days since i last updated for that, and i have other series i've been working on! like even though i'm not posting for it, i've still written a couple thousand words for pet!au, and i just finished a chapter for in limbo i'll have up for early access here in a bit, and then on tumblr probably tomorrow or wednesday.

but mostly, the reason why i specifically request that people don't ask if i have plans/when i'm updating/if i'm updating something is because i literally have an irl life. i've been pretty open recently about how i've been traveling and the work i've been doing, it's not a secret or anything lmao. it just feels... tone deaf, you know? like you come into my inbox not talking about the work, or what you like about it, or otherwise engaging with it, but just to ask if i'm giving you more, like i didn't just do that a week ago. hell, even if it's been months or years that's still rude imo because if you like something enough, then you'd probably be doing more than just asking for more, ya know? at least that's how it comes across to me. and like i said before, some people really don't care, which is why i made sure to specify it in my rules, because i do care. it ruins my mood to write and create because then it feels like a chore and people are waiting on me just to consume it and then beg for more rather than tell me what they actually enjoyed about the work lmao.

anyway, no hard feelings against that anon at all, i'm sure they didn't mean anything by it, so please don't show them any hate or anything. but just use this as a reminder to read the rules of the blogs you interact with please. or at least don't be surprised when you do something that irks them and then they're annoyed at you because of it lmao.

sorry about the rant in the tags

[miscellaneoussmp]

I am genuinely sad, so people get to be sad with me. I am sorry. Anyways, here's Roier and others making onto the boat (cw/tw: implied/referenced death and implied/referenced suicidal ideation):

It goes like this:

There are ten seconds left. Roier is on the boat. He can't see Cellbit. Where is he? Fit and Bagi make it on the boat.

>adios guapito.

No. No. Cellbit isn't doing this to him.

>no pendejo.

They aren't saying goodbye like this. Till death do they part. This isn't death. It can't be.

>te amo.

Don't do this to him. Roier can't take another heartbreak. Jaiden isn't on the boat. Nor is Richas or Leo. Roier doesn't know about Foolish or Vegetta either.

>donde estas?

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is Cellbit? Where is the love of his life? Cellbit wouldn't do this to him, right? Cellbit promised he wouldn't betray Roier.

It goes like this:

The timer hits zero. The boat is moving. There is a shockwave and a large explosion. Roier reaches over the railing towards hell itself. Bagi and Fit keep him from falling overboard.

No Pac. No Tina. No Ramón.

No Cellbit.

It goes like this:

The boat is moving. There is no timer.

There are tears running down Fit's cheeks. Real tears. Bagi sobs. It's a mix of rage and genuine anguish. Tubbo is looking at his hands blankly. Philza has his arms around Tubbo. Roier screams as his heart finally shatters into a million little pieces.

It goes like this:

Roier knows how to get to the highest point of their castle. His wedding suit should still fit? He wants to be buried in it.

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[scratchandplaster]

For the Ask game please!

Sam, have you seen Shepherd use his hypnotic powers?

[Masterlist] | Ask game

Sam technically learned about it here, here and here. But I think you'd like them to have a more personal experience...

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

How, Sam asked themself as they had so often in the last week, did I end up here?

And what was even more pressing: Why did Birdie talk them into it? Each second spent next to Shepard was every bit as nerve-racking as they recalled: since he came back from his weekend trip, eerie impatience followed behind him with every step.

A little of this meditation, or consultation, or whatever voodoo session they invited themself into, might even help to fix the already wonky relationship to the camping ground sovereign.

Awkwardly upholding distance to him while waiting in the community tent, thick canvas fabric kept the summer sun from assaulting their eyes. Somewhere behind them, Shepard lit a candle that spread a mild floral scent through the air.

In contrast to Sam, this man knew exactly what would ensue.

"I don't know what to tell you," he murmured and cleared his throat, like a middle schooler preparing their big rendition of Oklahoma!, "it's nothing too exciting. But I'm glad you try to get more involved in our day-to-day life instead of just teasing poor Ben about it."

Before they had the chance for a snide counter, Shawn's aunt stepped into the tent and directly into Shepard's arms. The hug held her upright, as if nothing else did: "Leigh, good morning. How are you doing?"

"Hello Shepard! It's good, I'm good," she breathed nervously.

For someone doing good, she looked like a hot mess. Damp eyes scrunched up and glazed with a red puffiness gave away that she didn't sleep all night. Not that Sam did, sharing a mat next to Birdie left them wide awake for more hours than decent, and even now, a tad excited in the best way.

"Our Sam wants to sit in over there if that's fine with you. I suppose you two have already met?"

"Yes, sure," her laugh trembled, and she gave a little wave, then turned back to Shepard to place her hands in his. He didn't leave her out of his sight for a second, yet Leigh couldn't return the eye contact apart from quick flustered glances.

"What brings you by today? I have the feeling it's something quite important."

She was near tears, and Sam was the last person to blame her: getting touchy-feely with Shepard made the last place of things they were thrilled to undergo. Leigh didn't seem to mind. She leaned closer, voice less than a whisper: "I want to catch up with you about everything going on lately. It's been so long since we had a chat just between us."

Sympathetically, Shepard pointed back at Sam: "Are you sure you don't want them to-"

"No! No, it's alright, honestly," Leigh squeaked with an excitement only someone seconds away from a nervous breakdown could muster. He hoped for the message to reach its target, and so it did, yet Sam continued to skillfully play dumb. They wouldn't leave, not now as Shepard finally got down to business.

"Alright, then." Gently taking her by the hands and leading her down to sit with him on the floor, Shepard inhaled deeply - so did she: "Any questions before we begin?"

"No! No, I'm ready," the tired woman sputtered and laid down on the already prepared blankets, Shepard casually scooting over next to her. Behind his turned back, Sam heaved a sigh of relief. At least they were spared from his stupid face.

"That's great, Leigh, then we can get started nice and simple. Take a few deep breaths for me, in and out… Just like that." 

His tone, growing so very low and reassuring, surprised Sam with how easy it was to listen in this state. Today was by far not the first time the odd couple had shared this dance, seeing how comfortable Leigh was being handled like a delicate show horse.

"Can you remember what our last session felt like? Really focus on the memory that springs into your mind's eye. You can let go again, letting go is as easy as breathing. In and out, that's right."

He cradled her hand carefully and stroked down her forearm with every handpicked sentence, as if to mold her to his aspirations.

"Feel how the cells of your body fill with relaxation; down from your heavy legs up to your chest, how this gentle pressure helps to expel every ounce of tension from them. Exhale…and feel yourself sink into comfort."

His words acted similar to a bedtime story, just as Ben claimed. Meaning it was boring, so fucking boring. Sam had half hoped for Shepard to whip out a pocket watch, but any sliver of strangeness stayed buried under layers upon layers of hummed compliments. 

"Follow my words and notice the weight they carry. In. Out."

Leigh's strained eyes fluttered shut on their own, melting into the softness below, knowing Shepard held her whole being safe in his palms. So she breathed and Sam stayed quiet. 

"You're doing great as always. Falling, sinking, floating down into relaxation until it fully embraces you." Minutes of easy silence passed until a gentle murmur allowed Shepard to proceed: "Now, what do you want to share with me, Leigh?"

Unexpectably, her body tensed up: a twitch in her fingers, an unconscious wrinkle on her nose. 

"Take your time, I'm listening."

"I- I'm always trying to keep myself busy w- with my chores and-" Leigh swallowed, "and Shawn's also doing really well, even with math and… And everything is great. I'm so happy to be here."

Despite her loose mimic, she looked uneasy as ever, like she regretted stepping foot into this tent in the first place. A woman silently crying for help but too scared to ask for it. Sam wondered if Shepard noticed her struggle as well when he hummed to himself - patient; disappointed.

"I'm happy you're here, too. I do get the feeling there's something in particular that's bothering you." 

A flash of stone gray peeked through her lashes, and she shook her head: "That's all."

"Alright, then."

Shepard knew Leigh well, too well to simply go along with her denial and ignore how only a few threats still held her together. One could only fantasize about how much worse she would feel tomorrow if not for an intervention.

Anticlimactic as this sit-in had turned out to be, Sam decided to only listen with one ear. Just because Shepard loved to hear himself talk didn't mean they had to join in too. One of their hands lazily traced circles onto the ground below, the other propped up their head.

"Now, I want you to focus on that memory of relaxation again - going back to this state of mind and body…"

Any busy hustle outside fell into the background, nothing more than white noise, unable to disturb them while listening to the stream of words flowing through the air. In the dark of the tent, it made no difference at all if Sam closed their eyes for just a second, even if it meant engaging in this man's sweet talk. It helped them slip into-

"… gentle comfort…"

Oh, right. A small grin crept onto Sam's face. They recognized the scent settling onto their skin like velvet: fresh lemon balm. They knew it as tea back in kindergarten. Plucked by hand, its refreshing citrus notes prickled at the tip of their nose. Kinda nice. 

"… doing so well and listening to everything I say."

The sleep lost at night finally caught up to them and weighted down their body like a heavy blanket. Warmth filled their lungs with every breath, in sync with Sam's tent pals.

"Focusing inwards-"

He mentioned a safe place, some sort of isle for Leigh to step onto, but Sam stayed less than interested. They let thoughts wander and muscles loosen, endlessly weightless in waves of quiet and bliss and-

A warm drop of drool trickled down their wrist; forcing them to leap up from their slump in a startled heartbeat.

Holy fuck. They blinked, desperate to shake the fuzzy pressure from their limbs, but it barely made an impact. What's happening? No, no, no, this is not real! Not a real thing, they screamed silently, only a concept for esoteric bitches and sci-fi movies.

Shepard hadn't stopped his stream of suggestions, hadn't even cared to look at Sam as they struggled to sit on their feet, the tingling ache of their strained nerves redirecting their focus back to reality. Not much was missing to pop the gash on their calf back open, pain overwhelmed by scorching embarrassment. I need to stay awake.

"-until you fall into a light, comfortable sleep."

Though his soft tone tugged at their eyelids once again, Sam forced their body to show vigilance. Nails scratched into their palms, tongue pressed between clenched teeth until they tasted salt and copper.

Shepard and the woman at his feet continued to mumble at each other about banalities Sam suddenly judged as too private to eavesdrop on. The personal struggles of a clearly overstressed girl Friday who'd rather risk a stroke than take a day off was none of their business, to be exact. How does one get burned out frolicking in the woods; didn't Shepard know to keep his flock together?

Anxiety was followed by anger, more directed at Leigh than the reason of their tailspin. Of course she did nothing but dote on Shepard and his little ego project; god, that woman would gladly spread her legs if it made him descend from his high horse and give her a second of attention. 

"Open your eyes," Shepard demanded, only to be met by a glassy stare, "That's it. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Better," he approved, his smile brightening when her woozy head mouthed this truth to herself, "In this case, please tell me how I can help you. Nothing you will say can upset me, I need you to understand this."

"I try…to show you how much I appreciate you." Leigh slurred her words, even as Shepard's lead kept her secure. "I really do."

"And we see it, dear. You earn your place and so much more. You don't owe us blind compliance, especially if it is at the expense of your joy of living."

"But I have to-" A sob broke through her whisper. Her hand clutched Shepard's, desperate, and at the end of her rope.

Just ask for a vacation, bitch. Get on with it. The sooner Sam got out of this awkward situation, the quicker familiar terrain would give them back the control they foolishly had let slip. Sweat pearled on their forehead, the heat only playing a minor role in their exertion.

"Let me ask differently: Why did you come to us?"

Memories swept over Leigh's face and cleared up a storm of doubt and fear: "To start over. To get support for Shawn."

"And for yourself, exactly. So, let me help you two. Laundry is your current task if I'm not mistaken. Is the workload too much? We have a lot more residents now during the holiday season, and I can imagine the backpackers are not making it easier for you to get everything sorted out. I chose a repetitive task to be predictable and assuring to you, but it looks like I underestimated the sheer volume. That's on me, not on you."

"It's all...manageable," she claimed meekly. Instantly, he stroked down her arm and her eyes slammed shut. Leigh obeyed without a sound of his.

"Are your chores too exhausting?" he asked one final time, soft as a hug, "No shame, no judgement."

A single nod let the cat out of the bag. Her tears flowed freely: "Sorry."

"Not for that, Leigh. I am sorry you felt insecure and couldn't address it sooner."

"I need… Shepard, I just need a bit of help, it's-"

"Alright, Leigh, it's alright. I hear you and I'll figure it out. That is my job, and I'm pretty good at it."

A few more words helped her drift into that calmness Sam ripped away from again, still remaining limp in the blankets, still clinging onto her body when Shepard brought her back up. Minutes passed until she had a stable hold on reality again.

"Thank you," she blinked through the daze, "Should I get back to-"

"Leigh," Shepard sighed and gently wiped the tears off his lost cause, "you should rest for today, okay?"

He nodded, so she joined in. 

"I'm going to get you some water, dear. I'll be right back."

The person of Sam's interest rose from comfy seating and stepped closer, nearly towering above them. Eyebrow raised expectantly, he never made them feel so small in their time together, as if the whole fundament of this valley had shifted in the last twenty minutes: "You look a bit lost, Sam."

"Heartburn," they mumbled and swallowed a thick lump of confusion. Was it over? A free therapy session because dirty towels got on Leigh's nerves - was this story worth the drop of Sam's guard? The worst anybody could claim was for Shepard to be unqualified as this sort of makeshift counselor. Hot air worth nothing. 

At best, Sam wrote about the vague sense that something was off, about a second-hand meditation catching them by surprise. Then again, they would rather die than admit to being…being what exactly? Sam didn't know either.

Numb and dizzy from the sudden flash of sunlight, they followed Shepard onto the meadow and looked around for anyone to guide their next steps. But who would, in this busy settlement, without mocking them?

"Heartburn, huh?" Shepard wondered, casual as ever and carrying a look on his face Sam couldn't place, "Well, you should better consult Birdie about that."

Yes. Yes, maybe they should.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

[opossumprints]

I keep thinking about what the fourth would be like the summer after Vecna is defeated

I think about how everyone is kinda nervous about getting fireworks after everything but Wayne and Eddie have a tradition of lighting fireworks together and after everything they have been through the group decides “ehhh worth a shot” and besides it’ll be something nice for their two newest members

Eddie’s the one who gets all the fireworks and it’s things called, like, “nuclear war fair” and “the Big One tm” and one shaped like a taco. Needless to say Eddie is NOT allowed to light them.

However Hopper refuses to light them because he’s had to deal with too many idiots blowing themselves sky high in the name of patriotism and wants nothing to do with it.

So the duty falls to Steve.

Steve who takes his sweet ass time walking away once he’s lit the fuse and stands concerningly close, arms crossed, still holding the lighter.

Hey, if he had to launch rockets at a melted-people-monster while high off his ass and beat to high hell he can handle these glorified sparklers.

[wordswithloveee]

We can’t plan life. All we can do is be available for it.

[good-beanswrites]

Could you write a drabble for Mikoto and Shidou plus Blood? This request miiight be inspired by the fact that Mikoto mentions his body hurting a lot but doesn't seem to be receiving any medical treatment, either because Mahiru and Fuuta take priority or because there's no obvious cause, and therefore cure, to his pain...

👀👀👀 Thank you, this is such a good combo ough!! It's so interesting how much focus the others get when it comes to physical health, since Mikoto has clearly complained of his condition :( It looks like Milgram is trying to push the idea that he's completely oblivious to his alters, but I spun it where he's aware, just deep in denial. So have some Mikoto angst to get us hyped for Double!

Mikoto should be grateful. He was lucky. That’s what he kept repeating to himself. He had both of his eyes intact. Both his arms. He was strong enough to walk around freely. He wasn’t on the verge of death, or collapse. Thus, he should be grateful no one was offering him any help, because it meant he didn’t need it. He repeated it again. Maybe this time he would believe it.

With a groan, his body rolled out of bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up actually feeling rested. Everything ached. His muscles tightened with soreness. His throat felt as raw as his knuckles, though he hadn’t been using either. He had no desire to lift his arms over his head, or twist around too much, so he didn’t change out of yesterday’s uniform. Maybe the belts and buckles had made it difficult to sleep. The theory wasn’t a convincing one, but dwelling on things like that had never gotten him anywhere.

He ran his fingers once through his hair, combing out a bit of the mess. Looking in a mirror was the last thing he needed. He made his way to the dining hall. 

The others trickled in for breakfast. His appetite, at least, hadn’t suffered. He hardly noticed the others giving him wide-eyed stares. What were they expecting? Of course he was looking worse for wear, given the circumstances. He ignored them, glad to focus on the hot meal before him.

A hand weighed heavy on his shoulder.

“Mikoto,” Shidou’s voice may have remained calm, but it was urgent. “Do you need some help?”

“Huh?” He shrugged his hand away, offering a weak smile. “I’m fine! Oh, I think Kazui was saving a seat for you over there, if you --”

“-- How about we go to my cell for a moment? Or yours, if that would be more comfortable.”

What was everyone’s problem this morning? Mikoto did his best to keep his voice pleasant. “Really, man, I’m good.” 

Shidou’s expression remained unmoving. Very carefully, he informed him, “you’re bleeding. Pretty badly by the look of it. You’re coming with me.” 

Mikoto blinked. He looked over his shoulder, following Shidou’s gaze. The back of his uniform was torn across the center. A significant splotch of blood seeped into the material, growing even larger as he shifted to see it. 

“...Oh…” 

Back in Shidou’s cell, sad to have left his breakfast plate behind, he slumped into a chair. Shidou gathered together some supplies. As always, he got right to the point. “What happened?”

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember anything from last night. I don’t remember most nights, recently. I know that sounds crazy, but…”

“It’s fine. I have definitely heard crazier.” He smiled, something gentle and reassuring. As usual, there was something hidden behind his eyes. It was as if he already knew what Mikoto was up to late at night that earned him so much soreness the following days. He didn’t offer an explanation, though. Mikoto didn’t press him for one.

He winced as he was helped out of his uniform. Removing his shirt revealed the mysterious gash. Shidou’s eyes widened at the array of scratches and scars. Some were fresh, but most originated long before Milgram. Though he didn’t ask, Mikoto answered.

“I’m pretty clumsy, huh?” Maybe this time he would believe it. 

Shidou was kind enough to pretend to. “Here, allow me…”

Shidou got to work cleaning and dressing the injuries. Mikoto closed his eyes. Even though the disinfectant stung, and sometimes those gloved fingers pressed a little two hard, it felt nice to have things patched up. 

“Is there anything else going on? Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”

Mikoto could have laughed. He didn’t. “I’m just sore. And my head’s been killing me, but I’m used to migraines. Perks of the verdict, I’m sure.”

Shidou hummed in thought. 

“Thanks, by the way. I’ll try to be more careful.” Not that he had much choice in the matter, it seemed. But he’d do his best. 

Shidou kept his face straight, but there were traces of pain in his voice. “I will too. I’m sorry, Mikoto. If I had known… I’ve been distracted lately, but I should have paid closer attention.”

“It’s fine,” he flashed a grin. “I know the others are pretty fucked up. And I’m not dying or anything. I’m lucky, you know?”

“I wouldn’t say so. Doctors don’t only treat the dying.”

Mikoto frowned. 

It didn’t take much longer to finish treatment. Shidou gave him a few instructions about the bandages, then offered him a clean shirt. “You’re good to go. I’ll be checking in more often, now. I’ll see if I can find something for your head.” 

“Thanks. Really.”

He returned Mikoto’s torn uniform. “You should talk to Es about getting a new one. Until then, you’ll want to clean this with --”

Mikoto waved a dismissive hand, heading out of the cell. “Don’t worry, I know how to wash blood out of my clothes. Er, that sounds bad. I’m just a clutz, yeah? The blood’s always been my own.”

Maybe this time he would believe it.

[zickmonkey]

WIP of my The Warm Hands of Ghost fic

(This might be all of it on account of I lost the ability to write again so posting just in case- Spoilers, happens years after the book, proceed under the cut :))

Despite the things Penelope Shaw had done, the choices she'd made, Laura still named her first born daughter after her, six years after she had lost Pim. Her son, who came four years later, she'd named after her brother. 

It was them, 15 year old Pim Jones and 11 year old Freddie Jones, that Laura thought of when the news of the war broke. 

Or, more specifically, the word of Canada joining the war. 

Freddie, thankfully, was way too young to join the effort. He still had a boyish face, his voice hadn't dropped, even if he tried to enlist they'd never let him.  

Pim was closer to the right age, but still she was off. And in the last war nurses had to be at least 21, not the 18 of men, and had to be formally trained as a nurse. 

Laura herself was free of the war too, when nurses couldn't be older than 39, and she was past that.

The only one left to worry over was her husband. Stephen. She thought there might be a chance he'd stay, now that he'd built so much at home. 

He was the one who'd wanted children- the one who suggested they start trying. He prayed for a son throughout the entire pregnancy, and when Pim was born she became his entire world, even when she wasn't the son he'd wanted. 

And then he got a son, one Laura took charge on naming, just as she had with Pim. She'd told him that he could name the next one, but the next one never came, and Stephen told her that two was all he'd ever need. That his family was perfect, that nothing mattered more. 

He'd proved that just she was enough, when he showed up on her doorstep immediately after the war had ended. When he’d stayed, long after. Making the large move from America to Halifax for her, because he knew that even if he’d already moved to a different part of the province she’d never leave her brother. 

She wondered what her brother and Winter thought of the news, but it fell second in her mind to the wonder of what her husband thought. 

And the wonder of if her husband still thought he had a duty to do even after so much service already, and after so much left to do at home.

[celenawrites]

why the hell is the Gazfest fic 1.8k long????

[ivymarquis]

why is this hatefucking fic 1.5k words long and theyre not even naked yet

[antirepurp]

okay i have more emerald thoughts actually

sol and chaos emeralds are virtually the same and grant their users the same abilities

sol and chaos themselves are opposing powers that draw from different sources to achieve the same result; sol comes from the illuminating power of the sun, representing something akin to order and clarity, where chaos' roots are in darkness, disorder, and confusion

despite the above point neither power is inherently good or evil, let alone predictable. it all comes down to who is using them and how

the super/burning prefixes given to transformation states are mostly cosmetic; the forms themselves are fundamentally identical, and the only difference comes from the kinds of innate abilities the transformed users have that the emeralds' powers are now boosting

as such sonic and blaze could swap emeralds and achieve their original transformations with little effort, but whether this is something they're aware of is another thing entirely

the frequencies of the emeralds are also different, though not mirrored, which causes slight differences between how the emeralds are used. the more broad the use-case the less this matters; powering super states and machinery is free game, but something like chaos/sol control is far more specific and requires the user to be familiar with the makeup of the emeralds

you can't achieve a transformation using a mix of the emeralds, they don't like that very much

yes they're all sentient on some level