#love is not enough fanfic

[feverinfeveroutfic]

love is not enough | chapter thirty-one

The next thing he knew, he was waking up to the glittering city lights coming in through the window on the right side of the room. Jay and Q were still cozied up on either side of him, still wrapped up in their pajamas. No idea of the time, and he had no desire to even so much as climb up out of bed, either.

But then again, there was promise of room service and the three of them had fallen asleep together before something could even so much as be called in, and as he lay there in between them, he could feel something gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Jay buried her head into his shoulder while Q kept her hand rested upon his chest. The last thing he wanted to do, however, was awaken them.

There was a way out, though, and that was the fact that he had slid his arms out from under their bodies at some point. All he had to do was slide out from under their hands towards the foot of the bed. He had to be careful, however, as one simple gyration of the mattress could wake up one or the other.

He tugged his arms on closer to his chest as if he was about to make his way down a water slide. Using nothing more than his feet, he tugged himself along the face of the mattress. Their hands remained attached to him as if they wore patches of Velcro on their fingertips. He nibbled on his bottom lip and jerked himself down the top of the mattress towards the foot.

They let go of him. Gingerly, he inched along the shapes of their bodies and reached the edge with his feet first.

He nearly slithered off the bed and onto the carpet. Once he realized he was on the floor, he held still down in a squatting position. He was met with silence right behind him.

He ran his fingers through his hair and then he let out a low whistle. Neither of the two girls stirred even for a second, and thus, he could be alone for a while. He stood up and glanced back at them, and he showed them a smile.

He then turned to his suitcase down on the floor for a change of a shirt, but when he squatted back down onto the floor, he looked down to his own body, at his open white shirt. He decided to put on a belt if nothing else.

He took his belt out from the back of his suitcase, and he stood back up with it in hand. He slipped it in under the belt loops and secured the buckle part of the way so he could button up and tuck in his shirt: however, he left the top three buttons undone so he could show off most of his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair again, and that time, he held still so he could better feel himself upon standing there,

He showed them both another smile, and he picked up the room key and tucked it into his jeans pocket. Very carefully, he closed the door behind him and padded through the corridor, along the lush carpet towards the elevator at the far end.

As much as he loved those two girls, there was something he missed about having time to himself.

He ducked inside of the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. It was here he felt a hard grumble in his stomach, and he pressed a hand to his slender belly.

“God, what time is it,” he asked aloud.

The elevator slowly made its way down to the ground floor and the lobby: the doors slid open as he leaned back against the railing and kept one hand on his stomach as if he ached there. However, once the doors opened, he was met with the aroma of breads as well as coffee. The feeling of coffee even at night gave him this feeling of warmth that he wished those girls could experience.

A feeling of comfort for Q. A feeling of nostalgia for Jay. To get them away from the man with the gun.

He breezed into the lobby, which was alive with the French nightlife. The place was warmly lit with wrought iron lights suspended from the ceiling overhead: the creamy eggshell color of the walls and the heavy dark wooden bar and matching tables and stools made him think of a jazz club. Indeed, there was a jukebox tucked in the far corner and someone had put on some Coltrane, which was then followed by the Eagles.

He wove his way past a couple of tables which bustled with patrons, and he bellied up to the bar and the bartender with the lush blond hair brushed up into a tight wave over his head.

“Um… parlez-vous l’anglais?” he asked the bartender.

“Yes, yes!” he replied.

“Oh, good. Um… do you have the time?” He tapped on his wrist.

“It is, er…” The man glanced down at his wristwatch. “Half past eight.”

“That’s all?” He was stunned. “I mean, oh, that’s all. Um, okay… can I get a cup of coffee and a Reuben sandwich, please? S’il vous plaît?”

“Of course! Fifteen euros.”

“Can do,” he replied, and he handed the bartender a five and a ten with a crooked smile on his face. He didn’t take a spot at the bar, however. He instead took some of his spare change out from his pocket and ducked on over to the jukebox for something to fit the mood of the bar. A little bit of John Scofield for the crowd at the helm. He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and returned to the bar in time to find that the bartender had first set his drink down on the bar before his stool. He showed the man a little smile and a nod, and then he took his spot there.

He picked up the little white porcelain mug and looked down at the fine layer of white foam with a dusting of dark cocoa powder on top. The aroma of the coffee comforted him about as much as the girls did: he thought about laying in that bed with them as he sipped on it.

There was a man at the neighboring table who wore a white silk shirt much like the one he was wearing. He, too, had two girls hanging off of him, and he, too, seemed to be relishing in all the attention.

He watched him, the way he seemed so much happier at that very moment, completely unbothered by the thought of a man with a gun chasing after his girls. He sounded American as well, or at least from somewhere in North America.

He could relate to him in this sense.

The man then stopped and raised his glass of stout as if to give a toast of sorts.

“Drinks are on me!” the man decreed right then, and everyone in the bar cheered at that.

He lingered there on the end of the bar with his cup of coffee and a little smile on his face. To relax and be alone with his thoughts, and more so when the bartender returned with a napkin and a white porcelain plate of a Reuben sandwich on marble rye. The corned beef looked fresh and the bright pink color of the sauerkraut even made his eyes water.

“Holy hell,” he blurted out, and he showed the bartender a crooked smile. “Thank you. Merci beaucoup.” He picked up one half of the sandwich and took a bite.

“Oh, my god,” he muttered to himself as he held his fingers to his lips. “This is incredible.”

Eating that sandwich felt like making love, and it helped that the Russian dressing tasted fresh as well. He ate it slowly so he could relish in his time alone.

The music of Scofield followed by some French songs he wasn’t familiar with at the moment. There was a big part of him that wished that the girls could be there with him, but at the same time, he wanted this all to himself. The taste and warmth of the sandwich caressing his stomach, and the warmth of the coffee, and he could return to them with a new vigor to his body.

He finished the last of the crust and wiped his fingers and his mouth with the napkin, and he nodded his head.

“Best damn Reuben I’ve had in a long time,” he remarked, and he leaned back in the chair with the cup of coffee in hand. Someone had put The Police on right then, and he smiled to himself.

He shifted around in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. He watched a couple from the table behind him dancing along to the music.

The world of jazz with the world of ska and alternative, and suddenly, he found himself something of an escape from the world of metal. At some point, he was going to show the girls this as an escape of sorts for them, away from the world they came from, and away from the man coming after them.

“I’m going to stay a while,” he muttered to himself as he leaned back in the chair and put his feet up in the neighboring chair. He kept the coffee rested upon his knee, and it was enough to warm him up from the inside some more.

Once he had finished his coffee, he set down the mug and patted his fingers on the surface of the bar. He ducked out of there right as another French song came on, but he wasn’t ready to return upstairs as of yet.

He padded outside to the glittering skyline against the dark sky overhead. Across the street stood a florist that looked to be closing up for the night, and he ducked on over there as he had an idea.

Out front, right next to the bouquets, stood a bunch of corsages: the one that caught his eye contained sunflowers. He spotted another one with little white orchids. A couple of quid for each of them, and he took the offer with a nod.

He took them both and ducked on back to the hotel and the room with them in either hand. If nothing else, he could surprise them with flowers to last forever once they woke up again.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[theorist-fox]

Some more insecure Simon Riley talk, because he's precious.

18+

Word count: 1.4k

CW: nothing, just smut. Simon finds you in lingerie and has a stroke. I love him your honor.

Masterlist 🦊

Simon, who is not sure what to do with himself the first time you welcome him home in nothing but lingerie.

He’s so unbelievably tired, dropping his clothes on the floor of the bedroom without even lifting his head. Mumbling apologies to you—how he’ll clean tomorrow, how he just wants to go to bed and sleep fourteen hours straight, right now. Bonus points if you hold him through the night, too.

Yet you’re not replying, but he’s seen your silhouette in the darkness; he knows you’re awake because you whispered a soft “Welcome back” when he walked in the room. His heart pounds in his chest, his palms get clammy—he thinks he’s overstepping lines by not giving you the attention he thinks you deserve.

So, as he unzips his pants, he lifts his eyes to look at you, and fuck—

You’re lying on your side, propped on your elbow, chin tucked in your palm. Perfect tits covered in sheer fabric, burgundy and black, your nipples peeking through. The soft line of your waist is bare—he follows it with his eyes until they land on your hips. Ornated lace curves around your hipbone and thins into see-through, dark fabric over your mound. Two strips of silk clasp your knickers to a pair of thin stockings that cinch the fat of your thighs, and the sight makes his mouth water.

“Welcome back,” you say once again, this time with soft amusement.

He looks like a proper idiot. Hand still on his crotch, practically feeling how his cock comes to a stand at the mere sight of you.

He gulps. Feels a little lightheaded. “F’ me?”

You smile, chuckling softly but not derisively. Simon follows your hand as you guide it over your belly, up to the valley of your breast, as if you’re there, showing the goods he can pick and taste.

“For you.”

Simon is stunned into silence again.

Fuck is he supposed to do, uh? He’d be content just looking at you lying there and looking like you came out of a magazine, instead of touching you and potentially ruining what you did just for—for him?

He must not have noticed how his whole body (aside from his cock) has gone into standby—entered sniper mode. He's quiet, breaths reduced and silent, eyes attentive and narrowed.

It's a handful of seconds that leave you uncomfortable, as your plastic pose softens, your smile faltering at the corners.

“You don’t like it?” You ask, trying to sound steady, but he picks up the nervousness in your tone right away.

He won’t let you have it, obviously. He snaps out of it and takes you in for what you are: a fucking present, on his bed, wrapped in strings and bows and lace like gift wrap.

“Shoulda guessed it was too much, maybe. Should’ve gone for somethin’ soft—"

Simon is on you in seconds. Grabs your face in his hands and smashes his lips to yours something fierce, nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. No hesitation. Simple, tangible desire. Scorching lust. Want. Need—fuck, he’s never kissed you like this.

Your eyes lose their surprise, and they slowly surrender to him—hands wandering down to help him out of his pants and briefs. And then you wrap your arms around his neck, grazing his scalp with your nails until he shivers.

Simon thought there was nothing comparable to the softness of your skin against the harder patches of scars freckling his abdomen. But he’s proved wrong when he feels the rough texture of your lace scratch his chest and his hips—it has him leaking embarrassingly quick.

He’s all lips and tongue as he races down your chest, sloppy kisses leaving a burning trail between your tits, down your belly, settling on your cunt covered by thin mesh.

Simon looks up at you, holding your thighs between thick fingers, smushing them against his cheeks. His eyes are hooded, dark, different. He tilts his head and bites into the plump flesh within reach—not enough to hurt, but sure enough to taste. Mercifully passes his tongue over the teeth marks before biting into it again, until the sting has you arching your back off the bed.

And he never breaks eye contact, which leaves you dumbfounded and flustered to the bone—because where is this confidence coming from? You’re wide-eyed and biting your own teeth in anticipation—this is all new and all the more exciting.

His kisses travel from the lines of your stretch marks up to your sex, where he doesn’t even bother moving the gusset of your knickers, and he just dives in.

Tongue flat against your cunt, drenching the sheer fabric with his spit and your moisture. Your moans are so soft compared to the sloppy mess he’s making of you down there, his insecurity blessed by a sort of beginner’s luck. Or maybe he’s just that hungry, and that is enough for your cunt flutter around nothing anyway.

You’re speechless when he finally lifts himself up, slotting his hips between your kiss-bitten thighs. His cock lands heavy on your pelvis, painting your lower belly with speckles of sheer precum. Head swollen and red right above your belly button.

You look at him wide-eyed, on your back, stock-still—anticipating his next move with your heart rate spiking.

He takes you completely by surprise (once again? In one night? Who is this man?), when he moves your knickers to the side, and instead of plunging in, he slides his cock between your folds and snaps the lace back above it. And then he starts rutting in shameless abandon, holding you steady by your thighs, letting the sheer fabric of your panties cover his tip and half of his shaft, as he runs himself back and forth over the surface of your pussy.

“M’gonna ruin it, sorry.” He croaks, as one of his hands comes to clumsily grab your tits through the lace. “So fuckin’ pretty—fuck—bloody hell, you—”

You coax him to go on with breathless moans because he’s never looked more breathtaking than he does now. Tiny drops of sweat drip from his forehead onto your belly, cheeks flushed and long lashes fanning his cheekbones. His lips yield a grunt each time the lace scratches his shaft. Your breath hitches each time the head of his cock catches your clit.

“Gonna buy ya a new one, yeah?” He grunts, looking down at the wet patch his cock is making through the lace. “Gonna buy ya fuckin’ ten.”

He’s never been this vocal, and you don’t dare to mouth a whisper in case he catches himself in the act. Not even when you cum, a short and stinging orgasm that makes your clit burn at the friction, do you dare to moan. You tilt your head back and shut your eyes, neck corded in the strain to keep it in, flushing with warmth in unbearable silence.

You think you hear his voice crack through the cotton in your ears when you come back down from your high. “Fuck—God, fuck. Wha’ a gift, eh? F’ me. All f’me.”

He pulls back a few moments later, taking his cock out of your panties and into a thick hand. A few pumps, and he cums on your lace, painting your belly and your cunt in glistening white.

He’s panting as his hand languidly comes to a halt. Chest flushed and with a thin layer of sweat over it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, clearly dizzy—as if he needs to apologize for this. “I ruined it. I—just—gonna go grab somethin’ to—to clean y'up, wait 'ere—Jesus Christ.”

He slowly comes to stand, knees popping and legs shaking as he stumbles to the bathroom.

You look down at the spurts of cum covering your stomach and staining the lace of your panties, and then you flop your head back onto the mattress, wide eyes locked to the ceiling.

A chuckle of disbelief escapes you, still in shock from the sudden switch in behavior. And you think, when he comes back with a towel to clean the mess he’s made on your skin, that you might have to take another trip to the shop this weekend—buy yourself a new little piece.

But later, then, he falls asleep with his head on your chest, fingers lazily toying with the lace of your bra (because he’s asked you to keep it on, you know—“Like how 't feels”), and so you move up your shopping a little—already on your phone, running your thumb to skim through pinks and blues, laces and silks.

You might just order a new one right now.

It’s at that moment that he shifts in his sleep, slipping his hand under the band of your lacy bra and curling his fingers around your breast.

You change your mind.

You might just order ten.

[tourettesdog]

I am begging people to be normal about completed fics, and in particular one shots.

I am begging people to stop demanding more from authors, and insisting that one shots need to be longer or have sequels.

I don't think yall understand how many fanfic authors are one more "where's the rest of it?" comment away from throwing out any plans they might have had to continue an idea.

Unless an author like specifically says they might write more for an idea, just-- assume something marked as completed is complete, and respect it as it stands, please.

[choccy-milky]

nowhere in hogwarts is safe to snog 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨🤺 one of my fav scenes from @myokk's oneshot "clumsy" which you can read here! its about seb and mc being stubborn idiots in denial of their own feelings while also pining after each other the entire time 🥰 GO READ IT!!💖💖

[ghostybat]

Damian Wayne is pretty.

This is something that Dick, Jason, and Tim have learned to accept and begrudgingly deal with the consequences of.

Damian was bound to be attractive, what with having Bruce Wayne as a father and Talia al Ghul as a mother; there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was going to grow up beautifully. And he did.

Long were the days of people cooing over him and telling him, 'Oh my God, you look so much like your father when he was your age.' By the time Damian hit 14 is when he really started to grow into his looks. The older he got, the more obvious it became who he took after.

Damian had inherited a lot from his mother, be it her laugh, her strength, or her flair for the dramatics (though if you were to ask her, she'd say he got it from Bruce). He had also inherited her slight and lean frame along with her height—an even 5'8". His green eyes are a given; however, the long lashes that framed them came from his father, along with his nose and eyebrows. The rest of him was all Talia, which made him look rather soft and delicate, something he was surprisingly never insecure about. He knew his strengths and what he was capable of, and if he happened to look like his mother, then so be it; she's a beautiful woman, and he's honored to have her resemblance.

Now, back to his brothers and how this affects them.

When one is pretty, one gets attention; however, not all of it is good attention. Because Damian has never really taken his looks into consideration, he is completely unaware of the effect he has on people.

This leaves Dick, Jason, and Tim having to deal with the weirdos and creeps trying to get too close to their baby brother.

[bababaka]

Yall need to interact with fanfiction author's more.

So. After the ddos attack on ao3.

I was encouraged to write more comments and make my love known to fanfic writers.

I dont really like commenting. Because im a bit shy and soooo lazy.

Now though. I am writing more comments. And dude. This is so heartwarming. Ya'll need to treat writers better. They are doing the lord's work.

Take for an example, couple of days prior, i was searching for something interesting to read, and found an oneshot quite compelling.

I read it. At the end of it, i was blown away by how good it was. It promised me something and it went beyond my expectations. But then i saw a crime, zero fucking comments!

At that moment, i wasn't feeling up to writing a comment. Because, normally i like to write huge paragraphs. But because im lazy i decided to be brief.

Next day, the author answered that the comment lift their mood for the whole day.

That warmed my heart.

Duuuuuuuude! Write comments! Suport the writers of the fics you like! No need to be something super elaborate. Just give your thoughts. Freak out. Ramble. Ask something. Make theories. Compliment. Make a joke about how you wished to give kudos every chapter but ao3 sucks(not true bby) and won't let you.

Truly. Just. Comment. It can make someone's day. And that is part of the apeal of writing fics. Interacting with people.

Just give love to fanfic writers yall. They deserve this and so much more.

[somewhereincairparavel]

Percy this. Percy that. It was always about Percy Jackson. All the fucking time. 

It was always about the Hero of Olympus, the one who defeated Kronos and led the battle of Manhattan, the one who was offered immortality by the king of the gods himself, the one who restored glory to Rome by returning the golden eagle, the one who became praetor of the Roman camp in 2 weeks with limited training. 

His Roman camp. Jason Grace's Roman camp.

Percy Jackson had pulled off everything in 2 weeks that Jason Grace wasn't able to accomplish despite dedicating his whole life for duty. 11 years of blood, sweat and tears, simply gone down the drain.

Jason had failed his camp. He had failed his home. Turns out, he wasn't as great as the people of Rome had once preached about him. It was obvious considering the less than warm welcome he had gotten from his so-called “home”. 

He received no hugs, no cheers, no “we missed you jason!”, no “I was so worried about you!” or even a single pat on the arm by his “friend” Dakota. Dakota and Gwendolyn hadn't even spared a glance at him.

Nothing. Instead, this new Jackson boy was held up to worship like a god amongst the people who once considered Jason a “hero”.

Jason laughed bitterly. Was it selfish of him to be disappointed with Reyna? With a pang, he got to know that Reyna hadn't sent a single search party out to look for her “best friend”. Not like Annabeth did for Percy, not like Thalia did for Percy.

With a pang, he got to know that the whole camp basically deemed him as ‘dead’ and Reyna hadn't even set up a memorial of remembrance for him. The camp had simply moved on with their new hero. Without a single shred of thought for Jason Grace. 

The forgotten Hero. The lost hero. Jason Grace.

These thoughts of doubt gnawed on Jason's mind, slowly eating him up ever since he'd first seen Percy Jackson in those damned praetor togas that once belonged to him. 

He didn't dislike the boy, of course not, it wasn't Percy's fault that Hera wiped their memories or switched camps.

 But it was hard for Jason to not resent him, or feel even the tiniest amount of envy, knowing that Reyna willingly replaced him with Jackson. Very quickly too, at that. He overheard Octavian blabbing to his lackeys about how Reyna “was head over heels for Percy almost immediately” 

“I guess that's it. Maybe I am someone who is easy to replace.” Jason thought, his eyes pricking as he looked over from the flying ship, at the place he once used to call home. 

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

Jason watched remorsefully as Thalia, Grover, Percy and Annabeth were all gathered at the table in camp half blood, cracking jokes about dam french fries or whatever that meant.

Thalia caught Jason's eyes, staring at all of them from a distance. She smiled softly, and gave him a tiny wave. He weaved his lips into something that was meant to look like a wry smile, but it came out as a slight grimace, as he waved back.

Thalia was so close to Jason, yet so far away.

He knew she loved him, but it felt different. And an annoying, nagging part of Jason had known that Thalia would never be as close to him as she was to Annabeth or Percy. 

Ironic isn't it? Jason and Thalia were always connected since they came from the same womb, yet she was closer to Annabeth, a girl she'd found after she had run away from the same woman that had given Jason to the wolves. The same woman who had turned his life upside down by abandoning him. 

Thalia had found Annabeth right after she thought she had lost Jason. In a strangely ironic way, Jason felt like he'd been replaced all over again.

Thalia had replaced Jason as a younger sibling with Annabeth without even realizing it, all of this took place mere months after a baby Jason was considered to be dead. This situation had strangely reminded him of Camp Jupiter, how he was replaced by Percy right after Jason was considered “dead” by Camp Jupiter.

This made Jason reach the possibility that if he were indeed “dead”, he wouldn't be missed. People wouldn't bat an eyelash. Since there was always someone better than him. Someone like Percy Jackson, who could easily fill the void Jason would leave behind.

His eyes watered, as he looked at how much fun his sister had with his friends. Knowing full well, that he'd never be able to do the same.

Jason felt ashamed that he had to ask Percy about Thalia’s likes and dislikes, he was thalia’s brother. He was supposed to know.

Jason watched as Thalia quickly hugged the trio, as she left their table to leave with the hunters, not even realizing that there was one person whom she forgot to hug.

Don't take it personally. Don't take it personally. She just forgot. She doesn't hate you. She just forgot. She doesn't prefer Percy over you. She's in a hurry. That's why she forgot. Jason repeated that like a mantra, the only person he was trying to convince was himself.

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

“And he rejected immortality!- oh you should've seen Zeus' face!” Annabeth exclaimed to Hazel excitedly, as Percy was blushing at the compliment fountain being poured at him by Hazel and Annabeth.

Jason had always been fascinated by that story, the almighty Percy Jackson getting offered to become a god, by Zeus.

His father. Jason's father, Zeus. 

Jason felt stupid and guilty for getting envious, it's not the fact that Percy had been offered immortality, no. Jason couldn't care less about being immortal. It was the person who offered Percy invincibility that bothered Jason so much. 

Jason knew that even if he went to the ends of the world to accomplish something, his father wouldn't be able to praise him or even talk to him for a long time. 

Zeus and Jason could never be like Hades and Nico, or Poseidon and Percy. That's just how it is.

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

Reyna had come to camp half blood for a fun visit. Jason would've been ecstatic in other circumstances, but in this case, he wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Because currently, Reyna seemed to be looking at everyone, but refused to meet Jason's eyes. She seemed to keep her distance as she laughed at something Percy and Piper were saying. 

She may as well have just stabbed him, it would've hurt a lot less. 

He had truly been naive to believe that he could make amends with Reyna. Now he knew, it would never be possible. There was too much pain mixed with bitterness on both ends. But seeing her get along with Percy reminded him of the old times of friendship he and Reyna had shared. Keyword: had.

Once again, the fates had shown him that Percy Jackson would always be better. 

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

As Jason Grace lay on the cold floor, coughing out blood. He realized he was alone, he was dying, but he was alone.

Like always. The sickly voice of Gaia, that had once haunted his nightmares, boomed in his head. Jason knew he was hallucinating as a result of blood loss, Gaia is in deep slumber. But that did not stop the voice in his head that was invented by his insecurities. Even in the end, you've been forgotten, Jason Grace. Because that's what you will always be. The second best. The leftover. The pawn who is discarded, after his purpose has been fulfilled. Percy Jackson would always be better in everyone's eyes. 

To the Romans, you are simply the one who betrayed his lineage. But Percy is the one who restored glory. He did your job for you.

To the Greeks, you are simply a burden, one whom they were forced to welcome.

To your father, you are merely one of his many sons. 

To your sister, you are a stranger.

Jason's resolve to live had weakened, hot tears were streaming down his face as he closed his eyes in defeat, he had come to the painful conclusion that nobody is going to come find his body. Nobody is going to mourn him.

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

“Oh I will always be much better than you at this! Bring it on, dude!” Percy laughed as he striked his play sword lightsaber at Jason's. They clashed. 

“You wish, Jackson!” Jason shot back jokingly, as they sparred playfully with toy lightsabers.

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

“Jackson, you jerk. You were right after all, you will always be much better than me” Jason laughed bitterly, as he recalled that memory of his sparring session with Percy.

 Suddenly everything went black. The life had successfully ebbed out of him.

Little did Jason know, was that someone had indeed come to look for him. Tempest, his Pegasus had come to retrieve his body, but Jason was long gone. People had indeed mourned him. His friends were, indeed, anguished. His sister was, indeed, heartbroken.

Jason's soul parted this world, with the knowledge that he'd always be The forgotten Hero. 

The lost hero. Jason Grace.

[prahacat]

when the horrors catch up and you take an evening off to batch-process

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[feverinfeveroutfic]

love is not enough | chapter thirty

The three of them found themselves on a queen-sized bed with clean white silk sheets and fluffy pillows which cradled their heads. Before they had crawled onto the sheets, he and Jay shared a shower to rid of the chlorine smell from their bodies: the shower itself was big enough to hold the two of them as well. She had taken off her hat and let her hair spread over her shoulders; as the water cascaded over her head and shoulders, he put his hands upon her breasts to better feel her soft flesh and the tightening nipples, which he knew were tightening from underneath his palms.

He nibbled on his bottom lip and moved in closer to her body, but Jay wagged her finger at him and kissed him on the side of the neck instead. She then offered to wash his hair followed by his body for him, which he happily took for himself. 

Her fingers pulsated over the crown of his head, such that it made him smile to himself: it almost tickled, especially when she brought her fingers down to the base of his head and down through his long black curls.

He especially took the offer since she brought her long fingers down around his dick and his hips for a gentle scrubbing. The soft suds caressed over the shape and beauty of his body; she brought the washcloth over his stomach and the crests of his hips, and he held his hands onto the back of his head. A few locks of hair dangled over the backs of his hands and down onto his shoulders: there was a rather long one which spread down onto his chest like a vine.

He closed his eyes as Jay brought the cloth up to his chest and his arms, and he turned his head to the side. He never thought that he would enjoy himself as much as he did right then, but the butterflies in his stomach told him otherwise.

When she reached the sides of his neck, he opened his eyes and locked onto her own. He glanced down at her body, at the way that her hair spread over her breasts, at the way the water trickled down the curves of her body: she resembled a mermaid right at that moment. A mermaid who had crawled onto land and fetched herself a grass skirt to do a little bit of dancing for him.

“Shall I do the same for you?” he offered her as she held the cloth under the shower head.

“Please,” she replied. He stood there for a second so the suds could rinse away and around their feet. He then took the cloth and slung it over his shoulder. He lathered up his hands and washed her hair for her, from her crown all the way down towards the small of her back: she giggled when he wriggled his fingers over the top of her head, and more so when he held the shower head close to her own head.

He then took the cloth off his shoulder, and he ran the soft-smelling soap over the drenched surface. Jay put her arms over her head as he squatted down a bit to clean her body.

The cloth over the full shape of her hips and down onto her thighs; he reached around for the backs of her legs onto her ass and then the small of her back. He reached up for her breasts when he realized that he was face to face with her crotch.

With one hand, he massaged her breasts with the washcloth. With his other hand, he reached up inside of her hood to touch her a little bit.

“Hey, you greedy little scoundrel,” she teased him; he lifted his head to see her sticking out her tongue at him. He kept on scrubbing her breasts, and then he brought the cloth up to her neck and her arms: he moved about at a slow pace just so she could feel the soap on her skin. He took his fingers out and stood before her body once again, at which point, he reached behind him for the shower head to help her rinse off. Jay held still as he ran the head over her nipples. 

The water was warm, but they remained in taut, pointed form.

He brought the shower head down onto her belly, and she slightly swayed her hips from the feeling.

“Shall I spread my legs a bit?” she offered him.

“Please do,” he insisted, and careful not to take her feet off the bath mat, she spread her feet apart, and he lowered the shower head down in between her legs. She bent her knees a bit so she could better feel the water on her skin. Jay stuck out her tongue, and he could see the pink tinge to her lips.

She was getting clean and riled up all at the same time.

One last rinse, and he switched off the shower for them.

“Don’t you worry about a thing: there will be a good time once things are dried off over in the next room,” she assured him in a tender voice as it echoed around the walls of the bathroom. He showed her a playful little grin and nudged a lock of hair back away from the side of her face.

“As I am sure that we’ll have a good wet and wild time once we’re in Hawai’i,” he joked with a slight raise of an eyebrow.

“Yes, we will,” she vowed to him, and she raked her fingers over the wet curls of his chest hair: a few sprigs wound around her fingertips. She leaned in closer to the side of his neck for a kiss on his smooth, soft-smelling skin right under the base of his jawline.

Jay then clapped her hands together, and she opened the door of the shower for a towel off the rung. She ruffled her hair with it, and then she wrapped it around the middle of her body. She took another towel and handed it over to him, and he did the same things: he kept the towel around his hips, right under his belly button so she could see all the skin she could without the trappings.

“Like a Greek god,” she remarked as she stepped out of the shower and reached for her deodorant and good perfume.

“Me? A Greek god? No way.” He shook his head and nudged a few locks back over his shoulder onto his back.

“You do,” she assured him: her breasts were full and lush, and he couldn’t stop looking at her as she made her body smell even better than it already did. He couldn’t stop looking at her even when he did the same things for himself.

Soon, the two of them padded out of the bathroom and back into their suite for a fresh change of clothes: he wrapped his body in a soft white silk shirt but he kept the buttons open. He paired it with black pants which hugged his hips and showed off the plush, silken flesh on his belly. All the while, he let his hair cascade around his shoulders, a thick jet-black mane of tendrils which dropped wet. Where Jay was the mermaid, he was about to be merman.

But then, he spotted Q on the edge of their bed. She had changed into a black lace bodysuit which had a neckline that dipped low on her chest. He noticed the little skull heads which created a spiderweb effect all over her body: there were a couple of skulls which pressed against the scars on her lower belly, which made him think of kisses there.

He also noticed that the suit had no crotch, and thus, he knew what that meant once they lay down together.

Indeed, once he crawled over the surface and lay down flat on his back so his shirt spread out on either side of him, Q cuddled up next to the side of his body and put one arm around his waist. He cocked his hips to the side as if to coax Jay forth.

She had changed into a black lace corset top which showed off her belly as well as the tops of her hipbones: he noticed the little sunflowers at that tops of her shoulders, the little links which connected the straps. Under that, she had put on long silky black trousers which almost looked like pajama bottoms.

“Holy shit, that’s cute,” Q blurted out.

“New little look,” Jay told them. “I think I’m gonna be more wearing more corset tops from now on, too. We carry guns, we should have a bit of dissonance to go with it.”

“Comfy and sexy… I like it,” he remarked as Jay crawled up onto the bed as well; she joined him there on his left side to snuggle up next to the comfort of his body.

“And if we’re gonna do France and Europe, I think all three of us should show some skin like this,” Q then added as Jay cozied up next to his head and neck.

“You smell good,” she whispered into his ear.

“As do you,” he assured her. “And I would know, too.” He flashed her a wink and puckered his lips at her. He then let his fingers do the talking once again: that time, however, he let them find their way up into the slit of Q’s bodysuit. The lace caressed the sides of his fingers, but then he used his index finger to caress the nub of her clit, such that she gasped and licked her lips from the feeling.

It was a bit harder with Jay as she had pants on, but he slid his hand under her hip, and down inside of her pants, and down inside of her smooth silken panties. Just like with Q, he used one finger to touch her clit.

“To the left,” Jay whispered to him as she arched her back a bit.

“To the right,” Q whispered as well.

“Oh, my god… hang on…” He nibbled on his bottom lip and then he stuck out his tongue. He nudged his finger to Jay’s left and lightly rubbed the head. It was disorienting to do the same thing with Q, but she lay on her left side and thus, it made him think of a mirror image of sorts.

Jay licked her lips right into his ear. Q pursed her lips and then let out a low whistle.

Jay brought her breasts closer to the side of his shoulder. Q ran her fingers down the curve of her hip.

It was all a feast for his eyes, and all he had to do was move either of his index fingers about to make it all happen. In fact, the sight of them on either side of him was enough to make him arch his back as well. Nestled in between two girls and they were inching in closer to him all the while. He thought of slipping his tongue in there, one right after the other, but he was also tickled by the thought of them taking turns blowing him again. Taking turns blowing him with utmost finesse and out in the open air so the whole world could see them.

When in France, after all.

“I’m fingering two girls at the same time,” he muttered aloud, “and they’re about to get me off as well.”

He could feel their hands on his crotch, and he knew that his mind was not fooling him, and his jeans were in fact growing tighter as well. Their fingers over the snug fabric. The way Jay smelled so soft and clean. The way Q not only smelled of new clothes, but he could also pick up the spice on her neck and shoulders as well as the residual pot on her breath.

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth as they kissed the sides of his face at the same time. He buckled his knees and let out a low groan from the back of his throat.

“Sometimes all you need in life is a little bit of cozy,” he said in a husky voice, and they both rested a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. “By the way, I thought we were going to get some room service.”

The two of them glanced at one another with smirks on their faces.

“He thought we were actually going to get room service, Jay,” Q remarked.

“Shall we, though?” Jay offered.

“I don’t see why not. Every good boy deserves some bread and wine.”

[ireallyneedaintrestinglife]

Some of these merthur fics just don't be hitting...like where's the devotion?? The longing?!? Where's the lack of boundaries?!? I need more Merlin crossing the line and just not giving a damn because it was to protect his King and that's reason enough for him. Give me an absolutely devoted Merlin that is overflowing with love for his King. Give me obsession and fucking dependency. I need them to be connected with each other in each and every way. Stop pretending like they are in any way shape or form normal with each other because they aren't and I need to see that explored!!

[hearts4werka]

Car Ride

╰┈➤. Summary: You and Matt are hiding your relationship from the internet because of the hate you’ve been getting from the allegations, today Larray invited you, Arrington and the triplets to be in a video where you’ll spend 24h in a car together. While you’re filming Matt can’t quite keep his hands off you when off camera…

╰┈➤. Genre: FLUFF (if you squint hard enough) & SMUTT, secret relationship, car video, YouTubers, shopping, nightly car ride, filming, off-camera scenes, and possibly more but idk

╰┈➤. Warnings: swearing, bickering, SMUT, making out, oral (m receiving), car sex, teasing, giving sloppy head in the car, praising, use of pet names ( princess ) kissing in public and probably more!

╰┈➤. This was requested by @miss-tyummy in my inbox, thanks queen for the amazing idea!

Me and Matt are secretly dating, why is it a secret you may ask? We decided to make our relationship private from the spotlight since the internet doesn’t seem to be very pleased of them dating and find a way to criticize the woman even if she didn’t exactly do anything.

It’s pretty messed up and I began to gather some hate from the dating allegations and suspicions that I might be dating Matt.

I was invited by Larray to participate in a video where we’ll be stuck in a car for 24 hours with the triplets and Arrington. Despite the fact that Matt and I wouldn't be able to spend a lot of alone time together, I was eager to record the video.

We’re at Larray’s house at first, him introducing the guests of todays video

“You know, let’s just cut the bullshit. Introducing the three same-face people!” Larray states as the triplets walk into frame together, doing different poses into the camera.

“Also Arrington with Nora!” He once again states as me and Arrington now walk into frame, also doing different poses and Arrington walks up to the camera. ( outfit here )

“I look like Naomi Campbull” He says and drags out the last word in a playfully confident tone as Larray stands next to him, holding his cat Coochie.

“Campbell’s chicken noodle soup” Larray chimes in between giggles before earning a laugh out of everyone in the room, different variations of laughter fill the room and bounce off the walls.

Everyone says their name and Larray explains what we’ll be doing in the video, funny quotes were made during the beginning of the video before we got into the main subject of the video.

»»————-　★　————-««

We were in the car already, driving to target to buy some things we think we might think we’ll need to survive the 24 hours in the car.

Larray is in the drivers seat along with Nick in the passengers seat next to him, Chris and Arrington were in the back as Matt asked if he could sit with me in the total back for obvious reasons.

Our close friends obviously knew we were dating its just that we didn’t want the internet to find out since like I said it ca be pretty sensitive to relationships between the triplets.

As we buckled up Matt sneakily placed his hand on my thigh, making sure it’s not very visible for the cameras vision.

Nick and Larray were mostly in charge with the music but didn’t know what to play right now, handing the phone to the back.

“Can you play like ‘Super Base’ or something that we all know?” Larray says, looking into the back then back at the road.

“Yessss” Nick draws out, agreeing with playing songs similar or the song ‘Super Base’ before Matt suddenly chimes into the song recommendations.

“Play- No! Play ‘Throw Sum Mo’ ” the whole car erupts with ‘uuu’s and ‘oo’s hyping up Matt.

“Oh shit, okay Matty Pooh” Larray joked before adding in “Matt you a bad bitch” with the same tone as before, Chris has the phone from where the music is being played and I decide to chime in.

“Didn’t know you were such a baddie, Matt” I giggled as Chris played the song and everyone started to sing along to it.

As we’re driving, some road rage starts to create before it suddenly turns from hostile to all cute when I noticed a couple going to see the movie ‘Barbie’ in theaters.

“Guys look, they’re going to see Barbie!” I cheer, pointing at the couple walking into the building while holding hands. It makes me think back to when I forced Matt to take me to see ‘Barbie’ and he enjoyed it more than me after it all.

The car fills with cute sounds and the word ‘cutee’ drawn out by Nick, the atmosphere softens a bit after the slight road rage before.

»»————-　★　————-««

After a pretty fun car ride to target we finally get to our destination, be split off into groups of two. Nick with Larray, Chris with Arrington and Me and Matt decided to go together, all of us grabbed one camera and we all enter target.

“Hello and welcome to target with me and Matt.” I speak into the camera as I raise it into the air, making me and Matt more visible in the cameras lense.

“What should we get?” Matt questions, glancing around the aisles and thinking about what we should get.

“Definitely some snacks and maybe some games to entertain ourselves?” I suggest and follow behind him on looking around the aisles.

“What about books?”

“Yeah I’m not reading a book, ever.”

I pause the recording and we walk into the snack aisle, when Matt realizes the recording is paused and no one is around anymore his hand wraps around my waist from behind as he gives me a slight peck on the cheek.

Chuckling at his sudden affection we start to look at all of the snack choices on the shelves, my eyes immediately land on a pack of fruit roll-ups and Matt follows behind me.

I turn the recording back on and raise the camera up into the air. Matt is the first one to speak up and takes control of the camera.

“So we’re at the snack aisle and this kids eyes fucking lit up after seeing fruit roll-ups” He comments jokingly but looking serious at the same time.

Dramatically gasping I turn my head to look at him with an offended face, putting a hand on my chest for a more dramatic scenery.

He only chuckles and points the camera at me, showing my reaction to the audience.

“The audacity of this man is unbelievable” Stating with drama dripping from my tone only heightens the dramatic level.

“You’re being over-dramatic”

“I’m being dramatic enough”

He laughs and I start to laugh too, grabbing the bag of fruit roll-ups anyway and showing them off to the camera.

“It’s like, huge! How can you miss up on an opportunity like this?” I say excitedly and point at the bag, showing the viewers how big it is but Matt only rolls his eye at me being excited over a big bag of fruit roll-ups. He knows damn well they’re my favorite so eh can’t really judge me.

We laugh it off and move onto getting something to drink, Matts hands are on me full time but out of view whenever its on my waist or in the belt-loops of my jeans, dragging me away from the book aisles as well as the home decor aisle, knowing we’ll be there for at least an hour.

Heading towards the drinks aisle Matt pauses the recording once again and rushes me into the quiet drink aisle, putting our cart to the side as well as the camera in the baby seat.

Matt grabs ahold of me and pulls me into a quick kiss, I return the kiss immediately and looking at the space surrounding us if anyone is around.

He runs the tip of his tongue across my bottom lip, demanding entry and when I give him access to the inside of my mouth it slowly turns into a little make out session in target.

The session is shortly interrupted by Nick and Larray sneaking up on us and scaring us, causing me to jump out of Matt’s arms.

“Whatcha guys doing, making out in the middle of Target?” Larray asks, looking at us with slight tease as long with Nick and me a Matt already know this isn’t gonna end well.

“Nick, don’t you even fucking dare start.” Matt warns Nick more playfully than a normal person would especially to their sibling, he subconsciously pulls me closer to his side by placing his hand on my hip.

“Pump the hate breaks, I didn’t say anything yet” Nick answers, the teasing slipping past his words but being barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. I chuckle softly under my breath at Nicks reply but pretend to cough when Matt looks down at me.

“We’re supposed to film a video, not have you guys making out off camera” Larray chimes into the conversation now, glancing between me Nick and Matt.

“What do you guys want anyways?” Matt questions to get off the topic of the little make out session we had in the middle of a target aisle that got interrupted by the guys.

“Oh nothing, maybe let’s just give you guys some alone time. Right Larray?” Nick says and looks over at Larray, nudging him on the arm before flashing him a secret message behind a teasing smile I can’t quite decipher.

Larray nods his head in understanding and they walk off into a different aisle, finally leaving us alone still being in the drink aisle.

I poke Matt into the side of his waist before looking up at him with an almost knowing look, him doing the same and glancing down at me and knowing damn well what I’m gonna say.

“I told you before we started filming to not do shit like this in public” I state as Matt just dismisses me with a small knowing chuckle and pulling me closer to his side.

“Oh cmon, don’t try to deny you didn’t enjoy that” He proclaimed and knowing the answer that’ll come out of my mouth as a small teasing smirk grows on his lips.

“I never said I didn’t, but maybe do it in a more private place next time.” With that said, I turn to look at the drinks to take to the car for the 24 hour challenge to move on from this topic.

“Okay, princess. Then let’s go to a place like that, hm?” Hearing the words leave his mouth in a soft whisper brushing against the shell of my ear sends a shiver down my spine and a jolt of pleasure between my legs.

“We’re filming a video, we can’t just leave” I reply, looking up at him with a doubting glimpse in my eyes.

"Why not?" He questions my claim, slighty pouting to try and convince me tp go somewhere pricvate with him. He uses them whenever he wants something since he knows I cannot resist them, especially right now.

He looks at me like a kid at his mother, begging her to buy them a way to overpriced toy only in this situation, he wants to toy with me and not an actual toy.

I think about his request, where would we even go or how would we even do it? I dont think theres a bathroom in this store, in the car we have to film the video so thats a no too.

"Where would we even go?" I ask, tilting my head to the side in question. Genuinely not knowing where we would go and what he could mean by 'somewhere private' when theres not really a place we could go.

"I know a way we could be alone" A mischevious smirk grows on his face as I start to sense an idea and as he continues to shop like nothing ever happened a moment ago I try to gauge out any hints of what the idea could possibly consist of but damn he’s hard to read.

| - 🍂 - |

We all finished shopping and as we were checking out it started to get slightly dark outside, creating a slight dark atmosphere when we all reunited in the car and drove away from the stores parking lot and back to Larray’s house to film the remainder of the video now and I still don’t know what Matt’s plan is.

All of us get into the car into the same seats we’ve been in before, I lean over closer to Matt’s ear as my words graze the shell of it when I speak in a soft whisper so the others can’t hear me as they all chat.

“So, are you gonna tell me your master plan or keep me in the dark?” I notice a shiver run down his spine as I whispered into his ear which caused a small smirk to faintly outline my lips.

“Just follow my lead” He whispers back and turns his head to the group, getting their attention with a simple raised ‘hey’. All of their heads turning towards us in the back.

“What is it Matt?” Chris is the first one to speak in a curious tone, tilting his head to the side in question

“I think I forgot to take something out of my car, I’ll be right back” He says and starts to head out of the car, silently signaling for me to do the same with a head not.

I scramble out of the backseat as well and stand next to Matt as he grabs the handle of the car door and closes it, grabbing ahold of my arm he leads me to his car that’s not far away from where the others are.

“Are you sure about-“ Before the full sentence could leave my mouth, I was already being pinned against the side of the car and his lips smashes on mine kissing me with hunger and dominance.

I melt into the kiss, attempting to match his rhythm as well as I could. His hands attach to my body, wandering up and down my sides and squeezing my hips.

His hands hesitantly detach from my side as we pull away from each other, his hand going to open the door leading to the backseat of the car, practically pushing me inside.

We continue or makeout session in the backseat of his car, him laying my body down as he crawls on top of me. His hand snakes down between my legs and plays with the waist band of my jeans.

A soft bite is delivered to my bottom lip which makes a soft whimper escape my mouth and transfer into his.

Deciding to tease him back I bump up my leg, circling my knee around his clothed dick and giggling at the noises leaving past his lips.

He pulls away from me and leans closer into my ear, hot labored pants puff against the shell of my ear as he speaks in a seductive whisper.

“Whatcha doing there, hm? You want something?” The words send a shiver down my spine as I take a deep breath to try and suppress the growing burn between my legs.

“Mhm” I hum out, words refusing to leave my mouth in any shape or form as heavy breathing fills the cars space around us.

Thinking he’s had his fun already, let me take control now. I push him forward and against the door of the car, making my way on top of him and grazing my hand against the bulge in his jeans.

“You’re planning something, princess. And I’m not complaining” Those are the last words I needed to hear from him before unzipping his jeans and hooking my fingers into the waistband of his jeans as well as his boxers.

I pull them down in one swift move, freeing his growing erection to my eyes. Bringing my mouth close to the tip I wrap my lips on it, swirling my tongue around the sensitive head before going down and slowly bobbing my head up and down.

His head falls back against the window of the car door, whimpers and small praises fall from his lips as his hand crawls up to my hair and creates a ponytail.

“Just like that… oh fuck” He moans out, dragging out the last words. Sharp inhales and exhales fill the air as I slowly increase my pace, wrapping my hand around the base of his dick when I try to fit him all in my mouth.

“You can do it, princess… let me help you” With that said, he pushes my head down causing me to gag as the vibration shoots up and makes a juicy moan come past his mouth.

“You’re gonna be the death of me one day”

That’s my sign to go faster, stopping at the top and swirling my tongue around his sensitive head to tease him further.

With a moan ripping from him and one more bob of my head, he pushes my head down to take all of him in my mouth as he shoots his salty seed down my throat.

Some of it escaping through the corner of my mouth I lift my head up and Matts hand places itself on my cheek as his thumb wipes off the escaping seed and pushes back into my mouth.

“That’s a good princess” He praises as I swallow, my hands attach to his pants and pull them back up along with his boxers.

“Let’s go before the guys come looking-“ My sentence gets cut off by a knock on the car window, Matt moves away from it as the door opens revealing Chris on the other side.

“Dude, what the fuck are you guys doing in here so long?” Chris exclaims questionably and then he gets an idea of what we could have possibly done.

“None of your business, let’s go back to the video now.” Matt answers and steps out of the car and I follow close behind him, Chris decided to question him later and just shuts up for now.

All of us walk back to the car and return to the video like nothing ever happened.

authors note: this took wayyy longer than it supposed to be, I took some of the quotes from the video as I was re-watching it and writing this at the same time so just a little touch to it and I hope you guys enjoyed!

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[lacystar]

The Maruki Labs Psychological Assessment - a Persona 5 fanfic formatted into a Uquiz. Answer honestly so we can tailor make a reality that best suits you!

Just like a real intake forum!*

Based on the psychological test puzzle in Maruki's palace!

21 questions to assess your mental wellbeing!

One fabulous free-write question to share your biggest dreams with Dr. Maruki!**

10 possible "endings!" (1 for each Phantom Thief!)

*Not at all like a real intake forum

**im not dr Maruki please dont actually look to me for therapeutic advice. actually, dont look to maruki for therapeutic advice either 😭

Inspired by the Jubilee Line Satisfaction Survey by @/peninkwrites

[wisteriasymphony]

Coin operated boy, with a pretty coin operated voice... "You mean the boy I idealized so much I see him as an inhuman being who could never say no to me is actually not human and actually can't say no to me? That's the best news ever! My worldview gets to stay unchallenged!"

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.