#maw : and some red paint here... and some red paint over there...

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 31: The Flower In The North

Content warning: Sukuna POV, blood, mentions of wounds, mentions of mass death, cannibalism.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

The Arrival - Jan J. Močnik Sanctified - Nine Inch Nails

Chapter 30 | Chapter 32

Seven years ago…

The sky warns of a coming calamity, staining the northern horizon red.

A fire scorches the land, rolling over thatched roofs, devouring trees, destroying homes, swallowing lives. It moves like a living thing, yet the ground it leaves behind is dead. Bodies lie together in mounds, scattered like refuse, littering the soil, choking the grass in every direction.

Some manage to drag themselves free from the burning wreckage and crawl. But they struggle, mouth agape and wailing in agony, their charred skin peels away from the bone like melting tallow.

From his seat, crossed-legged on a cool patch of green, the King of Curses watches. He watches them struggle. He watches while he eats. And as he eats, he waits.

It has only taken him hours, leading into the summer night, to lay waste to three villages in succession. Soon, this nameless village in the north will be nothing. Soon, it will vanish, and he will destroy one final place before returning south, his retribution complete.

Clutching at the mutilated corpse of a woman with his lower hands, Sukuna lifts the meat and rips off a chunk of fat. He’s been gorging all day, yet hunger still leaves him empty. Dissatisfied by the lack of resistance and bored with the idea that this would all end here today.

He tears off another bite.

Blood crawls its way down his chin, and the maw on his stomach opens, the tongue rolling out to catch any stray pieces of stringy flesh and bits that don’t make it down his throat.

Bite and swallow.

Swallow and wait.

On and on and on.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The desperate slap of tiny feet against the ground catches his ears. He pauses, fingers flexing around the soft mound of the body’s torso. His apathetic upper eyes remain fixed ahead, but he dips his chin, angling his lower pair toward the noise disrupting his meal.

Two children rush out from the cloud of smoke, coughing, and hand in hand, they skid to a halt under his scarlet gaze. Their soot-streaked faces glisten, tracks of tears falling from their wide eyes round like moons. Behind them, the fire roars, casting shadows that stretch unnaturally long, as if they belong to adults instead. Trembling and alone, they freeze, hoping to slip past the monster unnoticed.

The King of Curses only stares, chews, and then swallows. One child sniffles, then blinks, shuffling on burned feet. The sting of smoke pulls more tears to their eyes while the other openly weeps, tugging urgently at their companion’s hand.

Tch. Pathetic.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He simply eats and watches, blood bubbling up from his mouth and dripping down to the grass.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he mutters, his words lost, muffled by the stomach lining lodged between his teeth. “Leave.”

The children don’t wait; they take it as a sign to flee and bolt, their footsteps retreating into the collective dim. Sukuna doesn’t spare them another glance but listens to the frantic murmur of their escape, the sniffling and sobbing.

“Noisy fucking brats,” he huffs, their cries fading into the distance. 

Children were always obnoxiously loud in his presence, always crying and trembling and screaming like little pests buzzing at his ears. Their inquisitive stares and nascent ideas about his “ugly mask” and extra limbs irritate him like an itch.

Canines tearing into another bit of flesh, he watches the massive fire rage before him, painting his skin in colours of a sunset—fiery reds, molten oranges, and streaks of gold dancing across the night.

He keeps eating.

Eating, chewing, swallowing, watching, waiting.

Seconds stretch into minutes, then minutes into an hour.

The blaze grows, the masses of bodies blacken, and soon, they foul the air into a thick putrid stench.

Impatience settles over him. This was taking too long. A fire of this scale, the magnitude of slaughter impressive enough that it should have dragged a vulture from its nest.  

Still, he’s forced to wait. But when the moon squats high, and half the woman’s body in his grasp has been consumed, Sukuna pauses. His bare chest and sirwal soaked in gore.  

The scream of a horse fractures the night. He lifts his head, ears tracking the sound.  

Then comes another shrill whine.  

And another.  

And another.

And another.

These are uneasy shrieks, cutting through from beyond the treeline to his right. There lies the untouched forest, free from his carnage, its shadows providing the perfect cover for cowards.  

His smile twists into something ugly.  

The snake, Kasai Takuma, has finally arrived, and his reputation precedes him. Sukuna knows he’s there, with his other clansmen, refusing to come close, choosing only to observe from a distance.  

They’ve likely never laid eyes on anything like him before. Few ever had. And when they do, it’s always the same.

Disgust. Disgust at the impurity of his body. Revulsion at his abnormalities. An ill omen to be titled and cursed. A language of violence—one he knows very well.

Rolling the torso off his lap, Sukuna stands, sliding a hand through his hair before he stretches, his neck cracking. All four of his eyes turn skyward to the inky black curve of the world, tinged bright where it dips toward the earth.

He inhales a breath.

If Kasai is here, then his estate is unguarded, which means his family—his wife and two daughters are alone. Perfect. Let a hand reach out in the dark and strip this man of everything, beginning with the woman carrying his next heir.

His feet are already moving.

Using the play of shadow and smoke for cover, Sukuna picks his way unnoticed through the mess at his feet. He slips away to where his mount waits, tethered in silence and from there, he rides off.

* * * * *

The clop of hooves on mossy ground is a dull beat that accompanies him as he guides his horse through the forest north toward the compound, taking only the backroads. Gaining information on the snake had been fairly easy, especially given how guarded Takuma has been about certain aspects of his life. Still, knowing a man capable of inhibiting another’s body with a simple switch of his brain has proven useful. Though, Sukuna doesn’t doubt he’ll owe a debt one day.

After some time, he reigns in his mount to a stop. If he plans to descend upon the estate, he prefers to keep the animal at a distance, away from the chaos to come.

Dismounting, he tethers it to a low-hanging branch of a tree, giving it a pat before turning away. Ahead, through the brush, a river glimmers silver and winding through the verdant dim. Sirwal already ruined, Sukuna walks toward it and pushes in. Bare feet sinking into the soft silt of the riverbed, he exhales, savouring the coolness lapping at his legs.

Nature has always fascinated him. Years without a home taught him to depend on its offerings. Plants, animals, and flowers. They all possess a dual power—they can provide aid and comfort or bring suffering and death, their beauty often concealing their danger.

Stepping in deeper, the water sloshes lazily around his ankles before rising to submerge his calves. He glances down, watching the ripples spread outward, tiny waves shining with the refracted light of stars and the pustular moon peeking through the lush canopy above.

Among the reflections, his four eyes glow like coals shoved into a pit and left to burn. He blinks down at his distorted visage, then crouches, the movement pulling the scent of fire and blood from the fabric of his garment.

Cupping his upper hands into the glassy surface, he lets the cool liquid tickle his skin before lifting them. He takes a sip, washing away the traces of iron still clinging to his tongue. Swallowing, he dips his head for a second taste, his forehead brushing against the cup formed by his fingers.

A prickle spreads across his skin. He pauses, feeling it again, stronger this time.

His lower eyes slip downward, tracing the sudden goosebumps rising unnaturally along his forearms and creeping higher.

Odd.

Dropping the water, he runs a fingertip over the raised flesh. It’s not the chill of the river causing it.

It’s something else.

There’s a change in the air—a faint hum, a low buzz, a pressure steadily building, trembling, climbing higher and higher, eating away at him like a disintegration as though something bottled up is about to shatter into a thousand tiny, little pieces.

It commands his attention.

All of it.

Rare.

The goosebumps begin to crawl higher and faster, spreading up his arms, across his chest, down his back, and along his spine. A sensation like warm fingers gliding across skin. There’s only surprise when, for a heartbeat, all four of his eyes roll back. 

He clenches his jaw.

His focus sharpens.

The sensation intensifies.

It builds.

And builds.

And builds.

And—  

CRACK! 

The world vibrates with such a force it momentarily disrupts every thought inside his head.

The King of Curses quickly rises from the water, river droplets splattering off him, smacking loudly onto the surface. He tips his head. A bit of concentration, and there—a sense of direction. The source.  

In an instant, he moves. Fast.  

Feet punching into the undergrowth, he goes, almost entirely forgetting after all these years what he’s truly here for. But whatever the hell is causing this, he wants to indulge in it. He wants to crush it into the ground, to consume it entirely, watch it burn as bright as it possibly can, and then see it snuff out. 

Further and further, he moves north, trees rushing past, rocks, and brush, everything a blur. Following the energy’s pattern is simple enough. Whoever it is has no control over it. It's leaking off in irritating waves, pulling, subsiding, and then crashing down against him again and again.  

When it leads him to what appears to be the limestone barrier marking the edge of a compound, he slows. It’s gaudy enough, matching the description he was given as Kasai. But Kenjaku revealed nothing about a sorcerer being present.

Slipping into the shelter of a grove cut from dense foliage, Sukuna moves closer to the back of the estate, but his brow furrows. The source of the energy is barreling straight toward him. A falling star on a collision course.

His pulse begins to thrum in rhythm with it, the pressure nudging him forward, urging him. He only takes one more step before a girl, barefoot and covered in blood, crashes through the yews, forcing him to pull back into the bramble and mask himself.

A distant, urgent voice follows after her, another coming, another’s energy. Not one but two sorcerers.

Dipping into the shadows, Sukuna stays close to the trunks until he reaches a break and sinks low into the undergrowth, crouching on his haunches.

At last, he sees them. 

The bloodied one sobs uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking, while the other leans close, murmuring softly and running her hands through her hair. As he studies their features, the similarities become clear—their hair, the sound of their voices, the shared mannerisms.

Siblings.

Sisters.

Daughters.

Kasai’s daughters.

Tilting his head, he smirks. Fate, in all its befitting glory, can be such a cruel bitch.

Keeping his gaze on the sobbing one—which he considers the pathetic of the two, he watches as she suddenly pulls away from the other’s embrace. 

A few more soft words are spoken before there’s a swell in energy. The comforting one cups the other’s face, her thumbs tracing across her cheeks gently.

“No more tears, sister,” she soothes. 

Instantly, the pitiful one’s sobs come to an abrupt halt.

Interesting.

A single touch, a few words, and the other bends completely to her will. Such a subtle, devious skill and quite the weapon for a woman finding her footing in this world.

The sound of horses and men approaching in the distance calls their attention. Sukuna inclines his head. It appears he will have more than a family to slaughter now. He might as well take the entire clan down tonight.

Between the two girls, a few more words are exchanged, and there’s another throb of energy.

It’s clear that the comforting one knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s had months—years—of practice. Enough to perfect her methods because whatever she’s done, she’s left traces of herself all over her sister. Residuals of her will, twisting and breaking the girl’s mind, moulding her into an obedient, dutiful mutt. Something small. Something smothered.

A sibling’s love.

How traitorous a thing.

Red eyes piercing into the dark, the King of Curses watches the persuasive one retract her fingers and slip away, retreating back inside the barrier. She leaves behind the other—this crying, broken creature before him. And slowly, she begins to unravel further, descending into a pit of delirium.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

From where she stands below the moonlit trees, the first muttered confession spills out.

Disgust crawls across his face as he watches.

But then, it gets worse.

Her movements become erratic, her pacing uneven, hair falling over her features and hiding the tears he knows are there. Gaze tracking her, he follows the curve of her feet pressing into the grass, counting each time she turns.

One.

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Two.

“I killed her…”

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Three.

“I killed her…”

Madness licks at her heels.

So what if she had killed someone? Looking at her now, she seems incapable of such an act unless she’d been forced to. And that’s what he can sense all over her. She’s been manipulated—a girl who might have sought affection but was left with only a hollow imitation of it.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

He clicks his tongue, irritation rising as she becomes mindless.

This? This was what had drawn him here? A sick, rabid animal that should be put out of its fucking misery.

Turn. Pace.

All that untapped power trapped inside such a wretched, fragile girl, so easily controlled despite it.

Turn again.

She is undeserving. Untalented. Worthless.

Turn.

Sukuna stands.

Pace.

He takes a step.

Crack!

The branch at his foot splits the quiet like snapping bones.

She freezes.

And for half a heartbeat, so does he.

It falls silent.

Eventually, she turns, lifting her gaze to meet him directly. And finally, he sees you—your mouth, your eyes, your face. 

Everything.

Pulling free from the shadows, he steps into the grove’s clearing. Heel to toe, his feet whisper over the cool grass as he closes the distance, steady, unhurried, his four eyes never leaving your countenance.

At this moment, there are three things Ryomen Sukuna knows with absolute certainty.

First, you aren’t running. Whatever compulsion your sister has eating away at you, it keeps you rooted in place. Lucky for him. Second, even now, drenched in tears, gore, and blood, you are, against all reason… lovely. Third, a terrible chasm has just opened inside him, and it can only be filled by one thing.

“Fuga.”

Like a hearth breathing to life, heat bursts and takes shape within his palms, coalescing into a blaze that he twists and sharpens. His upper arm flexes, shoulder rolling back as he drags it tight into an arrow. His stance is solid, his grip firm, his aim locked on you.

There is no sympathy. Not for your father. Not for your sister. Not for your mother.

Especially not for you.

The arrow is drawn back further, his hand brushing the underside of his jaw, all four eyes fixed on his target.

A single breath in.

A single breath out.

Release.

And yet, a thread claws at the edges of his mind, snagging, pulling, refusing to be ignored.

He cannot release it.

The very idea sickens him, and his mouth pulls back into a sneer, his shoulders bunching as his muscles coil and strain.

He draws back again, further with more force so that the fire trembles, embers snapping and scattering like shards of glass.

Draw. Aim. Exhale.

Release.

But he hesitates.

This should be simple.

So why does his hand falter?

You’re the daughter of a man who has taken from him. A bastard who reshaped his world before he even entered it. Now, that same kindness will be returned.

He draws back again. Further. Further.

Through the sweltering blaze, your wide eyes meet his, their shining surface reflecting the glow of the flames.

Red, red, red.

He huffs.

Lowering his arms, the fire dies at his sides, leaving the air charged with lingering heat. His mouth twists into a faint pout, frustration of a different kind winding its way through his body.

“Perhaps taking its head is the answer,” he grumbles before walking towards you.

Muscles straining, he moves closer until he’s in arms reach, scarlet gaze mapping every part of you. Your robe is soaked in blood, clinging to your frame, spattered with viscera. Whatever you’ve done, it was messy.

Badum, badum, badum.

The pulse at your neck jumps, the only sign you’re growing nervous. Otherwise, you’re still—frozen in place, barely daring to breathe.

When he reaches you, he crosses his upper arms over his chest, tilting his head. Compared to him, you’re a mere wisp of a thing, this frail creature standing before him.

Slowly, Sukuna falls to his haunches, his knees spreading to cage you between them. His lower arms rest on his thighs while the upper pair remain crossed, looming above.

“So pathetically… small,” he murmurs while looking into your eyes, which are wide and unfocused in the murk. Perhaps a side effect of what your sister has done.

Cocking his head, he reaches out with his lower left hand, pinching your jaw and lifting your face for a better look.

“But look at these glittering eyes of yours,” he coos, mockingly. “So much emotion trapped behind them.”

His thumb brushes along your chin, skirting upward, avoiding the path of your tears. The touch is absurdly light—absurd because gentleness is foreign to him.

He has never touched anyone like this before.

You should be dead by now. Dead because that was the promise he made to himself long ago.

All of the Kasai family. Gone.

Wet lashes falling downward, Sukuna notices your eyes dropping to your hemline. Following your attention, he sees the bloody feet of yours. Where his feet are placed on either side, he can swallow you whole.

“Little indeed,” he smirks, brushing a streak of gore from the sleeves of your yukata before licking the blood from his fingertips. “Looks like your hands took the life of another, haven’t they?”

The truth is obvious from the deranged mutterings he heard earlier. I killed her… I killed her.

There’s a nod, the movement of your head stunted and small.

“Who?” he asks, voice silk-wrapped, as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, curving a finger down the cartilage.

To his surprise, you shiver and relax slightly, though your eyes still blink dumbly, and you shift on your feet as if eager to run, but he knows you can’t.

“Mother.” It’s only an utterance, and he barely catches it, sounding more like a plea than anything else.

Looming in the distance, the noises of the returning horses and men swell, making you spin your head in that direction.

A decision needs to be made. Now.

Sukuna’s gaze lifts. All he can hear is your racing heart, screaming to hide. His eyes dance back to you before nudging your attention on him again.

“What has she done to you, hm?” he mumbles, swiping his thumb along your temple. He watches your eyes grow heavy, comforted once more by such a small, insignificant touch.

Strange.

Someone with this much power is not meant to cower or be afraid.

You should be like him.

You could be like him.

If given a chance—but here, you never will.

A flower unable to flourish will wither and die, and he wonders what you might become if allowed to bloom. Not smothered. Not kept small. Somewhere else, perhaps. Elsewhere in time.

“Flower of the north…” he muses, rising slowly to tower over you. “So easy to crush, and yet so beautiful.”

With footsteps approaching, he knows the other daughter is coming. Her power saturates the air in thick waves. Fingers, he does not want touching him.

Peering down, he takes one last look at you before stepping away, leaving you behind.

For now.

But his plans have reshaped, folding into something new. In time—years, perhaps—he’ll find you again. And when he does, he’ll ensure that this decision to let you live will be worth far more than it is now.

* * * * *

Present…

“Why were you there that night?”

The wood of the verandah creaks beneath Sukuna’s weight as he steps outside. A cooler breeze has replaced the warmth from earlier in the day, its force rattling through the trees surrounding the shrine, lifting the edges of his sirwal and hair.

Ignoring your question, he continues walking, descending the steps into his private garden. Dry, brittle grass crackles at the soles of his feet. 

“Answer me!”

Your voice hits his back again, louder this time, not tampered down by the wind. Not tampered down by anything anymore.

“Sukuna!”

His name. Not my Lord.

He stops walking.

He always did like the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. There’s always a hesitation to it, as if you’re unsure how to wield it. And when you do, it always comes paired with an emotion—pleasure, submission, anger. Like now. 

It’s refreshing, really, to have all the pretenses stripped away. With niceties gone, everything laid bare, he can see what you truly are.

Finally.

He turns.

In the doorway to his chambers, you still look so small compared to him, just as you did the first time you met. But now, the pale fabric of your yukata, swallowed by the dim and streaked red where he cut you, gives you a fierceness you didn’t possess then. And in that, he has given you a gift you aren’t even aware of. He tore you from your family, and look at you now—sneaking into his chambers in the dead of night, seeking his ruin. Once, you were nothing. Now you’re finally coming into your own. 

“To kill the Kasai lineage so I could taste your father's suffering,” he states calmly. “That meant ending you, your sister, your mother, and the unborn maggot growing inside her.”  

There’s a pause.

A gust of wind hurls itself between the two of you. 

“Why?”  

Your voice is quiet, trembling at the edges, but his gaze slides from your lips to your eyes, catching the moment the last traces of affection for him empty and die. 

Good.

They were only a useless collection of emotions anyway.  

Your hate and violence—that’s what he wants. And now, he’ll have them tenfold. Unlike before, when you buried them under restraint. There were always flashes of fury, but nothing like what he’ll see now. You’ll leave this world not sobbing, not pleading, but fighting. And he’ll be the one to give you that ending.

“Because your father deserved to have his life stripped away,” he replies coolly, crossing his upper arms over his chest. “He was a sickness that killed the land and left others to rot in lives they did not choose.”

“So all of this…” You step onto the verandah, your hands curling into fists, your left tightening around the tantō you retrieved from the floor. “...this union…”

He watches you take a breath, then blink as confusion and desperation start to ease into anger.

“What the hell do you want from all of this!?”

“You!” Sukuna snarls loudly. 

Your mouth curls into a nasty smile before inclining your chin.

“Me?” you grind out.

“You. You were the one thing keeping me from taking everything apart that night,” he growls, striding toward the steps where you stay rooted at the top of them. “Not because I couldn’t kill you, but because I wanted to. I wanted to rip you apart, scatter the pieces, and let the earth swallow you whole. But I couldn’t. Something in you clawed at me, wrapped itself around my lungs, and squeezed. And don’t misunderstand,” he spits, eyeing you up and down. “It’s not affection. There’s a power in you begging to be unearthed. A fire smothered by hands that keep you small, blind to anything beyond the obedient bitch you’ve always been."

He knows you won’t believe him if he tells you about your sister. Force-feeding you the truth never works. But your reaction to Yuna’s name always amuses him. The first time he mentioned her, your energy flared—briefly, beautifully—before you fled instead of fought. That was when he chose a different tactic: to learn you, find your weaknesses, exploit them.

“You’ll show me that tonight.” He gestures to the space between you two before he turns and saunters into the garden. “I’ll be the one to drag it out of you.”

Laughter hits his back, and he turns to see your head tipped back, howling like a damn animal as you slowly make your way down the steps.

“All I got from that nonsense,” you say, pausing to catch your breath and stifle your laughter, “is that you’re fucking insane!”

“Am I?” he snaps, anger flaring in his eyes. “Look at yourself! Seven years ago, two months even, you were nothing. Weak. Small. But now, standing in my chambers, staring me down, demanding answers. You’ve grown. I took you because I wanted to see what you could become, away from that wretched family of yours.”

But the truth, still buried deep where he can’t fully face it, is that he’s been drowning in you for months, maybe years. And it’s been far too long.

He knows too much now. 

He knows all the little things you like. How you light up when he stares at you just a moment too long, when others might feel discomfort, but you’ve grown to revel in it. How you study him, your eyes tracing his form when you think he isn’t looking. How badly you want to touch the right side of his face, your gaze always drifting there, trying to decide what it is. He knows how much you crave his touch. He knows how nervous you’ve become around him, your hands fidgeting as if to distract yourself from desires you refuse to admit.

A distraction.

That was it.

You are a distraction.

Ending your life will finally bring air back into his lungs. Because he’s been submerged in you for far too long, tangled in your human emotions—emotions he should have left alone.

Once you’re gone—after all, it was you who took both your parents—perhaps he’ll finally hunt down Yuna. Then again, he wouldn’t be surprised if that serpent slithers her way here once she hears of what happens tonight. Because he knows what she’s been up to—carving her own path, gathering alliances, likely manipulating her way into the three major clans and climbing even higher.

Eventually, she’ll come for him. They all will.

And once again, you are the distraction he doesn’t need or want when that happens.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of your footsteps pulls his thoughts back. Padding softly down the stairs, then muffled by the grass, they carry you closer until you come to stand before him. 

Sukuna’s top lip curls back, and he steps forward, closing the space between you in a single stride. Toe to toe, his upper arm rises, fingers trailing to the wound along your jaw. Not wanting his opponent to bleed out too soon, he presses two fingers against it.

Four eyes crashing into yours, he slowly swipes along the wound, feeling you tense under his touch and the sting of his healing.

“As I said,” he whispers, his hand falling to his side, flexing once at the lingering sensation. “You die here tonight.”

He crosses the garden, putting distance between you before turning back, anticipation threading through his body.

“Either you let the vow kill you for refusing, or you show me, just once, what you can do. Besides, you should be honoured by this privilege.”

You say nothing, and he waits, staring at you. Staring at the tantō he’d given you, gripped so tightly in your hand that your knuckles have turned—

He squints.

From knuckles to fingertips, a web of vein-like discolouration climbs up your hands. A sign your energy is spilling out in erratic bursts, and you don’t even understand how to control it.

He chuckles.

What would happen if he let you touch him with those fingers of yours?

Heartbeat pounding in his teeth, Sukuna feels his blood sliding through his veins, thick, like molten iron.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

“Well?” he croons, flaring his eyes and rolling his neck casually. “Let's get this over with. I’m eager to see you drip red for me again.”

Gaze leaping to your face, he watches for any sign of anger dancing across your eyes. There’s still so much of it buried there, aching to be unleashed.

He can help with that, using the intimacy he’s pried from you as a weapon. Like a flower—beautiful on the surface, until the petals are stripped away, leaving nothing but the bare stem.

“What was it,” he asks, his voice almost tender, “that made you start to lose your heart to me?”

A muscle feathers along the curve of your jaw, lashes flickering for a second. He can tell you don’t particularly like this question, and it makes his grin widen.

“Was it when I protected you? Took that polearm into my body?" He tilts his head to the side. "Or was it something else? Something much more intimate?”

The question lingers in the air.

The moon spills over you like milk, brightening the shadows in your pretty eyes as they lock with his. Slowly, you lift your chin.

Defiance suits you.

“No,” you say, simply, widening your stance.

His grin sharpens. He’ll drag your anger out one way or another. But he’ll enjoy playing with you first.

A sudden gust of wind tosses your hair wildly across your face, momentarily obscuring the creeping darkness in your features. But he catches it—a subtle twitch at the corners of your mouth, pulling at the bow of your lips, the one he’s always found himself watching.

A smile.

Interesting.

You are such a fascinating thing when faced with your own death.

His teeth flash viciously in response, his four eyes devouring you.

You.

His flower.

His possession.

His property.

His wife.

His to kill.

His.

Always.

Mine.

His upper right arm swings up aggressively, but before he can react further, you turn abruptly. Yukata snapping in the breeze, you give him your back, take a step, and then—

You’re gone.

Running.

His brow crashes down, eyes narrowing to angry red slits as your figure bursts through the wilting foliage, racing toward the forest.

That fucking forest.

He tosses back his head and laughs, the sound manic and crazed.

Are you really going to make him chase you?

How nostalgic—one last tumble through those woods.

“Keep running!”

You foolish girl. Idiot girl.

“Stupid girl!” he snarls through his teeth, taking a step forward. His energy uncoils in a violent wave, vibrating and reaching for yours, which he can feel fraying and unravelling in panic.

He grins as adrenaline pours through him, his strides lengthening as he follows. You disappear past the lumbering treeline, falling into the dark maw of the night, but your residuals alight the ground like a map.

You always were easy for him to find.

Always.

And as the King of Curses slips soundlessly into the forest, he knows this time will be different. When he stands before you again, in this final confrontation, there will be no hesitation. Unlike all those years ago, when he held back, this time he will burn you, slice you, consume you.

He will steal the very last breath from your lungs.

🔗 Chapter 32

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Happy update day!

Greenwarden, Eryinys, and TKP's chapter 1 updates are all coming along very smoothly. (Except for Greenwarden. Firstborn problem indeed. I ended up losing a ton of work -- including the whole library update -- and I got so mad I started working on a whole other route. Coming back to the library route soon, though. I have enough salvageable material, I just need to be Not Mad about it.) Here's some snippets!

CONTENT WARNING: Gore

GREENWARDEN

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Sprinting down the street doesn't even hurt, even if you do leave a long blood trail behind you. Your one hope is that the coyote is too preoccupied tearing chunks out of Eddie to pay attention to you. Hope is dangerous -- makes you cocky. Makes you make mistakes. You keep running toward what you think is safety, and you end up right at the edge of Warden Forest. Definitely not safety. You stop just before the mouth of the woods, breathing so hard you gag, your stomach half-open like a yawning mouth. Deep breaths hurt too much -- you can't bring yourself back to baseline. You risk losing your adrenaline rush if you do that anyway. Looking around looks the same. Woods and parking lot, woods and parking lot. There's a trail right ahead of you, tempting you inside. The click of nails against asphalt makes you whirl around. The damn coyote is right behind you, still licking gristle from its teeth.

ERINYS

Marik leads you to a corner covered in paper thin monitors. Cords feed into the biggest computer you may have ever seen, protected from the water and soap by thick rubber casing and a raised platform surrounded by guardrails painted yellow and black. The ramp vibrates under heel. You realize, with a start, that the computer and monitors are much lower to the floor than you'd expect, just as the engineer wheels around to face you both. "Sorenson," Marik says. The engineer grins with a mouthful of pearly white teeth and leans back in his chair, arms folded over his stomach. He's all hard planes. Built with lean muscle, broad-shouldered like DANIEL is, but with a shock of curly red hair and a mess of dark freckles. He has a dimple on his nose. "Marik," Sorenson says, wheeling his chair back to make room for you both. "All systems good. I'm running tune-up software now, just to make sure. Everything is brand new, but still. Can't be too careful." He glances at you. Nothing escapes Marik's notice, even bent across the desk to glare into screens running codes and diagnostics and other things that make you dizzy. Absently, he introduces you to each other. The engineer's name is Doctor Matthew Sorenson. He looks awfully young to be a doctor. "Fury, huh?" Dr. Sorenson raises his eyebrows. You flex your hands. "Whatever keeps you alive, I guess."

THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

The Maw is a jagged white chalkscape. You have to march in single file, careful to avoid the razor sharp juts of rock. The horses are nervous -- the wolf packs and cave lions living in the Teeth have perfected the art of the ambush. Not just that -- the endless bone white expanse can cause the distracted to become easily lost. You keep close count of everyone -- you, Sibir, and Leniza -- their aunt. She gives the whole company water blessings on the way in. Salt water from the Archipelago, to fine their ways home. -> Not that you believe in blessings. You are a person of science. -> You give your own blessings when you can. You can never have too many gods at your disposal. -> You don't have an opinion on religion -- it's something that exists. Annoyingly prevalent, but what can you do?

I'm hoping at least one of these guys will be ready to publish by next month -- but I'm also writing another book! Because I'm crazy. So we'll see!

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

Part 5

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 1,8k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

More chapters

– AYLANA –

in the aftermath, she shines.

blue fire in her palms; bloody roses in her hair.

she rises out of the sea.

nothing burns as bright as she.

The heat was a relentless beast, even in the absence of the sun, clawing at me with its suffocating breath. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. I tossed and turned like a ship in a storm until I got a crick in my neck, the sheets twisting into a tangled prison. 

Finally, I heaved myself out of bed and stumbled towards the basin, splashing myself with its tepid water. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, but a blessed oblivion seemed miles away.

Resigned, I got dressed, twisted my hair into a messy braid, and approached the wall in the back corner of my chamber. My hands rummaged across the familiar nooks and crannies of its rocky facade. If my memory did not fail me, this is where …

The wall suddenly shuddered in protest as it ground open into a gaping maw of darkness.

Maegor’s tunnels.

I grinned with satisfaction and threw one look over my shoulder before I vanished into its jaws, the heavy stone door groaning shut behind me.

My ancestor, King Maegor Targaryen, had them built as a secret escape route, a spider’s web spun beneath the Red Keep itself. Legends whispered of treacherous passageways, some so narrow they forced grown men to crawl, some booby-trapped with deadly cunning. Some coursed right outside the royal apartments, allowing a hidden person to unravel the darkest secrets.

The darkness pressed against me, thick and alive with possibility. Wind wailed through unseen cracks and rats skittered across the floors. The oil lanterns, flickering like trapped souls on the rough-hewn walls, cast long, distorted shadows that danced at the edge of my vision. They grew scarcer the further I went. 

The lower I delved, the cooler the air became – a welcome change. Though, the rats appeared to grow larger down here. Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

I took a right turn, then a left turn, continued ahead forty paces, then turned left again, just as I remembered. It would not bode well to get lost in here.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering the ancient tunnels, a sliver of grey pierced the oppressive darkness. Relief surged through me, and I quickened my pace. The passage widened, and with a final heave, I pushed myself through the opening. 

The warm night air washed over me again as I exited onto a rocky ledge overlooking the Blackwater. Moonlight painted a shimmering path across its surface, the sereneness only disturbed by the pulse of King’s Landing’s unseen heart. The distant sounds of laughter, the clatter of carts, and drunken brawls drifted from above. 

I started down the stairs, raising my skirts as I went. The lapping waves whispered promises of cool relief, carrying a breeze in toward the land. The water - the singular antidote for my tenacious perspiration – looked so inviting I did not linger to shed my dress, allowing it to pool down my slicked body. The ground turned from rocks to sand beneath my feet, then, the seawater embraced me like a long-lost friend, its coolness seeping into my bones, washing away all the grime, tension and vigil that stained me. My arms churned, propelling me into the moonlit body of the Blackwater with long strokes. The Red Keep, a hulking silhouette against the star-dappled sky, receded with each powerful kick. Its lit windows like eyes, watching me full of judgement. But in that moment beneath the vast expanse of the night, my naked body submerged beneath the water, I was descended into pure, unadulterated freedom. I doused myself in the cool seawater and exhaled with relief. 

For the briefest second – no, rather five, I thought life as a common-born would be preferable to this gilded cage I was living.

A low rumble, like a distant drumbeat, sounded across the Blackwater. Thunder? I cast my gaze to the star-dusted canvas, unencumbered by clouds. It would be impossible. It rumbled anew, closer this time, a tremor that sent shivers down my spine and iced my veins. 

Then, a massive silhouette descended from the heavens, blotting out the moon with its immensity. My pulse leapt into my throat.

Vhagar.

Her great, tattered leather, stretched taut like sails, beat the air with a thunderous rhythm, propelling her colossal form towards the city. In the ethereal, silver-lit night she was a nightmare made real, a monstrous beauty, a morbid fascination that would’ve held me captive if it weren’t for the plaguing question at hand,

Was she carrying her rider? I wondered. The idea was disconcerting. Though, a strange quiver bubbled through my core as I watched her draw closer. 

And closer. 

Closer still.

Taking a deep breath, I submerged myself fully beneath the dark, counting seconds, listening to the eerie silence of the depths, until I watched Vhagar’s blurry form pass overhead through the water’s surface. 

Once I could no longer feel her thunder, I surfaced, filling my lungs.

The encounter left me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The cool allure of the water now felt distant, replaced by a chilling dread.

Had Aemond seen me? The question hammered in my skull, a relentless beating that drowned out any remaining peace, leaving me perturbed.

Would that if he was mounted at all? Vhagar might have just been flying all by herself. 

But if she wasn’t, what would bring him out at such a time? It was well into the hour of the wolf. 

Questions spun endlessly in my mind as I got myself to shore, not ceasing as I made my way into the tunnels. 

I decided I would not care whether or not I’d been exposed. 

I am the princess, I thought, a feeble attempt to anchor myself. Soon to be the heir to the Iron Throne. I can do what I like. Yet, the words tasted like ash in my mouth.

I could’ve relished the defiance of being seen, a secret rebellion against the court’s watchful eyes. But the consequences were too dire. A single word from Aemond to his mother, and the gossip would erupt into a wildfire, consuming my mother’s claim and scorching my legitimacy. 

Shame burned hot in my throat. The risk I had taken, the foolish yearning for a sliver of freedom, suddenly felt reckless.

Stupid fucking girl. My thoughts echoed in the silent tunnels. Why don’t you think twice?

But defiance flickered once again, a stubborn ember I liked to breathe life into.

It doesn’t matter what people think. 

The internal battle raged on, mirroring the fight for control in my shaking limbs. Twice, I nearly lost my way, the darkness reflecting the turmoil within me.

Reaching the upper levels, I ghosted past identical doors, taking great care in choosing the one to my apartments.

The silence, only momentarily interrupted by my breathing, took a sudden turn when I passed one of the doors.

“Pass me that, would you?”

A muffled voice came from behind it, and I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Without thinking, I pressed against the cool stone, trying to discern its owner.

“You’ve had enough.” Another voice, laced with vexation.

“Not nearly.”

A tremor of recognition shot through me, and nerves played beneath my skin.

“You drink more than a Braavosi Sealord.” Aemond’s voice was undeniable, a hint of resignation colouring his tone, a concession to his elder brother’s legendary indulge. 

Words or gestures were exchanged beyond my hearing.

“Don’t be a twat,” muttered Aegon, “You haven’t even touched your cup.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Suit yourself.” 

The sounds that followed painted a vivid picture: the scrape of a chair, a cup being drained with a heavy sigh, then a collapse back down.

“This Arbor gold has gone sour.”

“Dornish red,” Aemond corrected dryly.

Aegon scoffed. “Figures. Speaking of which, I’ve been told the so-called prince of Dorne graced us with his presence.”

“Indeed,” Aemond replied curtly.

“Cunt. Why is he here, anyway?” Aegon pressed.

“Private business, I believe.”

Aegon groaned theatrically. “Go on, brother, you always know more than that.” A playful edge crept into Aegon’s voice as he creaked in his chair.

“Find another source of gossip,” snapped Aemond.

Aegon groaned loudly.

“Mayhaps an abstemious habit might grant you access to firsthand information.”

Aegon mimicked him with slurred fraternal mockery, but Aemond did not retaliate, though the disdain that oozed from him was tangible.

“That’s why I have you,” said Aegon finally.

“Hmmph.”

“Not to worry, dear brother. I shall remain sober enough to mess with the Strong children.” Aegon rubbed his hands together vindictively, a grin in his voice. “The eldest one looked…”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Exceptionally tasty,” said Aegon salaciously.

Bile crept up my throat to his words, and my revolt was so strong I nearly retreated back into the tunnels, but a prickle of defiance held me rooted. Later, I’d curse that defiance.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aegon drawled, a cruel amusement in his voice, “I am merely reflecting your own… prior interest.” 

“You are mistaken.”

“To even think is to covet, dear brother.”

Venom poured into Aemond’s voice, “Aylana is as significant to me as a whisper in the Dragonpit.”

A strange ache bloomed in my chest.

“An illegitimate bastard styling herself as Velaryon,” he sneered. 

I could not bear to hear anymore. I pushed myself off the wall and continued my path forward, a curious emptiness hollowing me, a sticking feeling behind my eyelids. Aemond’s words, an endless echo in my mind, consumed me, to the point that I must have dissociated, for I could not recall how I reached my chambers. I had collapsed onto my bed, the emptiness and a bitter taste of betrayal warring within me, until blessed oblivion finally claimed me.

The press of bodies surrounded me endlessly, a pulsating mass that swayed to the relentless beat of the drums. As I filtered through their celebration, I found myself standing in front of the Iron Throne. Its jagged edges, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, seemed to drip with dark history.

“Your refreshment, princess.” Prince Marius Martell materialized beside me, offering me a goblet of emerald crystal, adorned with gold filigree. His dark gaze remained fixed on me as he took two large gulps of his wine. As I placed the rim to my lips, a choke tore from his throat. 

A crimson tide spilled from his mouth, and his eyes wept blood. Panic clawed at my throat. The goblet slipped from my grasp, clattering on the stone floor. Prince Marius crumpled into my arms, and I watched his slow, tremoring demise, infarctions webbing the veins of his throat, his eyes, wide and vacant, staring sightlessly through empty space as his body went still.

I awoke with a heart-wrenching gasp, clawing at my sheets desperately. The morning sun was pouring through the window like liquid gold and birds sang their performances. 

As my ragged breath calmed in my chest and reality dawned upon me, terror lingered, its cold, icy hands gripping my heart.

A shiver coiled down my spine. As much as I did not want to believe it, it would be foolish to ignore my heart’s indisputable warning. They had not come to me in years, yet this night I knew it to be true.         

It was a Dream – as clear as this room, as clear as my own name.

Something terrible was going to happen.

More chapters

[monstersandmaw]

A Star in the Dark - A retelling of the Minotaur of Crete story (m. minotaur x f. character, 3rd person, Chpt. 1, sfw)

Since there was some interest on Discord in seeing this WIP, here is chapter one in its entirety for Patreon supports of all tiers. 

Content: A young woman is given by her parents to be sacrificed to the monster in the labyrinth, and finds that maybe there's more to the Minotaur than she'd been led to believe. Passing mention of the death of a close friend in the past, and the practice of human sacrifice to the gods. 

Wordcount: 4161

Looking forward to your thoughts on this one! I'll probably put the whole story up on Tumblr at some point in the future, and so far I've got two and a half chapters, plus a few snippets, written. 

A salt-fresh wind swept in off the sea and set the flames of a hundred bronze braziers dancing across the flagstones in the fading light.

Those small fires guttered and roared in the gusting wind, and the young woman’s grim pretence at courage wavered. Ahead of her on a wide, half-moon platform that stretched like a stage devoid of all its players, seven shallow steps led down into the earth.

The walls of the narrowing staircase were faced in smooth, pale masonry, and the downward path seemingly ended at a sheer, vertical wall facing the steps, with no door or entryway onwards. Instead, the end of her journey would begin at the square of utter darkness that waited in the floor where an eighth step would have been, gaping and blank like the maw of a newly dug grave.

Barefoot, the grit beneath the soft soles of her feet dug into her skin, and the same wind that made the flames dance pulled at the folds of her undyed, linen peplos to send undulating ripples through the thin fabric. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and legs. The gold bracelets that adorned wrist and ankle did nothing to warm her and the wind snuck its fingers into the elaborate coils of her long, dark hair, unwinding them and freeing them from the golden net that had held them all in place.

She’d been made up to look like a bride, but instead of a wedding, she walked through the pageantry of her own funeral. She wished bitterly that those coils of hair atop her head would turn to snakes and strike at the two men walking three, silent paces behind her with their bronze spear tips levelled at the small of her spine.

Overhead, a line of ochre-red smeared across the sunset sky like a bloody finger painting, and the copper disc of the sun stained the sea a dark, murex purple as dusk gathered around the cliff-top palace, and her last moments in the light of Helios drew to a close.

The monumental limestone masonry of the royal palace shone out of the dusk like pale bone, and a woman with a kithara wailed shrilly to the insistent beat of seven great drums, their rhythm a second heartbeat in her ears.

Incense, thick and cloying, twisted through the air from the braziers and it burned her throat and lungs and made her eyes water as she passed them. She blinked away the tears that formed; they were not for these people, and she would not let them see her afraid. Behind the incense, the faint scent of jasmine and honeysuckle floated past her from a distant palace garden that she would never see.

Upon the top step of seven, she faltered to a halt, shaking despite her desire to be brave; to bear the humiliation with stoic dignity. Hurt and grief curdled inside her with the last of her sputtering courage, and on impulse, she turned sharply to look back over the gathered folds of material at her shoulder, dark eyes wide and glassy with terror. The searing lance of betrayal that had been broken off somewhere in her ribs was now lodged there forever.

There, among the onlookers, she could see her stoop-shouldered father, with his wildly curly hair blowing around his head, and his tanned skin like leather after so many years under the fierce Cretan sun, his hands rough and strong and always gentle. He’d shown her how to hold a chisel and a mallet, how to split seasoned timber with wedge, mallet, and axe, how to pull the draw-knife across its surface, how to use a lathe to turn wood, and how to cut the joints in a chair so they would fit together perfectly. He’d even shown her how to carve winged sirens into the prows of the new ships and how to tease the shape of a spoon out of a section of wood without slicing her own thumb off.

She’d played in the shipwrights’ yard since she’d been old enough to toddle away from her mother and bring her father his midday meal. She’d laughed and learned along with the apprentices, outshining some and learning from others, until the day she’d nearly lost her index finger to the careless stroke of a chisel, and her mother had called her back to the house to spin and weave instead. In the wavering light of the braziers that lined the short path to her own personal Tartarus, she glanced down at the pale scar in her sun-bronzed skin and ran the pad of her left thumb over the silver line at the knuckle of her index finger where sensation existed only in her memory.

She willed that numbness to bloom out across her body, but her pain burned too brightly and too hot to be doused, and she ground her teeth. Her father couldn’t meet his daughter’s dark eyes across the empty stretch of gritty ground between them, but her mother held her gaze, unflinching.

The music seemed to fade as mother and daughter stood locked in distant, grim, resentful silence.

King Minos and Queen Pasiphaë stood on a raised dais somewhere off to her right, wreathed in embroidered, purple silks and dripping with gold, but she had no eyes nor time for them. It was because of the conceit and hubris of King Minos that she was being sacrificed to the monster below the palace, and because her mother had refused to take a ship and sail away with her that she was standing there now.

Cold, hard eyes spoke only of the desire for her daughter not to shame her. To go with dignity to a death that was, after all, to honour Poseidon. Of course, her parents would be well compensated by the king for their ‘gift’, but as all the misty possibilities along the path of her life were snuffed out like so many tiny candles, she couldn’t muster anything but contempt for her parents.

“I’m your daughter!” she yelled at her mother, her voice cracking as she fought the urge to double over against the pain. The agony of their betrayal clutched and clawed at her insides, the imaginary blade twisting deeper. “How could you? I’m your daughter!”

She hardly recognised her mild-mannered father as he just lowered his gaze to stare at the stones beneath his sandals. Beside him, her mother just kept on staring, her face like a statue at a shrine to discipline.

“I’m your daughter,” she whispered, the words inaudible to all but the two guards who began to steer and poke her down the steps like a cow to slaughter. “That’s all I am to you people,” she said, the words lost. “I’m not even human.”

The men exchanged a look as they neared the end of the stairs, but she couldn’t read it; couldn’t think.

She was about to die, to be torn to bloody shreds by teeth and monstrous hands, perhaps impaled on the horns of the bull-headed monster that rampaged below the palace, foaming and furious in his own imprisonment, and all while they held their stately banquet above and congratulated themselves on their own cleverness for appeasing Poseidon with a little virgin’s blood. And all for an insult dealt to the god almost three decades ago.

Well, at least she wasn’t a virgin.

Would the monster know? Would Poseidon care? Would the god even notice when the thread of her life was cut?

At an impatient flick of the king’s fingers, the two guards stepped forward as one. Their glinting, bronze spear points finally made contact and jabbed through the fabric at her hips, pricking two bloody points in the skin that bloomed like red eyes in the pale linen. She felt nothing. Her heel missed the lip of the opening into the earth, and she toppled backwards with a wordless shriek. Her arms and limbs flailed, and the shadows of the labyrinth reached up and consumed her.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t scream.

When she’d sat in the painted chamber in the royal palace, its walls adorned with lurid frescoes of figures leaping bulls and topless women emptying black amphorae into channels in the earth that had made her think of the runnels of blood in a butcher’s shop; when her hair had been combed and oiled and placed in its glinting net; when she’d had perfumed oil dabbed at the hollow of her throat, the inside of her wrists, onto her nipples, and, especially repulsive to her racing imagination, down between her legs; when she’d been told it was an honour to be deemed a worthy sacrifice to the monster stalking in his unending paths of dark nightmare: she had made an oath to herself that she would not scream. She would shame them with her silence. One last act of defiance.

Yet as she plunged backwards through the rush of foetid black emptiness, she screamed long and loud.

The sound tore itself free from her throat, raw and ringing in her ears as she plummeted down and down and down through the darkness that filled the shaft. The sky became a square of distant starlight that diminished as she fell.

You can read the whole 4k word chapter on Patreon right now for just $3, or for $5 you can have access to everything pre-2020, plus an additional, exclusive monthly story and lifetime membership to our chill Discord server.

[skullaton]

cold hands, warm hearts

Wally Darling / Gender Neutral Reader oneshot

Rating: G Genre: Fluff, friends to lovers Summary:

It's a chilly autumn evening and the neighbours are hosting their own fall festival! You decide to partake, enjoying the time with your friends. It just so happens that one of your friends is also your biggest crush.

Ao3 link: Here Welcome Home belongs to Clown a/n: It's autumn in the southern hemisphere, so I wanted to write a cute, fluffy one shot for the season! Enjoy!

Read Below ↓

Your boots crunch into the dry, crispy auburn leaves as you make your way through the small town of Home. It was this year's autumnal festival and you couldn’t wait to see what hijinks your friends planned!

The road was covered in an array of leaves, muting the already colour rich town in a blanket of yellows, reds, and browns. You marched up a hill, seeing the outline of the festival’s banners from a distance. You huffed, exerting yourself as you trekked, seeing your breath poof up in a cloud of smoke. The cold nipped at your bare fingertips, but you didn’t mind.

You can finally hear the commotion of your friends scrambling around and having fun. You tilt your head to read the banner - clearly in Howdy’s handwriting - ‘Home’s Fall Festival’. There were some elegantly painted designs, as well as some crudely decorated ones. It was definitely a whole town effort to make it.

“Don’t keep starin’! Come on in!”

You break out of your thoughts to look at the towering caterpillar who stood behind a food stall, beckoning you over with one of his long limbs. You happily skip over, grinning, “Hey, Howdy! Nice handwriting!”

“Oh, that thing?” He glanced up at the sign before waving dismissively, “Shucks, I write so often, it’s really nothin’.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “If you say so, Mr. Pillar.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, looking down at you with big eyes, “Say, you reckon you want some food? We got hot popcorn, hot chocolate, hot dogs, hot peppers, you name it!”

Being around him was so amusing. He always made such amazing pitches. How does he keep having endless stock? And hot peppers ? Who’s ordering that?

You could only assume Barnaby.

“Maybe later!” You waved him off as you started to hop away.

He simply waved back, “Alright, I’ll be here if you change your mind!”

You went to see what your other friends were up to.

A crackling bonfire lit up the centre of the festival, its fiery warmth emanating throughout the tiny faire.

You could see Sally atop of a makeshift stage, playing out a dramatic scene from a play. Her monologues were emotive, filled with passion and drive. In this scene she was holding a plastic… skull?

Wait, was this Hamlet?

You decide not to question.

Julie sat next to Frank in the audience, arms linked as they watched in awe of the brilliant star’s performance.

Looking on, you can see Eddie and Poppy sitting at the arts and crafts tent. Eddie was gently trying to instruct how to make the perfect leaf wreath. But… Poppy would often glue her fingers together and cuss a little ‘Oh, feathers me!’

Eddie, as sweet as honey, would insist she was doing amazing.

Finally, you see Barnaby next to a wide oak barrel. A crudely painted sign stuck next to it, saying ‘Bobbin’ fer Applez.’

Then you see him. The perfect deep navy blue hair, the lazy smile and half lidded eyes of the guy you’ve totally been crushing on since you moved here.

Wally Darling.

He was casually picking up the crimson apples from the chilly water, all while flatly remarking, “See, I’m bobbing.”

Barnaby released a booming laugh, practically barking, “I’m gonna bob you on the head in a second!”

Wally just tilted his head, offering a confused smile.

The giant canine cracked his neck, positioning his hands on either side of the barrel’s opening. “Watch the professional at work!”

Then he dunked his head down into the frigid liquid, splashing it like a tidal wave onto the unsuspecting Wally. When he finally emerged, two whole apples were in his toothed maw.

Smug, he looked over the shorter man. Then his expression immediately dropped.

Wally stood, blank faced, the front of his puffer jacket absolutely drenched.

Barnaby popped the apples out, “Oh, shoot, Walls! Didn’t mean for this to be a Wet n Wild ride! I’ll be back!” He hurried his way off to Howdy’s stall, probably in hopes for something to help.

You took the opportunity to duck closer to Wally. “Looks like you’re having a splashing good time.”

You internally cringed at yourself. Damn that Barnaby!

“Ha ha. Ain’t it so?” Wally held his kind smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You decided to unbutton your jean jacket.

“Tradesies!”

He gave a flat “Huh?”

You slid off the fabric, offering it to the shorter man. The chill bit at your skin, causing a ripple of goosebumps to run up and down your body.

He blinked slowly. “You’ll get cold.”

You shivered, offering a sweet smile, “So will you!”

He reluctantly unzipped his jacket, tugging it off to replace it with yours.

It practically engulfed him. His fingers barely peeked out from the sleeves. You wish you could take a picture of him. He looked absolutely adorable.

You held onto his puffer in the crook of your arm, feeling the wetness seep into your bones.

Another chill ran up your spine, causing you to exhale another puff of smoke.

Then in a split second, a giant wool mass would plop over you, encasing you in a tent of darkness. Wiggling out of your wool chamber, you peeked out to see Barnaby grinning above you.

“Didn’t expect ya to switch with Wallers! You can’t catch a cold now, ya hear?”

You fixed the oversized blanket so it was slung over your shoulders. You stuck a tongue out to the giant canine. “I’ll be fine! ”

“Just wait! Your tongue will be frozen like that!”

“Will not!”

“Will too!”

“Will not!”

Wally popped in, copying Barnaby, “Will too!”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to side with him!”

He gave his signature cat-like grin in response.

***

It wasn’t long until night cloaked the town in darkness. Stars twinkled and danced overhead, with the moon showing half of its beautiful glowing face.

Everyone was gathered around the bonfire, enjoying the crackling warmth on this brisk night. Julie and Sally were playing with rainbow sparklers, twirling out a magical light display. Frank and Eddie sat cuddled next to each other, staring dreamily into the snapping wooden flames. Howdy was passing out hot apple cider, while Poppy was instructing Barnaby how to make the perfect roasted marshmallow.

That only left you and Wally, sitting next to each other on a wooden bench.

You sipped on the hot cider, allowing the toasty beverage to heat you up.

You both let the snaps and crackles of the logs fill in the silence, simply enjoying the sweet moment with friends.

That is, until you could hear a soft mumble leave the puppet’s felt lips.

“I wish I could paint you right now.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You glanced over to Wally, watching as the flames danced shadows across his face. It casted an orange hue, accentuating his soft, plush features.

A pink blush tinted your cheeks. You definitely wanted to blame it on the bonfire for licking at your exposed skin.

But you knew it was because this silly little artist was staring at you with this most love drunk expression. His adoration filled gaze made your stomach twist in happy knots.

You found yourself inching closer to him, your spare hand just barely brushing against his fabric one.

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

A blissful sigh escaped the man. He reciprocated the gesture, scooting closer. You could feel his knee bump against yours playfully.

It wasn’t long before you both tentatively laced your chilly fingers together, basking in the heat of eachother’s flesh.

“Maybe we should schedule something?”

“That sounds wonderful, Wally.”

A quietness lulled between you as you enjoyed the moment. Despite the silence, you could feel your limbs tingle with exhilaration as your tummy burst with millions of fluttering butterflies.

You may have cold hands, but at least your heart is full and warm.

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[jack-the-nibbler]

Voretober Day 5: Woods

Don't wander too far into the forest, that's where the strongest Pokemon like to hunt.

When you stopped at the village’s Pokemon Center that afternoon, one of the townspeople warned you to take caution in the weald leading to the next route. She had said that it was teeming with ghost type Pokemon who preyed upon trainers who got in over their heads. This naturally had you curious. You already had to brave the haunted woods, and with two badges under your belt considered your growing team to be decently strong. Not to mention this would be a great opportunity to add a ghost type to the party. Already you were hoping to find a Misdreavus or Pumpkaboo, but you’d be happy with just about anything.

You set off into the Dismal Weald, your three Pokemon at full energy and bag full of potions and balls. The trees above stretched outwards like claws, dark leaves blocking out the late afternoon sunlight. The soft moans of ghost Pokemon were distant, enough to make your hair stand on end. It was appropriately eerie, but you pressed on. You weren’t scared of any ghosts!

As you ventured into the tall grass, taking out a few Bellsprouts and Pidoves, you found it odd that there weren’t many Pokemon around. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of a Gastly leering at you, only to vanish a split second later. You’d heard that a stronger Pokemon in the area might scare some of the others away…but what could be wandering around here that would frighten everything else?

The sudden feeling of a powerful presence sent a chill down your spine. Your confidence was melting away, the sound of a rumbling growl making you afraid to turn around. You wanted to just run, but it might get you lost in this shady place. Taking a deep breath, you gripped a Poke Ball and tossed it as you turned, releasing your Vulpix to stand against your foe. Immediately you wished you hadn’t.

A Dusknoir hovered mere feet away, his single red, glowing eye fixed on you. This Pokemon was way above your level, more than capable of sweeping your team. He didn’t look like he’d let you run away easily…you swallowed your nerves, deciding to just try and distract the ghost long enough to flee.

“Vulpix, use Incinerate!” you commanded. The fox nodded and exhaled a concentrated stream of flame at the towering spirit. He shrugged off the attack and lurched forward, the mouth on its belly opening up. While you braced yourself for an undoubtedly strong attack, something entirely worse happened. Instead of striking, a long, golden, spectral tongue slithered out of its mouth and wrapped around your Vulpix. 

You stared in horror, unable to move an inch. Even if you could, would you have the heart to just run away and abandon your partner to her fate? As the Dusknoir floated closer, licking his lips, you snapped out of it and scrambled for your Bayleef’s Poke Ball. If you could just get one Sleep Powder off, you could try and save Vulpix! But you weren’t fast enough-Dusknoir held you tight in his large hands, preventing any sort of counter or escape.

You shuddered as the massive ghost pressed you against his large belly, giving a low, pleased rumble. That tongue, dripping with slime, pressed against your legs before slowly sliding its way all the way up your body. As the spectral muscle lapped up your face, you were left shivering within Dusknoir’s hold, painted in a thick layer of ectoplasmic saliva. Dusknoir gave another pleased rumble before wrapping his tongue around you, pulling you into his dark, gaping maw. 

Your scream was swiftly muffled by the Dusknoir’s jaws clamping shut around you. You were sealed away in warm, damp darkness with no possible escape. You kicked as hard as you could, but it only created faint bulges on the outside of Dusknoir’s body. Fear seeped in as you thought about all those stories of the Gripper Pokemon devouring souls, leaving only the body behind. Were you destined to die young? Was this the Reaper claiming you, or a mere accident that would spell the end of your journey?

There was a nuzzle against your side and a whimper. You had almost forgotten about Vulpix, now as slimy and frightened as you were. She snuggled up into your arms as you hugged her, taking some comfort in her natural warmth. You felt awful about unintentionally condemning your beloved Pokemon to the same fate. Maybe if you were lucky, this wouldn’t hurt, maybe the afterlife wouldn’t be so bad…

Minutes passed, and nothing happened. You and Vulpix appeared completely fine, still very much alive. You were confused, but mostly relieved. There still wasn’t any way out…it was still dark, and all you could make out was that large, thick tongue resting underneath you. The combination of darkness and warmth, both from the environment and the fire type you were hugging was taking a toll after a long day of traveling. Though you were hesitant, sleep was closing in on you. Maybe you could afford to close your eyes for a few minutes…

Outside, the Dusknoir gave a content purr as he rubbed over his stomach. He technically didn’t need to eat, and had no desire to take you or any of your Pokemon into the Spirit World. He simply loved the feeling of a warm, living being filling him up, and a trainer happened to be the perfect size. The ghost type patted his gut, floating off deeper into the Dismal Weald. For now you were safely tucked away-come sundown, you would wake up in a patch of flowers just outside the woods, completely unharmed and having a fourth Poke Ball resting in your hand…

[writernopal]

⛺Camp? Camp.⛺

We're 10 days into Camp Shrimpmo (we renamed it to something like that lol) so here, have an edited passage of AASOAF 3 as a treat :3

WC: 645 CW: thalassophobia, minor body horror

a/n: recommend listening to Siren by Amanati while reading!

The Mirage tottered violently then, listing one way then the other until the sparkling sea washed a tongue, perhaps even a finger or a leg, over the bulwarks and a sort of sucking sound came from somewhere down below. Blackened and shiny limbs followed—his subjects—and slowly, the Mirage relinquished her will to breathe and sank. 

The sea closed around us, tossing my hair up in one great mass as bubbles tickled the back of my neck and the sunlight flickered through the surface like pale spears. Fishes and sharks and other sea life, peered curiously in our direction, seeming in awe that a surface dweller like me breathed their water as commonly as air. Their attention was short lived, however, as they quickly darted away once we reached colder waters. What lay below were the mostly eyeless stares and out of tune humming of sea witches—beings they wouldn’t dare cross.

But we drifted freely by them, their poor excuses for eyes—beady lumps on the back of the heads—shining like wicked marbles as they warped themselves round in corkscrews to get a better look at their master. Strange half-shrunk and faceless creatures they were, with bony fins and tails, maws in their necks, and skin grey as decaying flesh. A few seemed to be blessed by him, Satoyev, as their limp bodies hosted swollen bellies. He paid them no mind.

We touched down on the sea floor, the expanse before us was so dark it seemed an illusion, as if I might wave my hand before me and find a velvet curtain concealing the world. But here, my outstretched arm was swallowed, such that anything beyond my elbow was invisible. I’d become a collection of stumps, sprouting from the seed of the overeager sun upon my chest and the heart beating beneath it. The light and warmth of my brand’s celestial counterpart was a foreigner at these depths, perhaps even a myth. Its rays could never penetrate this darkness, much less affect the temperature of this place, which I could only, and inadequately, describe as cold.

I returned my hand to the visible realm, resting it over my chest. With it came Satoyev, his fins and scales glowing dull blues and reds. He put a hand beneath my chin and drew me close.

“Come.” 

I didn’t resist, so he clutched me close, his many eyes pulsating in the darkness, and we began to move. How fast or in what direction I couldn’t say, but my stomach lurched and my eyes became so unbearably cold that I shut them. At intervals the current snatched them open, painting glowing smears of bright blues and greens—kraken eyes—curiously watching us. No doubt they rejoiced their lord's return home. 

“Here.” 

We passed underneath a dark mass, and toward something shimmering. It appeared the surface of another ocean but when we cleared it, there was no air, just more water, this time strangely warm and very salty. The area was small and clouded by strange thick grey gasses rising from some place. Clusters of pale worms and shrunken mollusks peeked between their billows. In the center of the space was a sort of cradle crafted of whalebones and decaying flesh. Peering between its remains shone a hazy blue light.

I squinted into it as we drew closer, my eyes struggling with this brightness after desensitizing dark, until its source finally came into view—a large rough cut sapphire. It was similar to the one I used to summon Saviyesaih, but thrice as big, and gave off a much more powerful energy. The water around it formed gentle ripples, as if the stone itself breathed, the frequency increasing as Satoyev and I came near. We came to a stop just before it. Whispered whale song floated from it, caressing not my ear, but my heart instead.

AASOAF 3 Taglist: @outpost51 @thelivingdeceased @faelanvance @captain-kraken @illjustpretend

@elshells @full-on-sam @the-mindless @zestymimblo @tabswrites

@void-botanist

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

[novasintheroom]

137. Bomb

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.6k

♡ Warnings - violence against Reader

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

Part 1 (you are here!) ---- Part 2 ---- Part 3 ---- Part 4

You aren’t sure how long they beat you.

It’s a long time. Feels like it, anyway. The way your skin breaks, your nose swells, your lips split. They leave your clothes on, thankfully. Their worm cult doesn’t seem to care for assault of that nature.

The people of the small town turned on you and Vash. Typical. What’s not typical is how devoted they are to feeding travelers to their Giant Worm. It’s their way of keeping their town alive, apparently. Their Plant died two months ago. Mad with desperation, they turned to the worms for both sustenance and religious survival.

You and Vash just happened to be the lucky travelers/sacrifices of the week. Well, you are, at least. They tricked you into staying the night, rather than riding out to the next town to signal for help on their behalf.

They didn’t want help. They wanted sacrifices.

They broke into your room. Stole you in the night. You aren’t sure what happened to Vash. You hope he got away. You hope he comes for you.

And now they beat you, burn your skin with torches and heated metal rods, prepare you for the Worm. You lose track of the paths they drag you along in the cave systems. Your eyes are too swollen shut for it anyway. They string you up in the main cave, where their Worm sits and waits for food to drop into its maw deep below. It smells like dirt and rotten meat when it breathes.

You tell yourself that Vash got away. That’s the most important thing. But as you sway above your death, you can’t help but feel abandoned. Terrified. Alone.

The mayor of the town, dressed in tattered ceremonial robes and green paint made of worm guts, begins to chant. The villagers follow suit.

Then there is an explosion. Several. It shakes the cave, makes loose rocks tumble down. The villagers scramble for cover in the nearby smaller cave systems. The worm roars beneath you, disturbed. A bang sounds out, and suddenly you’re falling, your rope severed by a bullet.

There is no 'this is it' thought. Just free air and knowing you are dead.

But Vash jumps and catches you before you can fall to the worm. You only see the blur of his red coat, feel the grip of his calloused and metal hands on your back and stomach. His arms wrap around you, and he kneels on the floor of the cave to look you over. His breath gets more ragged the longer he looks. “Mayfly…” his voice breaks, holding your broken body close.

Everything hurts. Your heart most of all. How did you ever doubt he would come for you?

There’s shouting. The mayor is at the mouth of one of the caves. “Don’t let him take her! For your wives and children!” There’s scrabbling, some gunshots going off. The worm writhes in its pit. Vash reaches for more of his mini bombs in his coat and throws them at the people. Another explosion sounds, and they back off with the crack of rocks falling.

You stare up at him as best you can. He’s so beautiful, even with the tears tracking down his cheeks. And there’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen yet. Something dangerous. Something hurt. You’d fear the look if you weren’t so…You let out a wheeze and burrow into his chest. Get me out of here, birdie, you think, your voice too shot from screaming to say it out loud.

He obeys. “We’re leaving,” he says, picking you up and running. “Just stay with me, okay? Don’t fall asleep. Don’t – “

The world goes dark and limp.

[felassan]

Red lyrium idol detail from the Dreadwolf dice set.

The angular, geometric style of the wolf head makes it all pointy and triangular. Less furry wolf, more the suggestion of scales or of a reptilian-type aspect (especially with the way the head is half bisected down the middle). The ears look less like ears and more like horns, especially with the dividing line separating them from the head itself. this reminds me of the half dragon/half wolf or dragon-wolf design on these dev t-shirts -

and the creature as described in Tevinter Nights -

But here, unfinished, was the outline of a beast that stood over both dragon and sword. This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after. And the beast was not a dragon. The outline alone might have allowed that assumption, but now, filling with black and red, it was something other. The creature was reptilian, but also canine. The snout was blunted and toothy, but edges came to a point in houndlike ears. As the mass of plaster filled the shape, it began to rise, revealing scales and tail, and paws with talons. It looked like two figures painted on either side of a pane of glass, then viewed together, their forms confused. A wolf that had absorbed a dragon, and now stood crooked over all.

in relation to this Skyhold rotunda mural -

The Dread Wolf is depicted with red eyes this time. Sometimes he's shown with red eyes (below), other times with blue.

Some other by-now very familiar imagery and motifs also return, like the figure with the staff from the Dread Wolf Rises Teaser trailer (Solas), the arrow/arrowhead-shape & outward rayed lines depicting the moment of Impact when he Did The Thing, those triangles that crop up when something Veily/Fadey/magicky is happening in a mural, the general gold and black color scheme (Golden City/Black City), and the alternating gold and black 'dotted line'-pattern that probably represents the Veil as a barrier between the Fade and the mundane world:

(👀 Shoutout to the 'arrow' shape, that depiction of the Dread Wolf always reminds me of the story of the Slow Arrow, that Felassan told Briala -)

"The god Fen'Harel was asked by a village to kill a great beast. He came to the beast at dawn, and saw its strength, and knew it would slay him if he fought it. So instead, he shot an arrow up into the sky. The villagers asked Fen'Harel how he would save them, and he said to them, 'When did I say that I would save you?' And he left, and the great beast came into the village that night and killed the warriors, and the women, and the elders. It came to the children and opened its great maw, but then the arrow that Fen'Harel had loosed fell from the sky into the great beast's mouth, and killed it. The children of the village wept for their parents and elders, but still they made an offering to Fen'Harel of thanks, for he had done what the villagers had asked. He had killed the beast, with his cunning, and a slow arrow that the beast never noticed."

[contreparry]

Happy friday! (Ritual) Blood and a good vintage red wine

No one (okay, maybe not "no one") was asking for this, but here’s a Pacific Rim AU featuring Fenris for @dadrunkwriting !

It was traditional. Ritualistic, even. A successful hunt ended when the final drop was drained from the wine bottle.

The alcohol settled into the cracks of his chapped lips and burned. Every mouthful of wine was tinged with the metallic taste of blood. Anders would give him grief over the fact that he chose to drink rather than rehydrate with water tomorrow, but Fenris didn’t care. Wouldn’t care. Tenses were malleable when he reached this half-conscious, floating state. Wine drunk, Anders would diagnose him with a disapproving click of his tongue. Sloshed, Isabela would laugh, and she would chide him for not inviting her. The Witch would want to strap him into one of her infernal machines and read his brain waves or test his reflexes or poke at the lyrium markings running across his skin. Aveline would shout at him for drinking on duty rather than finishing his report, though there was not much to tell: Darkspawn crawled out of some Maker cursed hole in the earth, he climbed into the Azure Siren with Isabela and took care of it. End of report. Sebastian would offer counseling- non-denominational, even- and sympathy. Varric would urge him to do an interview and Fenris would pretend he didn’t hear him.

Hawke would give him another bottle of wine. Thank the Maker for Hawke.

Another pull from the bottle- a nameday gift, though Fenris did not put much stock in holidays anymore beyond their usefulness in measuring the passage of time. How long had he been stationed at the Kirkwall post, fighting off the monstrous Darkspawn that had only grown in size, ferocity, and cunning over the years? Back in the Dragon Age, Darkspawn were usually the size of men- though there were reports of rarer, larger varieties. But these days the giants were as common as the swarms, and the only way to properly fight them off was to climb into a jaeger, a robot of prodigious size and strength that had to be piloted by at least two compatible pilots, pilots whose minds could meld together yet remain distinct, pilots who could go through the Drift and come out the other side as themselves. Pilots like that were scarce and jaegers were worth their weight in gold. Whenever a pilot was deemed a success, they and their partners were sent off to the front lines, no matter the nation. Politics aside, at the end of the day no one wanted their last moments to be facing the maw of a Darkspawn.

But how many years had it been? Another swig of the bottle. Two. Two years in Kirkwall, five in Minrathous, and before that... well, before that there was the incident in Neromenian. The Battle of the Lone Wolf, some dubbed it, an incredible feat of perseverance, grit, and whatever other words for 'impressive' Varric managed to pull out of his pocket thesaurus. One man (or elf) in a battered, failing jaeger, fighting off a horde of Darkspawn and driving them back from the city of Neromenian even as the strain of piloting the jaeger took its toll. One day, one battle, and a rookie pilot became a legend throughout Thedas. The Lone Wolf. The Blue Wraith. Fenris.

It was a shame that Fenris couldn't remember it.

He read the reports. Watched news reels. Watched as medical staff pulled two limp bodies out of the tangled mess of bright blue painted metal and wires and Darkspawn pulp. He knew that one of those helmeted bodies was his. But no matter how many times he replayed the footage, Fenris simply could not remember the battle or anything from before the moment he awoke on that freezing metal slab with lyrium coursing through the new scars engraved into his flesh. The jaeger- his jaeger, Azure Wolf- malfunctioned as it was overwhelmed by waves of Darkspawn climbing out of a newly discovered entrance into the Deep Roads. His partner (whose face he could no longer remember) died, the strain too much for their mind to bear. Yet Fenris survived. He survived, fought through the Darkspawn, maintained control of Azure Wolf, clawed his way through the pain and panic, and saved the city. Saved lives. But he couldn't remember it. He couldn't remember anything. He hadn't always been Fenris, but Fenris was what he became. It was a callsign that he was assigned by his handler back in Tevinter, one he kept because Leto no longer felt right on his tongue.

Sometimes Fenris remembered the pain of the moment the lyrium that flowed through Azure Wolf flooded through him. Blinding pain, enough to erase everything until it was all he knew. And it never went away, not really. Hence this tradition, this ritual. Successful hunt, bottle of wine, dull the senses enough to sleep so he could wake up and do it all over again. After he awoke in Neromenian, his handler dragged him to Minrathous where the fighting was fiercest in Tevinter. Seeing as his mind was a blank slate, Fenris was the perfect candidate to toss in with solo pilots. He carried nothing into the Drift, and he was resilient enough to endure the tumult of other minds. He was battle-hardened. Skilled. Obedient. Danarius liked that part the most. He pushed Fenris and Azure Wolf further and further with every battle, testing them to their limits and beyond. A famous pilot brought prestige and recognition, and the Imperium was desperate for recognition from those in Southern Thedas. The Imperium jaeger program incorporated more magic than others, and the common belief in their superiority was only heightened by Fenris' rise to prominence. He was pushed, he and Azure Wolf, to their limits in the name of progress, in the pursuit of perfection, until the strain was unbearable and one of them broke.

It was not Fenris.

Fenris, now without Azure Wolf, was picked up by another region, another team in desperate need of an experienced pilot to combat the Darkspawn. He was picked up by the Kirkwall Defense Force of the Free Marches, given a spot alongside one of their pilots in her jaeger. Fenris had to learn how to get along with a team. He had a team, when before his life was dictated by Danarius, his program lead and handler, and his handpicked crew of scientists, Mages, and pilots.

Fenris had trouble adjusting. Ritual helped. Successful hunt, bottle of wine, off to the next. Isabela was a blessing from the Maker, as far as Fenris was concerned: a calm mind to Drift with, a good sense of humor, talent balanced by experience. She was kind enough to rename her jaeger from Salacious Siren to Azure Siren, a tribute to his fallen jaeger. She understood him without speaking- perhaps a sign that they might have been Drift compatible even before he lost his memories.

Having other pilots, other jaegers, was useful. A relief, even. Hawke and their siblings swapped places in the Crimson Hawk (though Hawke apparently wanted to call it the Crimson Dragon, they were overruled by the twins), and they were a force to be reckoned with on the field. Aveline and her husband Donnic piloted the Silver Wing, steady and reliable. Sebastian was not only the main pilot of Andraste's Spear but served as a diplomat between the various Free Marcher city states. His partners varied between the Hawkes, and the Spear reflected the change in pilots every time they took the field. It was a Hawke family trait, according to the eldest. They were... flexible. Could drift with just about anyone, should there be a need. Fenris liked that turn of phrase better than 'blank slate.' Flexible said something about someone's character, much more than 'empty' or 'blank' did. He took another sip of wine and considered the rest of the crew stationed at Kirkwall- not just crew, not after two years. They were... a team. Almost friends. Fenris didn't remember if he had those before Neromenian. He didn't have them in Minrathous.

Varric handled press and official mission reports and tended to smooth over the rougher edges of the many personalities on the base. It was a much-needed skill, and Fenris was grateful that Varric put up with him on his worse days. He liked him most of the time, though Varric had an annoying habit of prying. Varric liked to ask him about his time in the Imperium, liked to ask too many questions in general, and Fenris never knew what the man was looking for.

The Witch, Doctor Merrill Sabrae, tended to the jaegers and other scientific and magical matters. Fenris ought to have hated her more than he did. She poked. Prodded. Got too excited about her work. Yet he sometimes felt fondness creeping upon him whenever the Witch eagerly showed him some new schematic for Azure Siren- "I'm working on a sword! I heard Azure Wolf had a sword, so I thought we could design one for Siren! But you'd know what works best, Isabela's more into dagger work."

The last regular member stationed at the Kirkwall base was Anders, the medical doctor and another Mage. He was a former pilot with the Wardens of Ferelden, but he was a better physician. Or so he claimed. Fenris wasn't about to go digging up mission reports on the man. He wouldn't make himself a hypocrite. Anders was irritating, more irritating than the Witch because Merrill was helpful. Anders fought him constantly- you're destroying your body with the way you push yourself, you drink too much, you smoke too much, you need at least eight hours of sleep a night, would it kill you to drink some water and rest as you recover from your broken rib?

At least Anders had a cat. Ser Pounce was the best part of medical checkups.

And now the wine bottle was empty. Fenris stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and tossed the bottle into the bin before he went to his desk to write his report. Tomorrow he would ask Anders for something to deal with the hangover, then ask Varric to review his report and correct any spelling mistakes. And he would thank Hawke for the wine- rare vintage, couldn't have been an easy find. He might even consider letting the Witch know that her latest tinkering had been helpful, if Isabela hadn't let her know already.

Today had been good. Tomorrow might be even better. Fenris almost smiled before he settled down on his bed with a datapad and started typing up his mission report.

[impish-intent]

"Needy Bear" - Glamrock Freddy/Montgomery Gator 【NSFW】

18+ (Minors DNI)

If you prefer to read it on AO3, it's linked in the title. If not, keep reading after the cut.

I wanted to write Brat!Freddy, and I randomly wrote this at 1 am for some reason. Here you go.

The afterglow of the concert performance hung over the atrium patrons, the ambience bouncing through the halls and into the backstage area.

Further back, in a somewhat secluded spot with shelves and cables, low murmurs and grunts arose from the two mascots, one who couldn't keep his claws off the other's frame. Freddy was writhing through the heated kiss, Monty's claws having scraped the surface paint off his torso, the gator man-handling him with a lack of concern.

Gritting, Monty feels Freddy's playful resistance, pushing him back against the wall, a solid thud follows, and the singer cooes through the kiss. Monty recoils, a slither of saliva hanging from their jaws.

"Enough pushin', Fazbear, I ain't lettin' ya slip from me this time…"

Freddy’s eye loosens when a claw clips his chin, the snarl in the bassist's voice setting his circuits aflame.

"I assumed you enjoyed a good chase, Monty?"

"Not when you make it so difficult."

"Then, you should try a little harder–"

If he had a diaphragm, Freddy could easily say he had the wind knocked out of when Monty slammed him into the wall, huffing from the exhilaration coursing his circuits.

"Shut it." The warm glow of Monty's red bulbs lit Freddy in fiery highlighting made the singer glance away.

This tension sent warnings in Freddy's systems, bringing caution to overheating and to call maintenance for assistance. A tightening engorged his pelvic plate as Monty's hand roughly snatches Freddy's chin.

A hard grip of his jaw that made Freddy snap his gaze back to Monty results in a shakened drone from his voice box.

"Can't even look at me, so fuckin' full of yourself…" Monty spat bitterly, his other hand hardly taking a second to plunge to the bear's undercarriage.

Freddy simpers a smile, "Tell me how you really feel, Monty."

Then, his eyes widened upon feeling himself being peeled open, the hissing of his pelvic cavity and the release of his throbbing member met Freddy's ear; seconds later a sharp, clumsy hand grasped him eagerly. A string of mewls leave Freddy, pressing against the wall and holding onto the shelf for support, Monty shoving him back into a hungry kiss.

Pumping the swollen shaft with bursts of movements, Monty put pressure around his cock and stroked, deepening the embrace by burying his tongue against Freddy's. Weak noises huff from the kodiak, squinting with mild disdain as he met eyes with Monty briefly, before shoving the reptile back and panting for air.

"M-Monty– haahh…"

"Needy fuckin' bear, look at you." Blinking, Freddy shudders at his degradation, fuming under his shell as Monty continues to jerk and pull. His wires rush with power, "I… am not needy."

A few fast strokes make Freddy purr, clenching his teeth, glaring sheepishly towards his rival.

"We'll see about that," Monty tuts, slowing down and sinking to his knees.

"On second thought," Freddy starts, "perhaps we could–"

Monty slams his palm over the singer's maw, harsh red eyes shimmering from in front. "I don't wanna hear a peep…" a damp tongue slicks up the textured shaft, "you better keep yourself quiet, Fazbear."

Freddy feels his ears twitch and shoulders hitch up upon having his cock be engulfed by the rough mouth, the gator's tongue wrapping up and over. First few licks and bobs, Monty groaned against the thick member, soon softly muttering, "So fuckin' good…"

If his ears could spin erratically, that's what Freddy would have expected upon hearing those grunts. Watching the green head bob onto his girth, a soft whine involuntarily slips from Freddy, Monty's hand sliding down his striped chin, making his jaw slack open.

"Haa– hhngh–" Freddy tosses his head back, lovingly humming.

Rugged noises come from Monty, slurps and gulps combined with elated drones.

Even with both feet planted on the ground, Freddy couldn't hold his weight steady, having sprawled his legs due to Monty breaching them apart. Freddy’s grip on the shelf lessens, automatically grabbing hold, nearly losing balance, stammering, "O-Oh, god…"

Through his fellatio, Monty's eyes smirked at his loss of balance, enjoying the sight of making Freddy wobble. Drool dangles from his chin, having done enough to make the bear mascot yield, retreating back sloppily, giving a parting lick as he does.

"Fuckin' pathetic." He chuckled at Freddy, a wispy set of whines creaked, steam hissing from his joints.

"Monty, please, I-I do not mean to be abrasive…" Freddy mewls, "you k-know I mean well."

"You talk so much shit despite being a submissive punk." Rising, Monty grew close, snatching his orange waist and pressing against him, pulling in for another rough kiss.

Distinct gasps and guttural noises drip from Freddy's mouth as Monty rams his rod in fervent motions, holding the sides of his head as to keep him there.

"Fuckin' take it– yeah that's it–"

Gazing at the sight, Monty groans harmoniously while the lead singer whimpers through his occupied mouth.

"Use your words, no need to talk with your mouth full," Monty chides, pulling Freddy off his cock, giving him a second to breathe.

Steam lifted from the two of them, Freddy leaning in to lick and kiss the dominant shaft feverishly, his blue eyes glowing with glossy wonder.

"You better put that mouth to use, Fazbear." Shoving himself back, Freddy moans into the roughly made member, his eyes rolling back as his throat is thrusted into.

A pair of hands slide up Monty's thighs, shifting to his rear, Freddy trying to stay focused and gaze up at his bandmate. Watching the bear tense with each push, Monty felt his wires curl over every time, losing his composure to the point he let Freddy go and plant his hands on the wall in front of them.

Freddy pushes himself all the way, his fingers curling over themselves as he hits his limit.

"F-Fuck, Freddy–" Monty jitters, expelling a hallow moan.

Pulling out, Freddy catches his breath, dreary with heat and lust, Monty glaring down at him.

"I need it, Monty…"

Tilting his head, Monty teases.

"What's that?"

The bear furrows his brows, glancing down agitatedly as he has to repeat himself.

"...I need it."

Passively humming, Monty lowers himself to Freddy, both on the ground, "Now you admitted your needy, ain't that cute?"

Freddy shook his head, interrupted by his hips being pulled in abruptly and falling onto his back, legs widened. Monty buries his knees on to dingy ground, gathering close against Freddy who is dazed by the sudden switch.

"Don't look so surprised, I haven't even started…" Monty prods Freddy's opening wryly, the orange mascot flinching, lifting his pelvis apprehensively.

"Hha–"

"Be patient, will ya?"

Whirring, Freddy averts his desperate gaze, letting himself be exposed more, Monty running his hand over Freddy's lingering member as he starts to roughly push into him. A strained mewl bounces, Monty hushing the bratty bear beneath.

"Shut your fuckin' mouth–" The first thrusts felt so fucking good, Monty clamps his mouth shut to keep Freddy from whining some more. Their bodies were flushed against each other's, hard pushes sending shocks up Freddy's endo.

Monty grabs Freddy's thigh with his free hand, leaning forward as he lifts and perches his leg in his arm, ramming more of himself deeper and getting a better look at the lead singer's lost expression. Never had he seen Freddy look so pitiful, the poor bear's eyes rolling back and barely open, his muzzle clamped. Muffled whimpers were what Monty could make out.

"You're so tight," Monty strains…

Their skin made solid contact, dull slams filling the space, Freddy's low groans barely lifting from the hand.

"You don't want none of your fans to hear ya squealin'? That'd be a real shame for everyone to know that Fazbear is a little needy brat, huh?" This heightened Monty's energy, talking down to Freddy only aroused him further, feeling the bear clench up.

Freddy's head reels back, managing to let out a cry of pleasure through Monty slipping off his hand. Then, realizing how loud he was, guiltily rests the back of his hand over his own mouth, writhing with each push.

"You like it when I talk nasty huh?"

"This is embarrassing–" Freddy huffs a moan.

"Oh, it's embarrassin'?" Monty taunts, suddenly piping him faster–

"Why don't I keep making it embarrassin' for ya?"

Freddy gasps, "G-Ghn– M-Monty!"

His walls tightened and gripped his shaft, the bassist uncaring about how rough he was, hearing Freddy lose it made it worth it. The paint on Freddy's thigh gathers under Monty's nails, digging into the shell as the roughened pants of the two performers mix together.

With a few last thrusts, Monty manages to stop himself from losing full control, coming down from the buildup, listening to Freddy wheeze below him, steam puffing out of his agaped mouth.

"Too much ya, Fazbear?" Monty exhales, pulling out of his tender hole, playfully grinding their cocks against each other…

Freddy shakily sits up on his elbows, still panting, watching the gator grind against him, "Not… quite…"

"Still kickin', hm…" Monty guffaws, tugging Freddy mockingly, a startled hiss leaves him. His green thumb runs over the bear's chin, slipping over his mouth, Freddy hums– his servos melting from this oddly tender touch– Watching the brat beneath him slick his tongue against the green thumb causes Monty to bubble out a bleak chuckle.

"Let's get ya up, then."

His pectorals and hands were flushed on the wall and his lower half protruding out, Freddy feeling Monty's staggered breath on his neck.

Monty leans in, snaking his hands over Freddy's hips, gifting him a quick nip on his shoulder.

Holding in a pained growl, Freddy rests his forehead on the wall, before feeling himself be filled again with a sickly heat. His hips were yanked, rocked in a guiding back and forth motion, simultaneously being plunged deeper by Monty's rough cock.

Heat crept into Freddy's shell, his circuits frying as his inner core is struck with infrequent pulses.

"Oh god–" Freddy simmers, fists balling.

"That's r-right, take it, you're takin it like a good fuckin' bear, aren't ya?"

Distressed mewls leave Freddy, "Y-Yes…"

"Can't hear ya."

Once more, Freddy whirrs, "Yes– hah– yes, Monty!"

Monty hastens his thrusts, watching his length disappear into Freddy with rapid speed, the little bulb of a tail flinching with every movement. Such a cute tail. A cute frame. Freddy was letting Monty ravish him. For once, Monty was running things.

"Aah–" Monty lurches forward to bite Freddy's shoulder. Spikes of energy zip through Freddy as the teeth sank down, shuddering a few whimpers when Monty became feverish.

From the kodiak's peripheral, another pair of hands plant at both sides of his head, the gator's chest slightly running against his back as his movements run sloppy.

"Y-You feel… fucking amazing, Freddy–" Monty groans hungrily, ramming his heat deeper into his singer.

"Haa hhn– Monty–" Freddy whimpers softly against the wall, his core is struck directly now.

A string of curses captures his tongue, Monty grimacing and containing his own pleasured swears. Freddy becomes a wispy mess, muttering the bassist's name eagerly…

"M-Monty, Monty– o-oh– ahn– Monty–"

"So needy…" Monty chides, "I've fucked ya silly."

Unbearable heat erupts within Freddy's body, his interface being flooded with warnings and messages of overheating. His sight starts to get defocused and cluttered, legs shaking and upper frame rattling as Monty tries to hold him still.

Noticing how overstimulated the singer had become, Monty grinned into his back as he wrapped his hands around Freddy's flailing dick and pumped gingerly as he pounded him as well.

"O-Oh, fuck!" Monty grits, losing control, his shaft is clamped down around and he groans as he gives it his all, sloppy, messy pushes; his seed leaking with each remaining thrust. Cables in Monty's body nearly snapped as he released fully inside Freddy, heaving another rough string of swears in the bear's ear.

Then, Freddy came, erupting on the wall in front, a thick hot trial of seed oozing from his tip, some dribbling down his orange thigh. No longer convulsing, Freddy loosens, still whining from the high of climax. Monty pulls out and a heavy load expels down Freddy's thighs…

"I hope that was worth the wait, Fazbear. I already got more in store for ya when you're not so tired…"

Panting, Freddy slowly turns around, unable to fully lift his arm, resting it on Monty's waist thoughtfully…

"If that's the case… perhaps we should do this more often."

[queen0fm0nsterz]

How do you think the Ladies magic manifests itself? I’m drawing all six of em using their powers and I want some variation. I’ve got Fox (glowing golden clairvoyance-style powers), Tengu (fiery red rake line-style magic, glowing kinda like a piece of red hot metal), and Scarecrow (Long, janky, mist-like tendrils glowing blue) so far. Thoughts?

(Taking a break from the lore questions to indulge in some old Ladies goodness... sorry for taking so long to answer. Life happens, unfortunately.)

I actually do have a few headcanons about the Ladies and their powers! My idea about the powers they pass down is currently that it's akin to a rooster: every lady adds their own to the mix with each passing generation, making the one that will come next stronger. This includes Rascal, of course.

So there are the abilities one can learn from outside sources, and the ones that are inherited. Their powers as I've interpreted them come mainly from some of the few personality traits we were able to discern, as well of the ones we see the Lady display. I will gladly elaborate in this HEADCANON post, so buckle up! ^^ (This can count as Lady Mom AU lore if you feel so inclined)

Fox

I am firmly convinced she was just a normal gal. Genuinely did not have any powers of her own at all. We do know she has wits to her, so perhaps the ability to charm people is something that came from her brains.

A powerful weapon if you know how to use it. You do have to be the least bit manipulative to do the things she was doing in a world like the Nowhere, that's for sure. However, I can say that she might have picked up on some magic during her life: just not as prominently as her successors will.

Tengu

Her powers would lean somewhere on the offense... From what we've seen of her quarters, we could say that she is the one we can attribute the creation of the Nomes to -- at least, she is the first of the Ladies to practice such magic. Meaning she has some knowledge on transfiguration of the human body, knowledge on which the Lady later expanded on to go on and create the Shadow Kids.

The soul eating ability also comes from this unfortunate mixed with the Hunger. We can infer that she knows a lot more, considering her place of residence is a literal library full of books, but I'll stop here for now.

One of my favorite headcanons about her is that, besides the magic, she is also fond of weapons － more specifically blades. Ik her ass owned a katana at some point.

Scarecrow

Any kind of elusive power. Mainly the ability to dissolve into the shadows to hide away and changing the temperature of the room to keep strangers away. This is because of her room getting suddenly colder.

Being as keen to keep hidden as she was, I would not be surprised if these were her additions.

Teapot

I would say the teleporting abilities. These can be read as a subtype of the mimetic power, but I think it still fits and works. Teapot is a curious soul, she wanted to go around exploring: what better power to do that than literally being able to go wherever you wish?

Also, a much larger idea: the power that keeps the Maw moving. I think the submarine might have been stale before Teapot started strolling it around. After all, the Maw itself can only be seen in her section as a painting... and literally.

Rascal

All the mentioned abilities improved upon and shape-shifting. We see this in minimal form, with her face being made to look young, but who knows? Maybe she can do far more with that power if she so chooses.

Also, the hypnosis that keeps the Guests coming. I suspect Guests may have been coming over since Teapot's reign, but frankly I think the amount became this large thanks to Rascal. She knows her marketing stuff.

[everglow-synth]

Dossier | The Nightmare

Another door was kicked open. He'd been doing it all day, trying to get to the end of these catacombs, and he was starting to run out of ammunition. Just being here was starting to make him feel sick, though... he had never felt a sickness like this. Were they pumping something into the air to slow him down? He didn't know for sure, but it was starting to make him very dizzy.

He heard chanting down here. He had to be on the right track.

It wouldn't be long however before the chanting would stop, and he'd be in a pitch black room. Pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other, he clicked on the light and started to look around the room.

Unfortunately however, he had wandered right into their trap.

The door behind him slams shut, and his flashlight goes out. The floor beneath his feet starts to glow a deep red as a magic circle scrawled in blood was painted along the brick floor. He spins around to the door to try and make a run for it, but in his way are two cultists. He aims his gun at one of them but the other grabs him by the wrist.

The hood falls on one, revealing the face of his father; an old, grizzly looking drunk with a crazy look in his eye. The other cultist grabbed him as well, their hood falling back to reveal his mother, the one person who he trusted the most as a child... now staring back at him with a psychotic grin.

"You should have been a good boy, Johnny!" she cackles. "Soon, our lord shall rise... and you will be granted a wonderous end, bringing forth her arrival!"

He wanted to fight it, but before he knew it, he fell beneath the brickwork. They stood in place, seemingly in mid-air, as he fell through the floor and tumbled into the darkness below. He fell for what seemed like hours, before he was suddenly met with something he could barely comprehend.

All he could truly make out were the tendrils wrapping around his body, piercing into his mind as he fell deeper and deeper into the gaping maw of a great and terrible beast.

There was no help coming for him. He was alone... just like always. He fell down into the darkness, feeling the tendrils taking over his mind. He didn't feel anything... nothing but the feeling of drowning as his consciousness was being overtaken.

Even in the darkness he could make out faces as he fell, people that had put him in this position. The old priest, the neighbor who always gave him cookies as a child... his own family... but soon, everything would go dark. No faces, no screaming... nothing.

--

Jonathan woke up to a pounding headache and him having fallen on the floor. He checked the clock on the nightstand; 4:24 AM. And as soon as he realized that he was actually awake... he felt a need to vomit. He rushed to the bathroom, throwing up in the sink.

He took a moment to compose himself, turning on the faucet and taking a drink. He then looked up into the mirror. Every time he did, he saw what laid behind his eyes; a dormant eldritch abomination that he wanted nothing to do with. She had been disturbed in her slumber, and was threatening to awaken inside of him... but thankfully, as far as he knew, the only people who knew the awakening ritual were now dead.

But he could feel her deep within, speaking inside of his mind, showing him visions of the past, of the future, or even just making him question his own sanity...

At this point, it was just starting to get tiring. He wasn't afraid of her anymore... he just wanted this to end.

With a sigh, he made his way back to bed. Maybe she would let him get some sleep this time...

[monstersandmaw]

Hello! Here's an early release story for you that will be up on Tumblr in a week's time. Anon sent me this message and I responded with almost 8000 words:

"human prince who got cursed and turned into a merman, and while his family and the royal court struggle to find a way to break the curse he finds he's actually happier as a merman"

It's 3rd person, sfw, and features an orca clan who adopts our frightened prince, and there's a hint of mlm romance for one of the orcas with a human in the future... Anyway, I hope you like something a little different. 

As always, please feel free to point out typos or inconsistencies - I'm currently dosed to the max on cold medication, so there's a very real chance I've missed something!

Take care x

Content: some mild elements of body horror during the curse/turning scene, brief but not gory/too explicit mention of marine animal death, some implied trauma resulting from a transformation against his will/separation from family and previous existence at a young age, brief description of blood/injury from a harpoon to another character

Wordcount: 7965

Dusk gathered over the gentle swells of the open ocean, gilding the new yardarms and painting the perfectly crisp, white sails of the Royal Navy’s flagship with a pink and orange watercolour glow. The ship’s guests drank and laughed, and celebrated The Sea Rose’s maiden voyage, utterly unaware that they were enjoying their final few moments of life as they knew it.

Unremarkable in almost every way, a small porpoise had been playing in the bow wave, its small, dark body darting mere inches from the stem each time it plunged in and out of the spray and waves.

It didn’t hear the warning from the sea witch racing to catch up with it, and when the young porpoise’s concentration slipped and the black-painted stem of ‘The Sea Rose’ collided with its solid little body, no one on board noticed the tragedy of its passing. Even if the guests hadn’t been half drunk on the heady mix of wine and their own self-importance, there was no one on lookout in the crow’s nest that day; the new ship was flanked for her safety by two frigates a little way off, both crewed with the Navy’s finest and bristling to the gunwales with cannon and ammunition. There was no need to keep a watch this time.

There was, after all, no danger.

And yet, the animal’s accidental death would not go unmarked, unmourned, or unpunished.

Heedless of the vengeful danger rising swiftly from beneath the ship, the king himself strode along the main deck in his white and gold finery, leaving his guests for a moment as he spotted his thirteen year old son standing at the taffrail on the afterdeck and staring out at the ship’s trailing wake.

He slapped the skinny boy on his shoulders by way of a greeting, and nearly sent him toppling over into the sea from the force of his jovial blow. Hauling him upright again with a meaty fist at the scruff of his velvet doublet, the king laughed, cheeks red with drink and the bracing sea air, and he grinned down at his second eldest son.

“What’s got into you, lad?” he asked, his words a little thick and his green eyes a little glassy. “You’ve begged me for years to be allowed to go to sea, and now you’re here, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else! You’re not seasick, are you, lad? You’re going to be Admiral of the Fleet when your brother ascends the throne — can’t have you turning green at the slightest bit of swell!”

“It’s not that, father,” he said, mustering a smile for the king. “I’m sorry. I was just… thinking.”

Down below on the deck, the little prince’s older brother was talking with a few of the captains and admirals, and the boy felt suddenly every bit as young as he was. ‘King’ Eolan was a title that would suit his brother one day, with his regal bearing and his noble features, while the younger boy was gangly and too skinny to fill out the doublet he wore or the fine leather boots on his small feet.

He didn’t get the chance to observe the Crown Prince in action for much longer though, because a shudder ran the length of the new ship, and conversation sputtered and died.

The sails quivered and the rigging shook like spiderwebs before a coming storm. All the hands looked to their stations while the royal guests shifted uneasily and someone dropped a wine flute into the silence of the swelling sea. The Crown Prince scuttled up the stairs to the afterdeck and joined his father, tense and alert, though not before laying a hand on his little brother’s shoulder and offering a reassuring smile.

While the ship sailed past the stricken porpoise in a foaming, heedless rush, the creature bobbed past with its back broken, dead on impact, and the sea darkened around it and then began to boil and churn along the sides of the ship.

Finally, a shout went up and someone standing by the rail on the port side pointed and then reeled back in alarm. They were joined by more guests and sailors until half the ship’s company was hanging off the side and staring into the water that had turned an inky black around the corpse of the sea creature.

The thirteen year old prince followed his father to the railing of the high afterdeck and peered over in time to see a humanoid figure rise from the water. Her long, wet hair hung around her shoulders like a veil of moonlight, and her eyes flashed the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day. Her skin was freckled and oddly iridescent and the air around her seemed to shimmer like the road on a summer’s day. In her right hand she held a staff that was the silvery brown of old driftwood, wrapped around with seaweed like the leather on the grip of a quarterstaff, and her lower body appeared to be that of a leopard seal.

The prince’s breath caught and he stared, slack jawed down at her, forgetting to be afraid.

...

Read the whole thing, and get access to my entire Patreon-exclusive back catalogue, as well as joining our chilled out Discord server here, for just $3! Those on the Little Ghosties tier also have access to one new, exclusive Patreon story per month, and for December, there might be more than one...!

[th3sp4rr0w]

Day Five

A03 Link <- Starts at Chapter/Day One for those just joining us :))

Prompts For Day Five Hostage/Kidnapping/Held at Gunpoint

Alt. Prompt For Day Five; Blackmail

Prompts Used For Day Five; All

Tw; Kidnapping, Guns, Injury, Blood, Violence

Chapter under the cut!!

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

“Hello, little birdie,” Joker sneered, aiming his pistol at Robin.

Without thinking, he tugged Sheila behind him. “Joker,” he greeted neutrally, and he was proud of himself when it came out even.

He began laughing. Robin fought the urge to cover his ears as everything seeped in.

Batman didn’t know he was doing this. If he reached for his emergency button right now, on the inseam of his boot, Joker would kill him. If he reached for his com unit, Joker would kill him. Batman was on a stake out and wouldn’t check in with him for at least another hour, more likely longer than that. He’d never faced the Joker by himself before.

He’d always dreamed of it, back when he was watching kids who were around his age then disappear from the streets when Joker was out and never coming home. After he became Robin he imagined the day Batman let him do it solo, when he could truly stand up to the clown and do something cool, like kick his face so hard his jaw snapped. Instead, he listened to the manic laughter, staring down the barrel of the gun, trying to protect Sheila who was-

Who had pulled out a gun.

“No!” he yelled. “He’s not worth shooting! Get behind me, I can-”

“Do nothing,” Joker interrupted. “Oh, poor birdie. You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” The voice dripped with condescension and malice.

“Know what?” Jason Robin asked, a sinking feeling overwhelming him. He knew.

As Joker smiled and Sheila refused to look him in the eye, he knew. As Joker opened his grotesque maw to seal his fate, the red flags had sewn themselves together to paint the picture he had refused to acknowledge until it was too late. It was just confirmation of something he’d already known, deep down, nearly the minute he and Sheila had begun emailing.

“Oh, you stupid, stupid bird. She called me here.” He laughed.

She didn’t love him. She didn’t care about him. She knew what happened to his twin. She had been working with the Joker. She ran from Gotham because she was targeting poor families with sick kids for sick experiments and got caught.

He was an idiot. He should’ve asked Bruce what was going on. He should’ve told Dick, or Alfred, or somebody other than his little baby bird about what was going on.

He knew he should’ve stuttered out something like, “No! She’d never do that!” but at this point it’d be more of a formality than anything he actually believed. He could’ve asked something like, “How could you?!” but that also felt like more of a performance.

He looked over his shoulder, trying to catch her gaze. She pointedly looked anywhere but at him. He only had one question.

“What really happened to my brothers?”

The Joker looked at him and grated on his ears once more. “Now, little birdie, why would I-“

“Not you!” Jason ROBIN snapped out. He fully turned around to face her. “She knows. You know!” he yelled. She finally looked at him, bored. “You know what happened, don’t you?! What happened to them?!”

The silence was suffocating. His dwindling hope wished she would show some remorse. Maybe cry. Apologize. He had hoped she would show some reaction, begging for it whether it be genuine and apologetic, pleading him for his forgiveness, or something else entirely. He had almost expected her to turn with a sadistic grin, all teeth and bitter emotions. Spout something about how she couldn’t possibly deal with them. He already shouldn’t love her, just based on this alone; he craved a reason he couldn’t . Hurting him wasn’t enough. He hated himself for it, but he almost hoped she did something to them.

She smoothed her face into a blank expression, looking at him like he was just another kid asking stupid questions. That was almost worse than anything he could’ve come up with on his own. The Joker’s insipid noises grated his ears as he nodded towards her. She spoke.

“Dan choked. Willis was watching him and he let our little boy die. Danny, well... I couldn’t take him with me like I’d planned. A friend had a sickly baby boy born a few days before you two. I was babysitting one day so they could go to an event. He passed away in his cot that night and, well, they looked enough alike. They even shared a name. The only other one in the house was the sister, and she was in bed. It was easy.”

The sickening realization hit him with that maddening cackle ringing out in his ears. It sounded like a bad sitcom that relied on laugh tracks to try and convince you it was entertaining.

Joker said something. He could tell from the way the man’s mouth moved, but all he could hear was the manufactured laughter coming out like rotted peels. Sheila looked like she might actually feel something, anything, but it quickly smoothed over into a carefully blank expression.

“Why would you do this to us?” his voice was soft.

“I had no choice. Your brothers were out of my control, and you, well... if you ran off to Batman, you’d find I’ve been taking a big cut out of the cash myself. Couldn’t have you ruining that for me, could I?”

He was such an idiot . He knew not to trust her! Alfred was going to be so disappointed…

One of Joker’s white vans peeled into the parking lot and stopped abruptly near them. Joker looked at him for a moment and, before he knew it, the Joker’s arm was moving. He heard the shot ring loud in his ears, and suddenly he was on the ground. He heard someone screaming in pain with manic laughter in the background.

“There, now my little birdie can’t fly away,” he heard a giggle, then- “Where do ya think you’re goin’, blondie?”

Sheila turned around from where she’d been walking away. She kept cool despite the gun that was now trained on her instead of the little boy she’d lured here. “Home. I want to watch my shows and go to bed.”

Joker’s smile widened. “You’re comin’ with us. Our payment still isn’t in, though I like the little gift you’ve given us in the meantime.”

He kicked Jason in the knee he’d just shot. Jason’s hand went to his belt. If he could just...

“Don’t think so, bucko,” the man who’d been driving said as he grabbed Ja... Robin’s wrist.

He looked up to see three pairs of eyes trained on him. So much for that plan.

“Tie him up,” Joker said eventually. “We’ll take him to the fun house, yeah?”

He gestured to Sheila, motioning her into the van. “Come on, doll, you too,” he added, looking her up and down.

The goon ripped Robin’s gloves off his hands and tied his wrists behind his back in tight knots. As it happened, he did his best to remember the training Batman had given him, flexing his muscles as best as he could to make them loose when he relaxed them. Even relaxed, they cut into his wrists.

The goon roughly grabbed his hair, turning his head from side to side. He ripped the com unit from his ear roughly, causing him to bite his tongue to hold back a swear. He didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction.

The man picked Robin up by his hair and threw him into the back of the van. His knee hit against the metal of the floor, causing him to hiss. He felt a gentle hand against his cheek.

“Jason-”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Jason, please-”

“Shut up, Sheila.”

“I am your mother-”

“You’re not shit to me,” he spat, finally looking at her face. “You didn’t do shit for me. You didn’t do shit for my brothers-”

“I did everything I could-”

“ I told you to shut the fuck up ,” he hissed. “You didn’t do shit for me, you weren’t there. You sold me out to the fucking Joker.” His voice didn’t shake, and he was proud of that as he regarded her with the same frigidness she’d adopted. “And it’s Robin in uniform. If we want to survive this, it’s Robin.”

“We’re not going to die, Jason,” Sheila denied.

“He’s going to try to kill me. It’s his ultimate fantasy to break the Bat enough to kill, and he thinks killing me would do the trick,” Robin stated. “And you’ve already crossed someone once. He won’t trust you not to do it again. Either shut the fuck up or call me Robin, because you’re fucking stupid if you think he won’t kill you, too.”

“If that was true, why didn’t he just shoot you?”

Robin grimaced. “It’d be too easy. He wants to play his game first. We’re like toys to him; he’ll play with us until we break, then he’ll cast us aside.”

The ride was silent after that.

He thought about the emergency button in his boot. He didn’t trust Sheila to try to press it, not after this stunt, so he tried to shimmy his boot off and into his hand. Unfortunately, Bruce had designed the damn thing too well. It hadn’t even budged, and the button was bump-proof after one too many awkward conversations with Dick. Robin cursed under his breath.

He tried to do something, anything, as he lay there on the floor. This was bad. This was so, so bad. He tried to think of something, quick, but nothing came to mind as the van sped through the streets.

When they got to the warehouse, Robin decided his tactic.

The van doors opened and Robin glared at his captors. He knew they couldn’t see from behind his back, but the gesture he made was like a calming balm on his soul. He could see Sheila stand to her feet the best she could out of the corner of his eye.

“Now, now, look what we have here,” Joker said as he giggled. Robin hated fighting this guy for that reason the most, he thinks. He’s never letting Nightwing watch his shit sitcoms ever again.

“What we got, boss?” the goon asked besides him.

Joker fell back. Jason watched as he raised the gun to his head and hooked Sheila’s foot with his own, pulling her leg out from under her. She lost balance and fell just as the shot rang out. The bullet went through the man’s skull, whizzed through where Sheila’s head would’ve been if Robin hadn’t pulled her down and shattered the windshield behind them. Blood and brain matter spattered them both. The body hung in the air like that for just a few moments before falling, slamming against the door of the van and sliding down in a heap of limbs.

“A red robin!” he giggled.

Robin took a breath, doing his best not to show a reaction. His ears rung.

“Oh come on, nothing? That was some of my best material,” he huffed. He grabbed Robin’s shoulder, dragging him out of the van and towards a warehouse. “Blondie! In front of me!”

Sheila walked briskly ahead of them. Her face was stoic.

Fucking bitch.

He limped to the warehouse as Joker stood behind him with the gun to his back.

He knew if he tried to fight, he’d only get Sheila killed. Even if she hadn’t spotted the danger yet, he knew Joker was like a viper, just waiting for the right moment to strike. As loathe as he was to say it, he couldn’t leave her behind. His best bet was to wait for the Bat.

It was unlikely, but he hoped the com unit had busted when the goon had thrown it, sending an automatic emergency signal to the Bat. That would likely cause him to investigate and find his gloves or tire marks or something-

“Faster, birdie,” the clown shoved him forwards a little, “Unless you wanna end up like our friend back there.”

Batman would’ve been able to save the guy. Batman wouldn’t have gotten captured. He wished Batman was here right now.

Jason did as he was told, walking faster. It felt like a death march. No, Batman was coming; Robin just has to stay strong for a while longer. If he had full use of his leg, he might be able to take care of it himself. Nightwing might be the better acrobatic, but he’d still been trained by all of the bats before him.

He put too much weight on his knee and nearly crumpled. He could hear Joker’s manic voice behind him, mocking him.

Staying strong to wait for rescue meant that he had more time than usual to take in his surroundings. Other than the Joker and Sheila, they were alone. Joker raised the pistol he carried above his head. He bore the butt of the gun down against his skull, kicking his injured knee as he fell to the floor. Robin fought not to cry out.

There were crates lining the warehouse. There were several different prototypes for only god knows what, and he could smell gas from somewhere. He hoped he was wrong, but he could’ve sworn he saw wires coming out of the back wall earlier. There was a row of blunt objects in front of them. Joker walked up to them and grabbed the crowbar from the lineup.

Sheila went over to the stack of crates and sat down.

Joker raised an arm, yammering some nonsense about how he was a naughty bird and needed to be punished. He swung, hitting Jason in the cheekbone first. He heard the crack.

He focused his energy on not crying out. This was the best way to prolong Joker’s torture and save them.

He looked over at Sheila to try and distract himself. She calmly reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and matchbox. The Joker kept swinging. She put the cigarette between her lips. Joker was laughing as he brought the weapon down again. She lit the match, bringing it up to her mouth.

“Come on, Birdie,” he taunted, “What would the big ol’ Bat say?”

He swung harder. She took a drag, watching the smoke billow from her mouth and up in the air. She hadn’t once looked away.

Each hit felt like, well, getting smacked with a crowbar. He heard snaps. The Joker had aimed at his leg at one point, and Robin prayed he hadn’t broken the emergency button so Batman could track it.

He thought about all the red flags he’d ignored. All the times he’d almost told Bruce what was going on and didn’t. He wished he’d told Alfred he loved him more often. He wished he had said a more heartfelt “goodbye” to Dick before he left for his mission instead of saying he'd be glad to have the manor to himself the next few weekends. He wished he took his phone to text his little baby bird.

He wished he’d told Bruce he loved the little zebra plush he’d given him instead of just nodding-

The crowbar hit his stomach and that was it. He’d stayed strong as long as he could.

“Papa!” he cried out.

The Joker paused. “Oh, well, well, well, well, welllll,” he started, dragging out his last word, “What’s this about, bird brains? Missing Daddy, are we?”

Jason whimpered.

“Do it again,” the voice was cruel, all malice and hatred. He brought the crowbar down hard on Jason’s head.

“Papa,” he sobbed. “Help, please, help me...”

The Joker laughed again before bringing it down once more.

Jason cried out louder.

“Awe, you seein’ this, Blondie?” he asked, grin on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nod. Jason chokes on his sob as the guilt from the last couple weeks boiled over.

He crouched down next to Jason, “D’awww, don’t worry, birdie, we’re not done playin’,” he mocked. He could see his own blood on the man’s face.

His wrists burned from the rope. The lens from his left eye was missing and the right was completely shattered and fragmented. The hearing in his left ear was weird and he couldn’t discern if that was because the goon from earlier had ripped his com out or if it was because Joker had hit him there. There was blood everywhere.

“Care for a smoke?” he heard Sheila offer.

Joker turned to her with disgust, “Those things’ll kill ya,” he said, then cackled.

He left them to debate while he arched his back as far as it would go. At this point, he just wanted to get out himself. If he could protect Sheila, great, if not, well... he could pretend to be fine with it, he thought.

His finger just barely caught the edge of the pocket on his belt. He could feel the blood that had pooled there, refusing to sink into the nearly soak-proof fabric. He opened it silently and brushed his fingertips to the contents. Band aids. He tried again on the other side. Lollipops. He went for the next closest pocket, staring at the Joker and Sheila as they chatted away like they were anywhere but here. He grabbed the side of it and pulled up, barely managing to unlatch the snap.

The wing ding. Why Batman let the 9 yr old pick the name for every one of his contraptions, he’ll never understand, but in this moment he’s so glad that the old man had a lapse in judgment so big as to let him carry around what were essentially projectable razor blades. He slid one out carefully and started working at the ropes. Sheila made eye contact with him for just a second.

He froze. He waited to see if she’d rat him out, but she continued her sentence without falter, looking back at the clown.

He didn’t stop to contemplate why she’d done that. He continued to cut through the thick rope.

He finally got through the ropes, sparing a glance back at the duo. He knew he couldn’t run away like this, but he could probably stall for a little more time.

The first thing he did was check the inseam of his boot. The emergency button was intact. He pressed it. Even if the com had broken, it wouldn’t hurt to press the button. Maybe Bruce would understand the need for more urgency and get here faster.

With shaking hands, he grasped the wing ding. It was a miracle he didn’t cut himself on it by accident with the amount of blood soaking its surface.

He threw it at the Joker.

The projectile hit the man’s cheek, causing a deep cut. The man cursed, cupping his cheek and spun around. There was nothing human about his expression.

“Oh, you little... Fine, you want Uncle Joker to play with you?” he muttered darkly.

He grabbed a handful of bloody hair, dragging the boy upwards to meet his face.

He could smell his rancid breath and an undercurrent of something acidic. “Let’s play!”

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

After his frankly insane nightmare, Danny was feeling drained.

He slept again that night, for one, and almost didn’t bother getting up when his ghost sense went off. He did, of course, and helped the Red Huntress kick some ghostly butt.

Tucker and Sam, however, had noticed and were confronting him.

The Black Dahlia

You know why we’re doing this, right?

Ghost Boy Because you hate me?

The Pharaoh

No dude, we’re concerned.

Ghost Boy Well stop? What if there’s a ghost during the day? Red’s only active at night

The Black Dahlia

We’ll text her??

Ghost Boy … Sam We’re not supposed to know

The Black Dahlia

You dated her, remember?

We’re friends now

The Pharaoh

You’re friends?

The Black Dahlia

Shut up

Tell you what ghostie

Ghost Boy What Also dont call me that

The Black Dahlia

Take a break for the day, just 24 hours

OR

We tell Jazz you were lying about getting hurt and got dunked in cursed kool-aid

Your choice

Ghost Boy You wouldnt dare

The Pharaoh

Already have screen shots of everything ready to send

Ghost Boy … I hate you both

The Black Dahlia

Love you too!!

The Pharaoh

Care about you, man

So, yeah, he was pretty much screwed. He sighed, stirring some of the shredded cheese they’d managed to salvage into his microwave mac n’ cheese cup. Once upon a time, he’d have cut up hotdogs in this, but after one too many times of a certain food group trying to eat you back, you tend not to eat it anymore.

He supposed he had to act like a normal human being today.

His ghost sense bubbled in his chest. He didn’t turn his head in time and the breath from his lungs froze the food in his hand. Danny mourned for a moment before cutting his losses, tossing it in the trash and updating his friends.

Ghost Boy My sense just went off

The Black Dahlia

Contacting Red

Ghost Boy Be a lot easier if I dealt with it myself

The Pharaoh

Stfu

Corner of Maple and Elm

The Black Dahlia

K

Ghost Boy Thought you were hacking the GIW, not the citys cams??

The Pharaoh

I did both <3

Ghost Boy Omfg

He smiled slightly as he texted his friends. Even if they were annoying sometimes, he knew they had his best interest at heart... most of the time.

He knew they were probably going to be busy the rest of the day, Tucker (apparently) looking at the city’s cameras to make sure nothing was going wrong and Sam had to leave soon to get a dress fitted for a gala her parents were dragging her to. Something about how Bruce Wayne adopted another kid that he was apparently super protective of? Hadn’t even hosted a gala for him yet? Though that was mostly because every time they tried, a supervillain trashed the place the night before. It was freaky. Sam was certain the same was to be said about this one, but her parents were insistent.

Speaking of parents...

Shouts and clangs could be heard from the basement. He could hear something heavy being dropped onto the floor. There was nearly no possible way for him to make it past them without getting caught. He... might be able to convince Jazz to let him go to the library with her for her study group.

He’d gotten the rest of his work done last night, prepped and in his bag for Monday. That sounded like a normal teen activity to do. He could see if they had any more Jane Austen there since he’d finished Jazz’s copies already.

He ran up the stairs to find Jazz packing her bag and on call with one of her tutoring students.

“Yes, we had geography homework.... Yes, I know that’s a weak area.... Mhm.... Hang- hey, hang on a sec, my little brother’s staring at me,” Jazz pulled the receiver away from her mouth, “What?”

“Can I go with you?

Jazz kept her eyes on him and pulled the phone back up. “Would you be alright if my brother crashes our session?... Perfect. Danny, go get ready,” she shoo’d him out, “Bring your stuff, I’ll look over your homework for you!” she called as he booked it out of her room.

He went into his room, picking up his bag. He grabbed his phone charger (he had no idea how long they’d be there, sue him), and double checked to make sure he had a pen.

He went down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen to fill the water bottle Sam had given him for... ugh, Christmas. He only used it because she was nice and got him something. That, and it had little ghosts on it and said “Boo, Witch”. He loved it.

He didn’t care what kind of truce there was, he hated Christmas.

He decided to wait for Jazz in the car.

It was... weird. Just going to the library like a regular teenager would. Good weird, though.

He opened the door, sliding into the front seat. He texted Jazz, telling her he was already in the car. She sent him a thumbs up.

He crossed his legs on the seat before putting on his seatbelt. Jazz hated it when he did this, but it was comfortable. He scrolled on his phone, unsure of what else to do.

He smiled to himself. He was going to the library . He was going to the library, he was going to go over his homework with his big sister, and then he was going to check out a book. He was... excited. Maybe he had taken it for granted so often he hadn’t known what he missed, or maybe he was too busy to notice it before, but he missed this feeling.

Jazz slid into the driver’s seat, scolded him for the way he was sitting, and began driving.

It was a surprisingly peaceful drive. The ghost attack was on the other side of town, so they completely avoided all the action.

It was surreal. He still couldn’t believe it was happening. They got to the library without incident.

They walked through the doors where Jazz lead Danny to a study room, where the kid she was tutoring was already waiting.

“Hey, Jazz, hey lil’ dude,” he greeted with a lazy wave.

“Hey, Kip,” Jazz greeted.

“Hi,” Danny said, waving back. “I’m Danny,” he said, extending his hand.

Kip smiled easily and took his hand, “I’m Kip. Heard you were crashing today, what’s up? Your friends busy or something?”

“I got grounded for punching someone’s tooth out,” he said cheerily. Kip laughed as Jazz flushed.

“Daniel James!” she scolded and turned to the other boy. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s-”

“He’s cool,” he amended, “I heard about it is all. That one kid was friends with my little sister, she needed something to wake her up to how shit her friends are.”

“Who’s your sister?” Danny asked.

“Star Franks, why? You know her?”

Danny shuddered. “Yeah, I do. She faked dating my friend awhile back,” he started.

“Oh, god,” he muttered, “She does that a lot. She was dating this girl and the other kids in her shitty group decided that homophobia was cool I guess? And they told them they could stay together, but only if they got fake boyfriends. Apparently there’s a gay kid on the football team as well? Kwan or something? That she fake dated for awhile,” he went on.

“Okay, guys, let’s get work done first, then we can gossip,” Jazz jumped in. “Though, we should really talk about that later,” she said.

“Oh I plan to,” Kip laughed. “So, what you got, lil’ man?”

Danny grabbed all the papers he had in his bag, handing them to Jazz. “I’ve got my work done, I kind of only tagged along to check out the books they have here,” he admitted.

“That’s cool,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get Star here since they have a surprisingly killer LGBTQ section, but she said it wouldn’t be good for her ‘socials’...? Whatever that means?”

“Knowing what I know about Dash and Kwan, I’m surprised a single one of them can read, honestly,” Danny said seriously.

Kip covered his mouth with his hand as he wheezed.

“Be nice. Alright, it looks like you’re good here,” Jazz mumbled, “Did you have any questions? Did you struggle at all with the math?”

Danny shook his head, “Not really. I did pretty good with it, and it wasn’t too hard. Can I go now?”

Jazz sighed. “Fine. Don’t destroy the place, and text me if you don’t remember what room we’re in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he turned to Kip, “It was nice meeting you!”

“Nice meeting you too, lil’ man!” he said. “You should come over for more sessions, you’re a riot!”

“That’s exactly why he doesn’t come to my tutoring sessions,” Jazz teased.

Danny snorted, closing the door as he left.

He wandered around for a while before finding the classics section. He ran his finger against the spines of the books, finding what he was looking for rather quickly.

He picked up copies of Sense and Sensibility and Emma before heading to the check-out.

He greeted the woman behind the desk, who looked at him for a moment. “Hi, sweetheart, what can I do for you today?” she asked, not unkindly.

“I just want to check these out, please,” he said politely.

“Alright, can I get a name?”

“Daniel Fenton,” he said immediately. She looked at him.

“Fenton?” she echoed.

“I know,” he said immediately, “I promise I will be keeping these in my bag unless I’m reading them. They will not get within 10 feet of my parents,” he promised, remembering the fallen library books through the years that Jazz tried to bring in. It truly was amazing how many small fires his father started every week.

She laughed, “No, hon, that’s not what I meant. I used to help babysit you and Jazz when you were babies,” she said. “You just... wow, you reminded me of a friend we had years ago for a second. You look just like her.”

Danny cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”

She shook her head lightly, “Don’t worry about it, dear. Let me see those a sec?”

Danny handed them over for her to scan.

“All right, there you go, sweetie. Wow, Austen isn’t something I see a lot of kids your age checking out,” she commented.

Danny huffed, only slightly dramatic. “I was grounded recently, Jazz had a copy of Pride and Prejudice , and I was bored. I picked it up and now-”

“You can’t stop reading?” she guessed.

“I can’t stop reading!” he said, slightly exasperated. She laughed at him.

“Well, we’re always here if you want to read more,” she promised, “And there are always free bookmarks on the table over there if you’re interested,” she added, pointing to the aforementioned table.

“All right, thank you, miss,” he replied politely. “I’d better go before Jazz thinks I’m burning the place down or something.”

She hummed in amusement, “Wouldn’t want that. You have a nice day and tell your parents I said hi!”

“Will do, have a nice day!” he called over his shoulder.

He decided not to go back up to the study room, afraid of distracting Jazz and Kip. Instead, he wandered around until he found a cozy little spot hidden away from the rest. It was labeled “The Quiet Room” and had a quaint little set up.

He sat in a rocking chair, bringing his legs up onto it to sit crisscross apple-sauce style. He moved his torso gently back and forth to subtly rock the chair as he opened Emma first.

“Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich...”

He was immediately just as invested as he had been with Pride and Prejudice . He felt he could read for hours.

Ooo, he knew this was going to be good. The audacity of this woman! She’d never worked a day in her life and yet here she was, thinking she can just meddle in other’s affairs? He could see the heads rolling now.

Emma may be an adult, but she acted like a spoiled child.

He kept reading, making little noises as he did so whenever things got good. The peace of the room made it easy to breeze through the words and hang on to every one of them, watching as Emma made a fool of herself. It was highly entertaining.

He grimaced at some parts. Emma really didn’t have self-awareness, did she? For one who makes such bold claims as she did, she truly had no emotional maturity. Emotionally secure people don’t go around meddling in other’s business-

He needs to stop hanging around Jazz.

He yawned, his mouth dry. He decided it was probably around time he went back to Jazz in person, anyways.

He got up and out of the comfortable chair, making his way towards the exit. He walked around for a bit before spotting the white rooms, looking through the little windows of each before spotting where Jazz sat with Kip. He turned the knob.

“Hey, lil’ man!” Kip greeted as they turned towards him. “You find what you were lookin’ for?”

“Yeah!” he said and held up his prizes.

“Austen, huh?” he commented. “Isn’t that the same chick that wrote that one book Mrs. Dean is always on about?”

“ Pride and Prejudice , yeah,” Jazz said. “He borrowed my copy last week and breezed right through it. Said it was like gossiping with a friend,” she said fondly.

Kip lit up with realization. “Oh my god, you’re right! Maybe I should read the book.”

“You haven’t read it yet?” Jazz asked, confused.

“Nope, read the first couple pages and thought it was boring. But viewing it as gossiping...”

“Do I want to know how you wrote your essay? Don’t answer that,” Jazz muttered. “If you want, I have a personal copy, or I’m sure Danny can show you where he got his books from.”

“Right on,” Kip said easily. His phone chimed a moment later. “Oh, shoot, okay I gotta go,” he said.

“Already? We still have 20 minutes!” Jazz exclaimed.

Kip looked at her, guilty, “I know, but Maria’s bringing the baby to the hospital. She spiked a fever last night and it reached 103 a few minutes ago. Maria’s picking me up so we can go together,” he said.

“What if you guys clean up here and meet me in the lobby? I can go grab a copy of the book,” he offered.

Kip looked at Danny, touched, “You’d do that, dude? Thank you so much,” he said sincerely.

“No problem, man,” he said, grabbing his bag and water bottle so Jazz wouldn’t have to, “Good luck with your kid. This must be really scary,” he said.

“It is. She was a huge change, and we didn’t do everything we were supposed to,” he admitted. “We’re just trying to do right by her now.”

“That’s all you can do, Kip. Learn from your past and make better choices for your future,” Jazz said as she grabbed papers. “Okay, so this is due...”

Danny left, running slightly to the classics section. He found it easily, scanning the shelves for the book. He spotted it, scooped it up and turned to leave when-

“Fenton?” he heard a soft voice ask.

“Uh, hey, Star,” he said awkwardly.

“Hey. Didn’t know you were into... classics,” she said lamely.

They looked at each other a few more moments.

“Yeah,” he replied awkwardly. “Well, I gotta run, so-”

“Do you know where my brother is,” she asked, in a rush.

“Um, he’s supposed to be meeting me in the lobby, actually-”

“Okay. Okay, I... he wanted to show me something. I guess. And I was rude but-”

“Star, I really gotta run,” he said, “Kip has an emergency and he asked me to grab this for him.”

“Oh,” she said.

He felt bad for her. “If you follow me, I can show you a cool room I found and we can wander around together if you want.”

Star smiled, “That sounds nice, actually.”

“Cool.”

Danny started walking, Star following close behind. They made it to the lobby as Jazz and Kip were bounding down the stairs.

“I found it!” Danny called over to them.

“Sweet. Thanks again, lil’... Star? What are you doin’ here?”

“I, uh, well...” she stammered.

“She wanted to apologize for earlier,” Danny jumped in. “She mentioned you had something to show her earlier, and I told her you had an emergency,” he handed the book to Kip for him to check out. “I also offered to show her around, help her pick out a book and show her the room I found earlier,” he added.

Kip smiled at them. “Thank you,” he said softly.

He checked out the book as a car pulled up in the parking lot. He ran out, waving goodbye.

“So,” Jazz started, “You want me to stick around, or pick you up later?”

Danny turned to Star, “You mind if she joins in? She has more recommendations than I do,” he admitted.

Star giggled for a second. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

Danny smiled to himself for a moment. He let Jazz lead them through the library, pointing out certain books to them. He occasionally made his own comments, about how the movie was good or that he heard good things about that one.

Jazz ended up with Tom Sawyer , Star with Red, White, and Royal Blue . They sat in the quiet room as they read, Danny in the chair, Star on the couch and Jazz at the desk.

Turns out, being a normal teen for the day was the best idea his friends ever had.

He was never going to tell them that, though.

Although...

He was going to have to tag along with Jazz more often. He may not be able to do whole days like this, but maybe he could spare a few hours every weekend. This was too nice not to do that.

He’d had too much fun today.