#new sharpening settings who dis

[kirain]

I decided to make adult designs and "where are they now" stories for all the child tieflings who are confirmed to survive to Act 3.

Unbeknownst to her, Arabella was a latent sorcerer with a natural connection to the Weave. Her powers likely would've manifested at puberty, but touching the idol of Silvanus imbued her with wild druid magic, multiclassing her prematurely. This caused an internal struggle between the two powers, which threatened to rip her and anyone around her apart. Fortunately, with Withers' guidance, she set out to follow the Weave and found balance in her new, strange abilities. For years she traveled Faerûn alone, honing her skills and making peace with her past. Eventually, she became known as the "Wondering Storm", so attuned to nature some would mistake her for Silvanus' Chosen. Those who crossed her, however, would swear she was Jergal's Chosen; able to end a life with a single stare. Though not unkind, Arabella became feared by many for her stoic personality, mysterious presence, and peculiar command of the Weave. It seemed that wherever she was needed, she would inexplicably be.

Though Raphael went silent, Mol continued to enjoy, and perhaps abuse, the gifts from her patron. With the Absolute defeated, she quickly clawed her way up the ranks of the Guild, eventually becoming a pseudo ward to Nine-Fingers Keene. For years she would sharpen her skills, mentored by Keene and her most trusted associates, until she challenged the notorious crime lord to a duel for leadership. Much to her surprise, Keene lost, and was therefore forced to relinquish command to the young tiefling. Seeing the move as a betrayal, however, the Guild's loyalty was split, causing the criminal powerhouse to fracture. This led to a dark time for the Guild, with many in Baldur's Gate referring to it as the "Outlaw Civil War". Much blood was shed during this conflict, but eventually Mol turned the tides in her favour, running Keene and those still loyal to her out of the city. She would go on to rebuild the Guild in her image, successfully and more fearsome than ever; though, when she approached her old colleagues with an invitation to join, they all declined.

Once he managed to enter the city, Mattis tried to find his companions from the Grove, but he ultimately turned his sights to conning rich families with "panaceas from the hells". For a while, he flourished under this racket, until his scheme was exposed by jealous competition. This led to him being violently assaulted by angry customers, nearly ending his life—he only survived by rolling into a rapid canal. After being saved by a kind, impoverished couple who fished him out of the water, he spent nearly three months confined to a bed. His recovery was slow and agonizing, but hardly discouraging. Instead of succumbing to his misery, he took the time to plot his revenge. With the couple's help, he learned the laws of the land and revived his strength. Then, when able, he cut his hair, disguised his face, spied on the man who wronged him, and subsequently tricked him into signing his business over to the couple. Together, they turned the questionable business into something respectable. Mostly. Mattis' silver tongue finally became an asset, rather than a survival tactic, though he was never above a good swindle.

Ide and Umi took up arms during the Absolute's attack on the city, each of them basking in the action. Realising that Umi had developed an insatiable bloodlust, and itching for more battles herself, Ide suggested they enlist into the army. Though technically too young, the new General—appointed by High Duke Ravengard after the fall of the Absolute—accepted them as apprentices until they came of age.

Though their time with the Flaming Fist was imperative to their training and survival, they found the rules and hypocrisy of the troop disheartening, and even more so when the General died. Eventually they deserted, leaving Baldur's Gate entirely and starting a small band of vigilantes. To some, they were a menace. To others, they became heroes of the Sword Coast. No matter the case, Ide and Umi were inseparable, never seen apart.

Inspired by his saviours, Mirkon continued to write stories about his time in the Grove and his rescue from the harpies. He never found his parents, but he refused to live in the slum's orphanage. Life was hard for the young tiefling, often forcing him to grovel for food and coin. On the worst days, he found comfort turning his stories into songs, which he slowly morphed into a semi-profitable street act. This eventually caught the attention of Alfira, who one day happened to be passing by. Recognising his talent, and overjoyed to be reunited, she took him in and taught him how to play the violin. Together, they created a lucrative show that expanded well beyond the Elfsong Tavern, which aided Alfira in opening her dream college. She and Lakrissa would soon adopt Mirkon, and he would later become one of the most beloved and celebrated instructors at the college.

Though working as a hawker for the Baldur's Mouth kept Silfy fed and relatively sheltered, she grew listless. Dealing with rude and racist customers hardened her enough to snap back, resulting in her termination. With nowhere to go, she found herself wandering into Ramazith's Tower, where she implored Rolan for a job. Feeling for her plight, Rolan put her to work stocking shelves and filling orders. It wasn't exciting work, but she was safe and satisfied, until one day a customer's tome exploded, causing a flurry of rainbow flames that whirled into the shape of a unicorn. This event, though frightening, would inspire Silfy to start reading the books in the shop, with the help of Tolna and Rolan. To everyone's surprise, she proved to have an impressive aptitude for magic, and she soon found herself enthralled. Within just a few years, Silfy would be accepted into Blackstaff Academy, where she would excel in her studies and catch the eye of the great Vajra Safahr. She would offer Silfy a position in the school, as well as a mentorship, but Silfy would politely decline, graduate, and return to Bauldr's Gate. Her true home.

[sorceresssundries]

The Wizard who Waited

Summary: It is time to go and face the Elder Brain, and Tav stops by Sorcerous Sundries in the hope of saying farewell to Rolan. Let's all just pretend we don't meet him at the high-hall before the battle.

Pairing: Rolan x gn Tav - SFW

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N - This work is inspired by one of George's cameos. Featuring a monologue written by @gender-in-a-blender. I loved it so much that I wanted to create a short story to wrap it in.

'Wait! Before you go, I have something I need to get off my chest. You are without a doubt the most maddening person I have ever met! You are reckless and foolhardy! You put yourself in harm’s way time and time again, and it’s enough to drive a man to insanity... because… You see, I think about you constantly. Wondering where you are, what you’re doing, whether you’re safe. I think about the brief moments of time we’ve had together and how it’s not been enough. How it will never be enough. I know I can’t convince you to stay here with me, safe in this tower, but when this is all over... I want you to come back to me. Please, will you come back to me? Don't answer me right now. Go save the Gods-damned Gate. And if you want this, if you want us... come back to me. I'll be waiting.' - Written by @gender-in-a-blender

It was time.

Night fell, as surely and steadily as it always had. The last blood-red rays of sunlight sank below the skyline of the quaking city, leaving Tav to wonder if they would ever feel its warmth on their skin again. 

There was no time to dwell on it. Blades sharp and spells readied, Tav and their companions made their way through Baldur’s Gate, the night air thick with promise. Whether that promise was of victory or defeat, there was no way of knowing, but the dread Tav felt was so intense they could choke on it. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the houses they passed, and babies cried, hushed by fretful parents unable to soothe them from the now-regular tremors rumbling through the city like shockwaves.

It would all end soon.

In front of Tav stood Sorcerous Sundries, light filtering out from the stained glass of the magnificent domed roof, scattering ripples of blue and orange through the surrounding streets.

Perhaps Rolan was there...

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Tav said to their steel-faced companions. “Let me see if I can get any last-minute supplies…”

They exchanged a knowing glance as Tav headed off.

“Darling, a giant brain is about to split the city apart, is now really the time for this?” Astarion called as Tav made their way over to the wizarding shop. Tav ignored him, as they often did.

“Leave it, Istik. A warrior should be granted a final goodbye to the source of their joy before a battle.” Lae’zel’s usually sharp voice was solemn.

The source of their joy. Was it so obvious?

It was late, and the shop was empty. Only a few enchanted sets of armor clunked around, guarding the precious wares and tomes. Despite its emptiness, the air was ripe with magic, sweet and delicate, like spun sugar and silk. The disappointment of not seeing the new archmage at the front desk busying himself in books was more profound than Tav had thought it would be. He must be in his tower. Perhaps they could leave him a letter, or even a...

“Well, if it isn’t the meddling hero!” Rolan appeared at the top of the stairs. His words were a usual wry quip, but a smile played on his lips, warm and inviting. “What trouble are you in now?” He made his way across to Tav, he looked as beautiful as ever.

Tav saw his gaze rake over their freshly sharpened blade and restless hands. His smile died.

“I…” Tav hesitated, searching for the right words. “We’ve gathered what we need to destroy the Absolute. We’re leaving now.” Tav wanted to say goodbye, but the words didn’t leave their throat.

The truth was, it was more than saying goodbye. Tav had stopped by to commit his face to memory. To count and remember each freckle and burn them so deeply into them that not even death could wipe them away. They were a constellation Tav wanted to map out and carry with them, wherever they went. They wanted to hear his voice one last time, so it would be fresh and colourful in their mind as the world quieted into darkness around them.

They wanted to tell him they loved him, but couldn’t bring themselves to say it.

It wasn’t fair to offer that now, freshly uncovered and full of potential with nowhere to spread out it’s wings. It is a precious thing, deserving more than to be grasped for a fleeting moment only to be let go.

‘I love you’ was a beginning to something that Tav couldn’t offer. 

“Right.” Rolan looked up through the stained dome of the ceiling, up to the stars, and squared his shoulders. “Let me leave a note for Cal and Lia. I’ll grab a few things and then…”

“No!” Tav grabbed hold of his arm in a panic before he could move away. “I need you to stay here.” His face slips further into his familiar frown.

“I can assure you I am perfectly capable of helping, despite what I may have demonstrated so far.”

“I know,” Tav said as calmly as they could, trying to keep the frayed edges of their nerves from knotting into their voice. They couldn’t let him know how frightened they were; it wouldn’t be fair.

“I need you to prepare the artillery. We’ll need it when the time comes.” Tav could see he was torn, clever thoughts dancing just behind his eyes, restless and painful. “Besides, the city will be in trouble and the tower will be the safest place for people looking for shelter. The safest place for Cal and Lia. For you. Please, Rolan. I’ll send a signal for when to fire.”

“Get someone else to send the damned signal! Stay here, if it’s so safe.”

“I can’t.”

“Let the others handle it!”

“Rolan.”

“Why must it be you?! Don’t be so foolish!”

“Rolan…”

“Surely there is someone else out there willing to die for this fucking city.” The air fizzled with his anger. Tav took a deep breath, steadying themselves. 

“Am I allowed to say something now?”

“Not if that something is ‘goodbye’” His voice cracked against that final word.

The world had not been kind to Rolan. Tav couldn’t bear to think about the countless goodbyes he must have endured throughout his life. To Elturel, his family, his friends, and now, to them. The scars of these losses ran deep, each one carving away a piece of his heart. Another challenge was about to come his way, and Tav prayed his would be the last scar Rolan would ever have to bear. He deserved a life of joy with the ones he loved, free to settle into the peace he had fought for. 

The thought of not being there to witness it almost caused Tav to crumble. They could picture it so clearly - Rolan laughing with his siblings, standing in the moonlight at the top of his tower, gazing down at the home he had finally found. It was a vision Tav yearned to be part of, but one they knew they might never see.

They had to leave now, or they would lose the strength to go at all.

“I know what needs to be done, and I have what is needed to do it.” Tav eyes shimmer. “It has to be me.”

They took a step towards him, a hand held out, but Rolan stopped them before they could get close.

“Don’t you dare hug me! I do not want our only embrace to have been as you wave me off on your way to war, leaving me behind like some weepy, heart-wrecked widow.”

A fresh ache stretched out in Tav's chest. Would he really let them leave without at least a hug goodbye? They hadn’t realised how much they had been relying on it.

“The world could end if I don’t go.” Tav said simply.

“Let it” Rolan replied.

The air between them was thick with unspoken words; the soldier who came to say goodbye and the wizard who would not let them. Another rumble shook the walls, and books tumbled from their shelves, scattering like fallen bodies across the floor, spines cracked and splayed open.

“We’re running out of time,” Tav said softly, unsure if they were referring to the world or the two of them. In this moment, it might as well be the same thing.

Rolan sighed deeply, holding his head in his hands for a few moments, his tail swaying in agitation. Tav wanted to go to him, to feel his arms wrap around them and lose themselves in the few quiet moments they had left, for their own sake as well as his.

His reaction was different from what Tav expected.

“You are without a doubt the most maddening person I have ever met!” Rolan suddenly burst out. Tav didn’t know how to respond; they hadn’t been expecting a scolding. Rolan took a step forward, coming within reaching distance. His eyes blazed and his chest heaved with angry breaths.

“You are reckless and foolhardy! You put yourself in harm’s way time and time again, and it’s enough to drive a man to insanity... because…” The bluster suddenly lessened, and the hurt and worry spilled through the cracks in his voice. “You see, I think about you constantly. Wondering where you are, what you’re doing, whether you’re safe. I think about the brief moments of time we’ve had together and how it’s not been enough. How it will never be enough. I know I can’t convince you to stay here with me, safe in this tower, but when this is all over... I want you to come back to me. Please, will you come back to me?”

He sounded gentle and afraid, and Tav wanted to say, “Of course I will. Of course, you stubborn, uptight, short-tempered, wonderful man.” But that was not an oath they could bring themselves to swear. Tav couldn’t bear the thought of dying with the pain of a breaking a  promise to the man they loved.

“Don’t answer me right now,” he sighed into the hesitant silence. “Wait there.”

He began to move through the chaos of the shop, rifling through drawers, shifting clinking bottles in cabinets, and pulling down various concoctions to gather in his arms. Murmuring in Infernal as he read labels and blew off dust, he eventually brought his collection back over to Tav.

Placing them on the counter, he started to sort through them.

“Thank you, but I really don't need…”

“Shut up and take them. This one is peerless focus. Give it to Gale; it will help him maintain his concentration. Gods know that fool will need it. This one is Bloodlust, fitting for your vampire friend. There are a few oils for blades and arrows which will increase their effectiveness. Giant Strength for Karlach and Lae’zel. And this one is for you.”

He set down a small vial that glistened with a honey-like substance, viscous and molten, the same color as his eyes.

“Guileful Movement,” he declared, his fierce gaze meeting Tav’s.

“You are strong, but you lack speed, and you get so caught up in watching out for everyone else that you leave yourself vulnerable.”

Placing the vial in Tav’s palm, he wrapped his hands around theirs, the warmth and softness comforting.

“Drink it before you fight. Move fast. Focus on your own strikes, and for the love of gods, run if you need to. You never seemed to do enough running.”

Tav smiled at him. “I never needed to.”

“Yes, yes, you were very tough and brave and beautiful, but trust me, there was no shame in running.” He kissed Tav’s hand, still cradled between both of his. “Run back to me.”

There was a sudden gentleness to his voice that Tav hadn’t properly heard before. They wanted to spend entire afternoons, whole summers, a lifetime sinking into the softness of that voice. They only had a few minutes at most.

Tav smiled, for the first time since coming into the store. Rolan wanted them to come back to him, he believed he would see them again. Perhaps things weren’t so bleak after all. A warm drop of hope fell upon Tav’s poor, burnt-out heart and it was enough to let something settle and take root. 

“Look at how far you’ve come.” Tav cradled his cheek with their palm. “From the chains of hell to the top of the tower. You, Cal, and Lia, all safe and together, as you should be.”

“I should be keeping you safe.” His voice was small and quiet as he fixed his eyes to the floor. 

“Always the protector.” Tav said, and they tilted his chin so his gentle eyes meet theirs. “You are. Keep me safe a little longer, wait for me, and i’ll come back to you.”

They kissed then, for the first time. 

When Tav had imagined their first kiss with Rolan, they had expected softness, uncertainty, maybe a little clumsiness—but there was none of that here. There was no time to be uncertain. His hands gripped the front of Tav’s robes like they were a lifeline, and his lips caressed theirs as though the taste of them could save him. Tav held onto him just as desperately in return, wishing it was enough to anchor them there.

Tav craved the luxury of an unhurried, tentative kiss. Perhaps during a leisurely stroll through the park, or after a little wine-soaked bravery from an evening spent together in the Elf-song Tavern. A slow kiss under a clear sky, savouring the joy of knowing it didn’t have to be perfect - it just had to be the first of many.

Tav thought of this now as his mouth moved against theirs, feeling the cool dampness of his tears mingling with their own. The kiss softened, their breaths steadied.

It was time to say goodbye.

Tav reluctantly pulled back, their forehead resting against Rolan's. 

"That was not a last kiss," Rolan said, his voice a hushed murmur. "That was a first."

Tav nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in their throat. They didn't trust themselves to speak, afraid that any words would break the fragile dam keeping them together.

Rolan's hands lingered on Tav's cheeks for a moment before he let them fall to his sides. "Go save the Gods-damned Gate," he said, his voice steadier now, "And if you want this, if you want us... come back to me. I'll be waiting."

It was done.

Tav left more hopeful than when they arrived, their soul bright and burning and loved. 

They had a battle to win, and a new future to fight for.

______________________________________________________________

Hours had now passed, and Rolan stood at the top of his tower, a solitary silhouette against the flames and cries that echoed through the city. He gripped the ledge with white-knuckled intensity, his red skin stark against the pale stone, keeping himself steady.

The cannon had been fired, its aim fierce and true, and Rolan knew he had done all he could. Below him, Baldur’s Gate burned. Nautiloids filled the night sky, their fiery payloads raining down destruction, and the air was so choked with smoke that Rolan thought even the gaze of the Gods could not pierce it. There would be no help from them now. Debris and explosions collided with the tower's defenses, dissipating into dust and smoke against invisible barriers. Cal and Lia were on the lowest level, rallying the survivors, providing aid and shelter amidst the devastation.

His eyes, accustomed to fire and loss, remained fixed on the High Hall and the looming Elder Brain above it. The city was a grim echo of a past he did not want to think about. How many war-torn, flame-licked cities would he have to watch be assaulted? 

He could not think of Elturel now; that was the past, and he had a future to hope for. 

The temptation to reach for a bottle, to drown his helplessness in wine as he had done at the Last Light Inn, tugged at him. But he resisted. He was not that man anymore; Tav had made sure of that. He would not succumb to ineffectuality. He was more than he was then. For Tav’s sake, for his own sake, he would wait here, steadfast and vigilant. He would watch out for the person he loved, for as long as it took.

Through the smoke and clouds, atop the brain, strobes of magic flickered. He tried to discern the signs of each spell, to picture the battle. The light was dim and soft through the smoke, like lightning blanketed by storm clouds. The flashes of battle-slung spells bloomed through the dark. Sounds of cracks and hisses followed the scattered lights, shots of reds and greens and pulsing golds.

Rolan’s heart pounded with each flare, each distant explosion. He imagined Tav amidst the fray, their blade slashing through the chaos, their determination as fierce as ever. He whispered a silent prayer to any deity who might be listening, hoping that Tav’s courage and skill would see them through this nightmare.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Every second felt like a lifetime, the wait unbearable. But Rolan watched and he waited, the fate of Baldur’s Gate - and his heart - hanging in the balance.

And then, the elder brain fell. 

Time fractured into shards as the creature tumbled from the sky like a marionette with severed strings. It convulsed and spasmed, desperate waves of psychic shockwaves firing from it erratically. The dangling spinal column lashed and whipped into the city's buildings as it descended, ensuring a final barrage of destruction. With a resounding crash, it plunged into the waters of the Chionthar, its reign of terror culminating in a colossal, explosive orb of energy. The shockwave erupted outward, smashing through the city, shattering glass and hurling Rolan backward, knocking him against the wall of his tower and into unconsciousness. His last thought as he slipped away being of Tav’s fate, and the certainty that he would not see them again. 

He was wrong.

When Rolan awoke, roused by Lia and dragged down to help the wounded, he felt broken. It hurt to breathe, to think. He just wanted to get out into the city, where the light of a new day spilled over the wreckage of the night before. He wanted to find Tav, whatever that meant. 

The hero of Baldur’s Gate stood, leaning against the doorway to the tower, clutching their side. Bloodstained and bruised, their armor and weapon abandoned, they now wore only a sweat-soaked shirt and trousers, looking less like a mighty hero and more like a lost refugee. The second they saw Rolan amid the survivors and chaos, joy filled their chest and pulled a laugh from between cracked ribs.

It was over. They had won. And even though their legs were tired, their muscles burned, and their heart ached from saying goodbye to forged family, they had come back.

The taste of the golden, honey-thick potion Rolan had pressed into their palm still lingered sweetly on their tongue.

They had run back to him.

Rolan's eyes widened when he spotted Tav. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of those around him. In moments, he was in front of them, his hands hovering uncertainly before he finally pulled them into a tight embrace. The feel of his arms around them was everything Tav had fought for. 

“You idiot! I thought you were dead.” He admonished.

“Careful.” Said Tav, wincing from the enthusiasm of his hug. “Don’t be greedy.”

There would be time now, in the settling dust, for peace to be found, clutched, and cherished. 

For the two heroes who had given each other hope when it had all but been extinguished. 

For the soldier who came to say goodbye, and the wizard who did not let them.

[starofthesea7]

Neteyam- Who do you want?

Neteyam is like an older brother to you…until he isnt. Gets a little steamy at the end, enjoy!

…

Neteyam had always been like an older brother to you. The Sullys had taken you in after your parents had died in battle years ago, and you had basically grown up together. You had always been incredibly close with the oldest son, but recently, you’d begun to notice a shift in your platonic dynamic. The way his eyes would linger on your just a little too long from across the room made you wonder if your life long dream had finally come into fruition. 

For as long as you can remember you’d had feelings for Neteyam. The way he stood, slightly reserved, backed away from the action before him. You loved the way his shoulders hunched slightly, as if he was hyper aware of his tall stature, wanting to slouch to put others at ease. He was tall now, and broad too, with large hands you loved to watch at work. The hands that had showed you how to sharpen a blade, shoot an arrow. He was only a year and a half older than you, but he knew so much about things that were alien to you, and he was always so patient. In turn you would teach him how to mend his clothing, or what berries he could snack on while he was out during a hunt.

You loved the way his belt sat low on his hips, and the way his hair swayed when he walked with the confidence radiated from him. You had only ever had eyes for him, your Neteyam. 

But recently, he’d seemed to become more reserved toward you. He would keep his replies to your questions short and curt, eyes averted when you spoke to him. It hurt. 

…

It was true he was avoiding you, but not for the reason you had assumed.

If only you knew. If you knew the way he watched you, how your hips swayed as you walked, or your cheeks peeked out from below your sash. How he would stare as you bent down to gather mushrooms. How your hair fell loosely down your back to the dimples just above your sash that sat just a little too low on your hips- he had to tear his eyes away. His face was heated. 

How could this happen? One day something had changed. One day you were grown, and you were beautiful and he wanted you. He’d imagined so many things, dirty things that would never happen. He thought about you when he laid in bed at night, just a room away. If he’d had the guts-or the insanity, he could get up, and go to you, touch you, feel you. You’d been his first wet dream, he remembered waking up a mess, inside and out. The thought made him crazy. What would his parents think? What would you think? He had to distance himself. Perhaps try to find a girl, someone other than you, to distract himself. 

…

It was the day of celebration, a new year was beginning and it was a night to welcome a time of plenty and blessings. You were in your room that you shared with Kiri, finishing getting ready. It was dark out, and almost everyone had left to set up the tables for food, or start the bonfire. Lamps hung around your vanity, and jewelry was strewn about the table top. 

Of course, you had decided you wanted a new chest covering for the day. Making clothing pieces was your favourite pastime, and you were known as one of the best sewers in the clan. It made you happy to help out in that small way, mending and creating clothes for the tribe. Tonight, you had made something especially feminine and slightly daring. It was short, and if you lifted your arms the swell of your breast peeked out from below the fabric. You told yourself it was only for you, but a small voice in the back of your head couldn’t let you forget about your unrequited love. Perhaps he would glance your way. You’d saved the sewing for the last minute and now you were frantically finishing up your hair before changing into your outfit.

You inspected yourself in the mirror. You had to admit, you looked good. Gold rings adorned your hair which had a few tiny braids, scattered about. Thick dark waves fell down your back and a little pink jewel hung just above your forehead. Your chest covering was done and you tied the two straps behind your neck, struggling slightly with all the different strings. Why did you make this so complicated? You reached for the the bottom two but when you tied them together it ended up untying the knot you had just made. Fuck. You groaned.

Deciding this was fruitless labor you ventured out into the common room to see if Kiri or Neytiri was still home. 

“Hey can someone help me?” No one was insight.

“Yeah one sec.” Neteyams voices floated through the wall to your ears. You felt light headed. 

“Oh its okay I-” 

He was emerging from his room. He looked so good. His face was relaxed. His eyes danced with the reflection of the fire in the middle of the room. They travelled down to where you clutched your top to your chest and widened ever so slightly and he straightened, clearing his throat. “Oh-uh, need me to do up the back? I dont think anyone else is home.”

You gulped. “Um, yeah actually, thanks.” You smiled at him and he smiled back.  It had been a while since you’d been this close to him and your heart was beating out of your chest- he could probably hear it. You wanted to kick yourself, he saw you as a little sister, nothing more. Nothing more. 

He walked up to you, eyes lingering on your top, “Turn around.” His voice was deep, quiet. You obeyed, and his fingered brushed your shoulderblade as he swept your hair over your shoulder. 

“’S too short.” He said it matter-a-factly, referring to your new garment.

You heated up, “Erm, I wanted something fun.” Why were you embarrassed? Ashamed? It wasn’t his place to say. He was just being protective. Like an older brother would.

“You shouldn’t wear this kind of thing, the guys will talk about you.” 

“Oh? Maybe I want them to.” You were teasing him, but he didn’t bite your line.

“Trust me, you don’t.” He was hard behind you, but knew he had little grounds for jealousy. He changed the subject, “Ok, tell me what to do.” You melted, and decided to let it go. 

“The right bottom string gets tied with the left top string, and vice versa.” 

You could feel him tying the correct strings together, he was intent, meticulous.

“Are you triple knotting it?” You grinned. 

“What? I can’t have it falling off at the celebration, It would all be my fault. Plus imagine-” he trailed off. You glanced back at him. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” He blushed and went back to work. It was quiet again, but for the crackling of the fire. 

“Why dont we talk anymore, ‘Teyam.” You blurted out. He blew out a breath of air he’d subconsciously been holding. 

“What do you mean? We talk.”

“No we don’t. Not like we used to.” 

A pause. “I don’t know I guess things have changed a bit. We’re older now.”

You straightened, “Hell, it’s time for you to start looking for a mate.” You were testing the waters. He glanced at you, looking up as he finished his work. He dropped his hands and they grazed your striped waist, leaving a tingly trail behind them. You turned to face him slowly, your chests were so close they threatened to touch. Your breasts rose as your breath hitched. 

“Oh, yeah? Why, is there someone I should have in mind?” He was teasing. Your eyes flickered to his mouth.

Me you wanted to whisper, yell at him. “I dont know… What are you looking for? A hunter?” Your voice was quiet, timid.

He shrugged, “Not really my type.” 

“Cook? Tutseya makes a mouth watering stew” 

He shook his head. “I dont want Tutseya.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. How could you tell him you wanted him. How could you tell him that you thought of him every minute of every day. 

He tilted his head. He was trying to read you. Calculating his next move, making sure he didn’t misread a single sign. His voice was low. “I like sewers.” Your eyes widened with realization. You’re breasts grazed his chest and he tensed. 

“I sewed this.” You whispered, gesturing to your top.

“I know.” His eyes searched yours. 

“’Teyam.” You felt light headed, your hands found his upper arms, clutching at him as if he would keep you from floating away. You looked up at him with glassy eyes full of emotion. “’Teyam please don’t tease me.” 

His eyes softened with kindness, and he raised his large hand to cradle the back of your head. He pulled at your hair, tilting you face up towards him. He tilted his head and paused as your lips grazed each other, and you tried to move toward him, held back by his grip on your hair. Now he was teasing you. 

“Never.” Then he kissed you, soft and deep. He was hot and enveloping and he smelled like damp earth. Your grasp on his arms tightened and his other hand pulled you in by your lower back, so that your pelvises were flush. His body was hard and strong and you melted into his touch like putty, arms wrapping around his neck. 

His hand grabbed the waistband of your loincloth just above your ass, tugging it upwards involuntarily, and you felt the friction in your core. You jumped, and he grinned into the kiss. He pulled at it again and you groaned softly.

His mouth traveled to your neck, leaving sloppy kisses behind. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you don’t even know.” He mumbled.

You’re lips parted, “Trust me I know.” His hand tightened in your hair. 

“Why did we wait so long?” His words came out as a groan.

Suddenly his ears perked up and his mouth left your neck. His head turned and he stepped away from you, your hands reached out to follow him involuntarily at the loss of heat. He tugged your loincloth back down to it’s original spot with a languid hand seconds before the door swung open.

“What are you two losers doing here? Ive been looking everywhere for you!” Loak was smirking. He didn’t notice your glassy eyes or puffy lips. The way your chest was heaving.

“Um,” you felt dizzy, “We were just heading out.” You looked up at Neteyam with pupils blown wide, and he nodded.

“After you,” he smiled, his large hand pressing the small of your back. How good it was to have him near you again.

This new year was sure to be blessed. 

[twistedvanillacoffee]

Unlawfully Wed

A Random Twisted Coffee Fic Fix

I watched the new Matlock tonight, and immediately banged out this silly idea. It's an AU of my AO3 fic, Witch Heart, set in the 20's/30's era with Human Alastor and his lawyer, [Reader].

TW: mentions of blood, suicide and bad language

SFW, but Minors no mining. I'm not anyone's mother.

That smile. Oh! how it could turn a world. Swooning listener fans. Spinning crooked cops. Snaking viperous quarry. Yet, seducing only her. Ever her.

Turning the hand worn steel knob, the door to the interrogation room whined open upon that smile. That grisly grin gleaming of its guilty guillotines beneath spattered spectacles. She knew what he’d done. She knew why he was there. It was written in plain black, white and red across his tuxedo. He’d been sloppy. Again. For whatever reason tonight; usually due to that insufferable friend of his, Mimzy, who was better at getting him in trouble, than herself out of it.

“Good evening. Apologies for the wait, but I had some calls to make.” Closing the door behind herself, [Reader] moved to the seat next to her client. Instinctively, he made a grab toward it; hoping to pull it out for her. But as his hands were cuffed to the table, he only succeeded in making the two cops across from him jump to their gun butts. “Easy, boys,” [Reader]’s voice held a lilt of fun, “you’re acting as though my client is capable of something.”

“You’re not getting him out this time,” the detective across the table blatantly stated. Jake Sandersen; young, boy scout, clean as a whistle and twice as loud mouthed. Especially, in comparison to his partner, David Trent; quiet, chain smoker, and whatever wasn’t muscle was pure gristle. Both of them had been chasing her client for little over a year. At this point, he was top of the tree of suspects. Though, no matter how much shit they threw, [Reader] ensured none of its stink could stick.

“Now, now,” [Reader] tsked unworried, “you’re beginning to make this look an awful lot like harassment, racial profiling, stalking, and gross negligence of justice again.”

“Not this time, bitch,” Jake sneered; leering over her business dress suit in such a way, she heard her client’s teeth scrape. “This time, we’ve got him dead to rights. Motive. Caught at the scene of the crime. Weapon. And two eye witnesses. I’d like to see this fucker smile his way outta this, this time.”

“Yes, about that,” she sighed, opening her briefcase as she pulled out the papers she’d been gathering. “Let’s see, it was Avery Jessip who died, yes?”

“How did…” Jake’s eyes widened as a slow fury began to set in. He knew where this was going. The tune had already been playing in her countenance, long before she sat down. A matched pair, those two; [Reader] every bit the slayer in a courtroom as her client was in the streets.

“I told you; I made some calls,” she replied with an ease he wanted to slap. “My client was at a party all night. These are three sworn, official witnesses that he was there. As you can see, the Mayor, the Mayor’s Aide, and the County Coroner were there. Who, incidentally, as of ten minutes ago, already ruled Avery Jessip a suicide.”

“Fucking impossible,” Jake leapt to his feet, with a shove upon the furniture. His emotions bolted freely; unlike the table fastened to the floor, and the upturn of his chair. “A fucking suicide?! How?! He stabbed himself in the back eleven times and then sliced his own throat?”

“Apparently, Mr. Jessip was extremely limber,” she retorted, “the world weeps for the loss of his talents.”

A sharp finger flew its darted stare toward her, followed with, “Your client was fucking found at the scene!”

“A good Samaritan, responding to the screams of your two eye witnesses—who found the victim long after the victim was dead,” she expertly dodged his accusation, “which, I might add, cannot be considered credible due to the lack of streetlights in the area this occurred.”

“The murder weapon was a sharpened letter opener, that has his name fucking on it,” Jake slammed his hands upon the table, but neither of his opponents bounced an inch. “Explain fucking that.”

“If you ever went to the gift shop of the Radio Station, you would see an entire section dedicated to my high profile client.” She placed a stack of papers upon the table, and slid them toward Jake’s flattened hands. “Among them are letter openers, that are the exact same as the one, our unfortunate Mr. Jessip, used upon himself. As you can see, in these, Mr. Jessip was an avid, rabid fan of my client. These are all documents acquired from the Radio Station detailing his stalking and unrequited love of my client. It makes perfect sense that he would kill himself with memorabilia of his obsession. My client is lucky that Mr. Jessip decided to take his clear, unwell mind out on himself and not toward others.”

“This is fucking insane,” Jake ran his hands through his hair, walking a bit away from the table, “fucking insane. I feel like I’m on drugs!”

“Careful what you say in here,” [Reader] reminded, closing her briefcase in a few clicks before standing, “you might need a lawyer next. Now then, if you have nothing else, release my client immediately. Otherwise, I’m calling Judge Gordon and filing for your suspension. Obviously, for the past year, you’ve become as obsessed of my client as Mr. Jessip was. And I’m beginning to worry for his safety.”

David—the cooler heads of the two detectives—moved toward the cuffs. Fishing in his pocket for the keys while his partner began to spout off sharply, “What the fuck are you doing! We fucking have him!”

“We had him,” David’s tone was an even keel, “now we don’t. Calm down, before you give yourself a heart attack. With scum like this, there’s always tomorrow. He can’t help it…it’s in his fucking blood…” David’s knowing stare bore deep into the silent laughing glint of the splattered spectacles.

In a click and clink, the wrists were free for fingers to rub. His tall, lean, angular body rose to tower a few inches above the cops that had once ranted and raved. Oh, how delicious it was to see their pained faces as he breathed his freedom. “Always a pleasure,” he stated with a wicked glee. Watching as Jake wound up to take a swing, but David held him back—stating how it wasn’t worth it.

[Reader] loudly clacked her heels to the door; drawing everyone’s attention as she opened it wide. Hearing behind her as Jake howled, “Just you fucking wait. That man is gonna run outta people to kill, and there will be just you. Bleeding out on the floor. And when that happens, when I come upon your crime scene, I’m gonna take a piss right in that pretty fucking mouth of yours.”

“So,” she tilted her head to the side, “you admit that you tamper with evidence at crime scenes.” Moving her attention toward the one-way glass window she stated, “Make sure that’s added to the record in my client’s growing file here. I’d hate to think that someone, as dumb as this cop, is getting away with miscarriages of justice such as that.”

Motioning to her client to go first, who did his very best not to laugh abruptly, she followed behind him out of the room. Neither one spoke; they knew the drill. No where was safe inside the precinct building. Once outside, she walked to her car; the waiting driver immediately starting the engine upon seeing her. Entering into the back seat, she closed the door and pulled in a deep breath. [Reader] could feel her client next to her; slipping in like a shadow, as the driver began to pull away.

“My, what a show that was,” her client marveled, grinning madly as he stretched his acquitted arms, “and they say I’m entertaining.”

“Why do you do this to me?” [Reader] groaned, leaning forward to rest her elbows upon her knees, and rub her temples. “Out of all my clients, you’re by far the worst.”

“Are you mad, my dear?” he asked, turning his head with his most dashing of smiles to her. That fucking grin. How she desperately wanted to hate it, hate him, but despite all odds couldn’t.

“No,” she sighed, easing back in the seat to look at him better. “I know who I work for, and you idiots are all alike. Being mad at you, is like being mad at that dumb deer that ruins my garden. I know what I’m growing, and I know how much he loves it; so, we’re at a standstill. Just… be more careful, okay? One day, I might not be here to protect you, Alastor.”

“Perish the thought,” Alastor took [Reader]’s hand, and gave it a gentle kiss. Warm, affectionate, and full of the words he couldn’t yet say to her. “But should that day come, I doubt I’d need you any further anyway.”

“Oh?” she raised a brow, blushing at his lips lingering upon her knuckles, “Why’s that?”

“Because, my dear,” his eyes were a promise, his lips a swear, his touch a vow she felt in every fiber of her being, “after my revenge upon the one who got you, I’ll be immediately looking for wherever you grow your new, beautiful gardens in the afterlife—like the dumb deer I apparently am.”

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 6!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

hello once again beautiful people! like i said, new chapter much sooner. the next one might be a bit more of a wait as it's not even fully drafted yet, but fuck it we ball :)

there will be 11 chapters on here [10 on ao3 as 1 and 2 are combined over there] so we're just at the halfway mark! I think this chapter might be my favorite so far, i hope you enjoy it as well!

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

[and lmk if you want to be tagged!]

“Any more injured soldiers who need rescuing?” Ghost asked, not looking up from sharpening his hunting knife.

“None that you could help,” Soap answered, ignoring the sarcasm in Ghost’s tone and joining him by the fire. He was somehow completely dry despite having walked in from the downpour outside.

The little overhang he had set up his camp under didn’t offer much protection from the rain. It looked like mother nature decided to give up on making a cave as soon as she began, but it was enough cover that his meek fire and (incredibly ungrateful) horse would have at least some protection from the encroaching storm.

Ghost didn’t respond, instead choosing to focus on keeping the correct angle as he dragged the blade along the whetstone, the grating noise muffled by the rain. Taxes snorted her own greeting but still sounded rather upset that Ghost had the audacity to put her in a situation where she got her coat a little wet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Soap pet Taxes and run his fingers through her mane, walk around his hastily put together camp, look out at the rain, and eventually meander back to sit across from Ghost. Soap’s leg was bouncing; he obviously wanted to talk about something that had him antsy, but Ghost was perfectly fine to let him stew in his anxiety.

Soap managed to sit still for one whole minute before he tried to start a conversation. “You’ve been doing that for a while…?” he prompted, hoping Ghost would want to talk about his current task.

“Yeah,” he answered, still not looking at the god nor for conversation. The edge of his knife had rolled a few days ago and it was not a quick task to grind it back and resharpen it. Lightning crackled and Ghost counted the time between the boom of thunder; As viscous as the rain was, the storm was still a ways away.

Soap nodded slowly and began tapping his fingers on his leg, turning from him to look around at the rain, almost intentionally awkward. “So…” Soap drew out the word, apparently finding a new topic to try, “What are you doing camping in this weather?”

Ghost wasn’t in the mood for whatever the god was trying to pull and grunted dismissively, “Could ask you something similar.”

“Aye, but I asked first,” Soap childishly retorted.

He paused his sharpening and scowled at the god but eventually acquiesced. “Hunting.”

There was a moment of silence, Soap expecting (and hoping) for more information, but Ghost stopped there. He let the silence linger before continuing his sharpening, cutting through the quiet and giving a clear indication that he was done with his answer.

“Well, what were you hunting for?” The god asked, still trying to have a conversation. His effort was admirable, though likely ill-fated.

“Food.”

Soap bit his cheek and tried for the fifth time to prompt him into a chat, “Yes, what kind of food?”

“Edible.”

Soap groaned loudly in frustration, his accent heavier in his annoyance, “Yer a pain in the fucking arse, Ghost.”

“Thank you.”

His gratitude didn’t help and Soap huffed and crossed his arms as he glared at Ghost. 

Soap, the god of death, was pouting. Ghost determinedly stared down at his task, trying not to laugh at the display. 

Gathering himself, he figured it was about time he got his weekly kindness out of the way and answered, “Stocks were running low — I offered to go hunting and the general agreed, but the rain caught me off guard.” 

Soap was disproportionately happy at the fact that Ghost was humoring him, excited that Ghost offered more than a one word answer.

Then again, he was the only one the god could talk to, so maybe it wasn’t disproportionate for someone who’d— No, no. He was not going to be tricked into feeling bad for a fucking god of all things. Even if he did feel oddly compelled to talk to the god after seeing how happy he got at his simple reply.

“Did the general actually agree or…?” Soap asked, knowing Ghost’s tendencies.

“He did. And no, I don’t know why either.” Considering his last “hunting trip” ended in a he-said, she-said shouting match he was just as surprised that the general agreed, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Are you sure it’s not a trap?”

“No.”

His simple answer got a small chuckle, though one tainted by worry. He didn’t care if it was a trap, he got the go ahead to be away from camp for four whole days without a search party going after him. There were very few punishments that could make him regret agreeing to that.

Soap sat in thought before he asked, “You really don’t like him do you?”

Ghost scoffed, “The general? Fuck no. I hate that bastard.”

He could see the question Soap almost asked before he changed his mind and switched to a less intrusive question. “You always call him general—”

Ghost grunted in affirmation, inspecting the freshly sharpened edge on his knife. Still unhappy with it, he added a bit more water to his whetstone and got back to sharpening.

“—Why?”

Ghost was confused for a moment before he remembered that he was talking to Soap and not just obsessing over getting his knife to his impossible standards.

“He never cared to learn my name so I never cared to learn his.” It was unfortunately not a joke. He thinks he might have known it at one point, but his passive aggressive response had gone on for so long that he genuinely did not know his name.

Soap asked, “He doesn’t call you Ghost? What does he call you?” 

“He does call me Ghost,” he corrected with a confused glance.

Soap tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Is… that not your name?”

“No?” Ghost more asked than said, confused. “What the hell kind of a name is Ghost?”

Soap began, “Well I dunno—”

Ghost huffed a small, quiet laugh and when he saw the god looked embarrassed he clarified, “It’s just a nickname.”

“So this entire time I’ve been calling you Ghost…” Soap looked more than embarrassed, horrified at the idea that he had been calling Ghost by the wrong name. 

Ghost tried not to chuckle but the abject horror from the other over such a simple thing made him snicker. When the god’s face fell further, he did not feel bad for him, but he did decide to throw him a little bit more kindness and clarified further, “I’m being petty towards the general. You didn’t get my name wrong.”

Soap heaved a sigh of relief but still looked put off by the revelation. It was hard to hold onto his fear of the god when he always seemed so… so earnest. For fuck’s sake, it looked like he was going through the worst day of his immortal life over a possible nickname mishap.

“And no,” Ghost added before he could ask, “I’m not telling you my name.”

Soap slumped, even more put out and Ghost certainly did not smile at his apparent disappointment.

He continued his sharpening in silence, or, well, neither of them were talking at least. The rain was still hammering away with occasional lightning and thunder. The wind was harsh, pushing in and making sheets of rain look like curtains billowing in the breeze.

Ghost examined the knife again and was much more pleased this go around. He stood slowly, his joints popping along the way, and held the knife under the rainfall, rinsing it off. He rolled up his sleeve and tested the sharpness by shaving some hair off of his arm, satisfied to find it was able to cut through with ease.

He carefully wiped off the knife and found his holster, safely storing it away. He dropped it by where he had been sitting and grabbed his dagger from his satchel,  inspecting the edge on it as well. It wasn’t as bad, but he might as well sharpen it while he has the time.

He turned to go back to the fire but stopped when he saw Soap had scooted over, examining the hunting knife Ghost dropped. It was a basic knife, the only interesting thing about it was the shitty construction of the handle that led to the wood below the last pin chipping off on one side. It seemed to have Soap enraptured nonetheless.

Deciding not to bother with asking, Ghost took his place by the fire once more, making sure to give Soap space, lest he suddenly get any grand ideas with that knife. He rewet the stone and got back to work, keeping the god in sight.

When Soap was done with his inspection, he turned to watching Ghost work, surprisingly content with watching the simple task in silence. Which meant it was time for Ghost to return the favor of disrupting the peace.

“You never said why you decided to grace me with your presence,” he pointed out, sarcasm dripping from the regal phrasing with the raspy noise of the dagger dragging across the stone punctuating his sentence. The god had leaned closer in his curiosity, watching the slow process like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“Hmm?” Soap asked, looking up from where he had hunched, not paying attention but processing the question before Ghost had to repeat it. “Oh, right… I just felt lonely.”

He would have believed it if the god weren’t refusing to even look in his general direction. That was the other thing that made it hard to cling to his fear — the bastard was an awful liar.

Ghost paused his handiwork and stared him down, admonishing, “Soap.” He didn’t add anything else, he didn’t need to. Soap squirmed a bit but cracked quickly.

“You didn’t leave an offering this morning,” the god mumbled, looking down at the ground. 

Ghost had to think for a moment, only then realizing that he forwent breakfast that morning to get away from camp as quickly as he could, meaning he also forwent leaving an offering when he ate “with” the god as he normally would have done. 

Soap didn’t look angry, but if he came down from the heavens expressly because of a missed offering, then maybe Ghost had misjudged him. Maybe Soap was actually a fantastic liar and just carefully crafted these supposed slip-ups to make Ghost lower his guard. Maybe Soap was—

“I was worried,” Soap said, still refusing to look at him. If part of his preplanned ruse was to look like a kicked puppy, then he nailed it.

Staring him down, Ghost dropped his tools and blindly reached for his bag, searching for one of the apples he brought for Taxes. As soon as his hand wrapped around it, he threw it to the god with a little too much force for how small the distance between them was.

Soap was unprepared and caught it against his chest. Once he realized what it was, he, if anything, looked sadder. Ghost was unsure if Soap was disappointed in the meager offering or disappointed that he lost the potential leverage over him.

Thunder bellowed. 

“This… is not what I meant,” Soap sighed, “I thought you had given up on food offerings.”

Ghost shrugged, “You’re not getting my knife or my whetstone.” He punctuated the sentence by dragging the knife across the whetstone slightly faster, making the noise just a bit more audible under the pounding rain.

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“Sucks for you,” Ghost retorted like a petulant child, inspecting the edge. The dagger wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it had been and his hands were starting to cramp, so good enough. “I don’t have anything to offer.” 

Ghost let the white lie roll off his tongue with ease. He wanted to see how the god would react to such a blatantly false statement. Everyone always had something that could be taken if it was not given. “Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it,” Soap said, throwing it back with notably less force than Ghost had. He caught it and stared at the god, unimpressed, before dropping it to the floor uncaringly.

Soap stated with conviction, “I didn’t come down here to collect my dues, you don’t owe me anything.” Then he added on as if he were reluctant to admit, “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” Ghost asked simply, busying his nervous hands with cleaning off the dagger.

“You’ve given me offerings every morning. I was worried you got hurt and I didn’t notice or something even worse,” the god replied, managing to dodge answering the one and only question Ghost asked. “I think you’ve spoiled me,” Soap said with an almost sad grin, “One morning without an offering and I’m a mess.”

Ghost did not match the smile as he asked more pointedly, “Why were you worried?”

Soap was lost on how to answer, “Because I… didn’t know if something was wrong? I’m— I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you—,” Ghost huffed, giving up on pursuing an answer as soon as he began. “Forget it. You’ll get your offering in the morning.” He stood, taking the apple over to Taxes, who was thrilled at the development and ate the rejected offering happily.

He didn’t know what answers he wanted nor which questions to ask to get them. But he did know very well that when ignorance and vulnerability reared its ugly, stupid, unwelcome head, impudence made for a fine replacement.

“I’m sorry? Have I done something to upset you?”

It was said with an air of sincerity; It was far too kind of a reply for the brashness he had undeservedly received. 

Ghost needed to be suspicious of Soap, he needed to keep his guard up and always be on the watch for whatever tricks he would try to play. He reminded himself of that fact every time he left an offering or entertained a chat with him but it had yet to stick. 

Soap was making it very difficult for him.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong—”

For the first time in his life he was unable to cling on to the mistrust and suspicion that had kept him alive thus far. Anger took up where they failed.

There was a voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like someone he used to know, telling him that directing his anger towards those who didn’t deserve it wouldn’t help anyone. But that someone was dead and had been for a long time.

“I… I know you don’t trust me, but I—”

Something snapped. He seethed at himself for the truth behind his own words as he admitted with too much anger, “No, my problem is that I do trust you and I don’t fucking know why!”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Just shut up.”

And the worst part yet? He did. The god of death abided by his request.

Soap was surprised at the outburst, shock and… and not fear because he’s a god, the god of death, he has no need for survival instincts and time wasters like fear. Yet he held his hands up in surrender like Ghost could hurt him anyway.

Ghost was significantly more human and all of the emotions he had felt bubbling up ever since he first left that apple at the feet of a forgotten shrine were finally spilling over, making the fire within his brain crackle and pop at the unwanted intrusion.

“Why?” Ghost demanded, marching forward slowly as he grabbed his newly sharpened dagger. “Why, why, why do I want to trust you!?”

The god didn’t say anything, just kept his hands up while making a vague shrugging motion. Soap stood carefully like he was being cornered by a wild animal and took a few small, slow steps back. 

“Why have you decided to fuck up my life!?”

Soap stayed silent, somehow looking even sadder at his harsh statement. Soap shouldn’t be calm, he should be angry. And yet, he did not fight back. The storm carried on. Ghost was advancing faster than Soap was retreating.

“I cannot kill you, I cannot hurt you, so why do you fall back!?” 

Ghost held the length of his dagger up to the god’s throat, threatening to break the skin and reveal whatever was underneath his guise. Soap froze, standing stiff and looking up at Ghost with eyes full of emotions he couldn’t even begin to decipher.

His anger had pushed them both to the edge of the overhang; Soap was fully in the rain yet still dry while Ghost had some cover but was getting soaked. It only made his tempestuous emotions worse, the painfully obvious display of the divine differences between them.

“Why do you act like you’re scared!?”

Even with him raising his voice, Ghost could barely be heard over the rain. Soap looked at him with something that wasn’t patronizing enough to be pity but he didn’t want to risk trying to put another word to whatever it was.

Soap confessed, “I’m scared for you.”

The anger was failing now as well and he could feel that old snake vulnerability slithering up his spine. “Bullshit.”

“Is it?” Soap asked, with concern, tenderness, sympathy— every emotion he needn’t feel for himself written plain across his face.

“Don’t you dare condescend to me. I may just be a stupid, puny mortal in the eyes of ‘Death almighty—’”

“You’re not—”

Ghost pressed the blade closer. On anyone else, any human, blood would have been welling up. 

“—But I know a hungry animal when I see one. If I die, you die too, isn’t that right?” Ghost asked, an air of enlightenment in his voice, like he could pretend hard enough that he found the answer he’d been seeking. He felt no such relief or realization.

He laughed humorlessly, “Gods, you’re like a bloody vampire aren’t you? Poor little thing has to keep a mortal alive to get offerings from!”

He felt like he could barely breathe; He wasn’t sure he could lie to himself that it was just anger making him tremble anymore. Soap remained silent. Ghost needed him to say something, anything, he didn’t care what. He could feel the last strings holding him up snap as they sat in silence.

They had yet to break eye contact, Ghost continuing to stare down at him. Soap carefully reached up, wrapped his hand around Ghost’s, and slowly moved the knife away. He didn’t even take the opportunity to disarm him, just played along like Ghost was capable of defending himself against the god of death.

Soap grabbed his arm with his other hand, gently pushing Ghost out of the storm’s wrath like he was something delicate.

Yeah, no shit dumbass. You pulled a knife on him for being nice. Of course he’s treating you like a ticking time bomb.

“Come on,” Soap muttered with that stupid fucking look of not-pity. “You’re gonna get cold.”

Ghost’s brain misfired.

He’s gonna get cold. Says the god. The god of death. Whom he just antagonized. And threatened to stab. In the neck. With a knife. 

You’re gonna get cold.

What the fuck is happening?

Ghost doesn’t know if he said that out loud or if he’s just that easy to read, but Soap, the god of death, answered the unasked question, “If you want to slit my throat, that’s fine, but do it by the fire where it’s warm.”

Unable to vocalize his thoughts in any articulate way, Ghost asked in a voice that was as accusatory as it was stupefied, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Soap laughed too kindly for the statement that caused the reaction, “A lot, probably.”

He could do nothing but watch, puzzled, as the god sat him on the ground next to the fire, adding on another log before joining him. Ghost hadn’t even processed that he was cold when Soap draped something over his shoulders, a cloak— his cloak, and scooted just a little closer.

“Can’t have ye’ getting sick, right?” Soap asked with a smile that might have been charming if Ghost didn’t feel like his brain was actively imploding.

“You… are not attacking me,” Ghost pointed out. He couldn’t tell if he was thinking too fast or not at all. Either way he was lost.

“No, I am not,” Soap confirmed, “And I do not plan to.”

Ghost was exhausted. He felt tired and sad, he wanted to pass out, he wanted to slam his head against the rocks, he wanted to make sense of reality again. None of which seemed to be within his wheelhouse.

“I’m sorry I cannae give ye’ the fight you want.”

His last string snapped, and he slumped in on himself, his head hanging low. Perhaps the others at camp were right. Maybe he was the bloodthirsty monster they feared.

They had both been accused of the same, but where Soap actively defied humanity’s accusations, Ghost only ever seemed to validate them. Here was someone, not human but a person all the same, who was trying to show him kindness and he attacked them for it. Ghost tried his best not to be their beast, but maybe his best wasn’t enough. Maybe violence was the only thing he was capable of.

The monster who refused their labeling smacked him in the back of the head. Soap said not unkindly yet still firmly, “Whatever it is you’re thinking, quit it.”

Ghost slowly turned with a scowl that lacked the anger he was clawing at, upset at having his brooding interrupted, and demanded, “Why?”

“Because,” Soap huffed, “I can’t even read minds but I can hear you sulking from here.”

‘From here’ was right next to him, but Ghost wasn’t in the mood to argue pedantics. Mostly. Somewhat. Kind of.

“I’m brooding, not sulking,” Ghost corrected. He was always in the mood to be a pain in the ass.

Ghost shivered slightly, his now wet clothes chilling him through the cloak. Soap put his arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. It was only then that Ghost realized they’d been sitting that close ever since Soap dragged him over, close enough to be well within arm’s reach. 

While the god had plenty of warmth to share, his body heat didn’t. The air always seemed a little bit warmer when Soap was around, the biting cold fading to a comfortable level, but he still was not a living being. Beneath his skin might have been flesh and perhaps a bone or two somewhere in there, but he had no heartbeat, there was nothing within him to provide physical warmth the same way a human would have.

Ghost wondered if it was part of an ages old reflex, pulling someone closer to keep them warm.

“Yer not a damn bird…” Soap corrected back, absentmindedly running his hand up and down Ghost’s arm, assumedly another reflex from a time long since passed. 

Ghost didn’t mind; A prideful bastard he may be, but he had never experienced a true cold a day in his life. He knew good and well he should be thankful for the warmth, and considering he was almost soaked to the bone while it was cold as balls, Ghost would let his pride take the hit so long as it kept him hypothermia free.

“You do have a lot wrong with you, don’t you?” Ghost asked as if it wasn’t obvious from the start.

“I already told you tha’ much.” Soap said with that smile that you can only get after an emotional breakthrough, the kind that was genuine yet sad yet hopeful yet tired, all in one small smile.

Thunder roared loud enough that Ghost could feel the reverberations through the ground he was sitting on. Looking outside, the woodland was obscured by a haze of white, rain falling with such speed and vigor that it hid everything beyond their shelter. He watched the way the sky darkened even though it couldn’t have been noon; it would appear that the storm finally arrived.

Wind tried to blow the rain closer and closer but errant raindrops that should have been pelting him and threatening his fire never seemed to land and he knew he had the god to thank for that. 

Ghost had to take a moment to appreciate that the god of death, a being capable of unimaginable power that presided over the most prevalent part of life, had been demoted to an umbrella and space heater.

“I think you could kill me if you wanted.”

Soap’s sudden statement pulled him back, turning from the deluge outside to look at the god in confusion, slowly processing his words. Ghost scoffed, genuine in his demand but without the malice that would have been there a few minutes prior, “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not!” Soap defended as if he were stating the obvious, “We both know damn well that if I fucked up and pissed you off, you wouldn’t stop until I was dead.” 

A grim statement made in a jovial tone with the manner of someone convinced they were infallibly correct. He acted as if he were offended by the notion that Ghost couldn’t kill him.

“A mortal going against a god is not a battle, it’s a slaughter,” he corrected. It was something he’d been told over and over when he was younger, back when he was still naive enough to have faith (albeit with rather different wording).

Almost every bedtime story he’d grown up with had the same lesson: Do not go against the gods. Story after story and tale after tale about supposedly greedy men that tried to take on the pantheon only to be sentenced to eternal suffering as punishment. Back then, it was worded in a little cutesy, kid friendly way but the lesson stuck. Ghost wasn’t that stupid… mostly… Regardless, he knew his limits, and killing an immortal being was certainly not within them.

“Yes, but for you, it wouldn’t be the mortal getting slaughtered,” Soap argued the point like they were debating over which color was the best, not Ghost’s ability to kill death.

Ghost scoffed, “Sure.” He had no idea what the god was getting at but he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince him otherwise.

“You know it's true, you just don’t want to accept the compliment!” Soap argued, annoyed at the dismissal.

“Is someone telling you that you could kill them a compliment?” Ghost asked, more curious for Soap’s answer than anything else.

“How would it not?”

Yeah, Ghost doesn’t know what else he expected from the god of death, to be honest. He settled back, pulling his cloak closer to himself, slowly drying off, and warm in spite of the freezing thunderstorm mere feet away. 

He still had hundreds of questions and half formed worries plaguing him, but well, as he said, he felt exhausted. Not physically, sleep was a long way off but he still felt like he could collapse.

Ghost tried to think but as soon as he grabbed at any thoughts, they slipped away into the mist. It was only after several minutes of silently watching the leaves shake in the storm that one question solidified into something more tangible. He didn’t know how to phrase it, but eventually gave up on finding the right words and hoped to stumble into them along the way.

“Shouldn’t I be…” Ghost regretted his plan immediately but it was too late to go back. “…Spreading the word? Singing your praises? Getting people to ‘worship’ you?” He felt weird even as he said it but he tried to keep the disdain out of his voice.

“No.” Soap’s reply was sudden and resolute, like he wanted to shut down the notion immediately. “No, please don’t.”

“No?”

“No,” he confirmed. “I… know that if I want to— to stay around then yes, but… No. Not yet. I don’t want to repeat what happened before.” 

The god had a sullen, far away look in his eyes, one Ghost had seen on several soldiers and fighters before and likely one that he himself has worn as well. It was the most Soap had ever talked about his time from before.

Ghost didn’t like the way Soap had said it and he liked the spike of sympathy even less, but he had a feeling he would have to get used to emotions he didn’t like so long as he continued following the god.

The words hang over them like a lead weight. Usually, Ghost didn’t mind letting awkwardness linger, enjoying the squirming of others but this felt different. It wasn’t someone trying to push Ghost beyond his limits, but instead more like the other way around, Ghost uncaringly pushing against a sore subject for the god.

For the god. You shouldn’t feel bad for him, he’s— 

Oh, shut up.

He’s well past the point of no return. Feeling bad for Soap was the least of his worries now, whether he liked it or not. Besides, if not pity, why else would he have continued offering Soap whatever he could get his hands on? 

It’s not like he’s on the precipice of doing something stupid, he already did the ‘something stupid.’ Ghost saw the edge of the cliff and the warning signs around it and still hiked on.

Ignoring everything in him yelling at him not to, he leaned into the god’s side. The words felt alien even to himself as he muttered, “Maybe someday.”

Soap smiled, and the edge of the cliff came closer as Soap muttered back, “Maybe.”

[sparklecryptid]

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE

There is a set of roles everyone must play, and most are better at one role than they are the other. Ardyn's father is less a father, more a king. He stands bright and tall against the encroaching darkness and Ardyn's eyes are wide and wonder filled when he looks at his King.

That is what Ardyn's father is, not a father, a King. Someone who teaches Ardyn how to rule and the lethality of politics. Ardyn's King is a man who shuns Ardyn's desire to heal, to help and forces Ardyn to lead.

Ardyn's King never asks what he wants.

Thousands of years later, Ardyn might wonder if that's where it starts.

-

Ardyn's brother is small. He small and lithe and built for speed and trickery and Ardyn's King loves him for that. He loves that he has an heir that understands how to be lethal and how to set aside petty emotions like compassion and empathy.

But Ardyn's brother is small. He is small and bright-eyed and clings to Ardyn's robes whenever Ardyn comes back from the Healing Wards. Somnus asks about what Ardyn does, he asks about the world outside the palace walls and makes Ardyn promise to show him one day.

Ardyn could never deny his brother anything. He thinks that might be dangerous, the way his brother smiles and makes Ardyn want to give him whatever he wants. He thinks that Somnus could be dangerous if he wanted to be.

He hopes that Somnus never has to be dangerous. That he never has to trade curiosity in for a blade.

-

Ardyn's King is dangerous. Ardyn's Queen might be more dangerous. The Queen trades in force for gentle touches, for sweet words that hide scorn. Ardyn's Queen does not love her children, they are tools, something made because it was demanded of her.

Ardyn's King is skilled in war on bloody battlefields.

Ardyn's Queen ruins lives with a smile and a word.

He isn't sure who he should fear more.

His brother never factors into this threat assessment.

Somnus is kind. Somnus is sweet and lovely and young.

Why would a child be a threat? Somnus has yet to grow into the role he will play.

No doubt it will be a grand one.

-

Ardyn's King dies.

His Queen holds on for a few years longer.

Ardyn leaves the fate of the Kingdom in the hands of his younger brother.

Ardyn was never the favourite anyway.

-

The Blessing of the Astrals sticks like poison to his heals. It eats away at his insides and lingers as sweetness on his tongue. This is a new role, Ardyn is no longer just a prince, just a healer waiting on those doomed to die, Ardyn has ascended with his new role and is granted more freedom, more power than he could have ever thought of having.

Ardyn is a saint just as his fiancée is. Together they are hope.

Ardyn does not see how his brother's gaze sharpens.

He ignores the darkness running through his veins and presses on. He is happy.

He is scared to ruin it.

-

This is what Ardyn forgot; that men in power will do anything to keep that power.

This is what Ardyn ignored; that despite being his brother, Somnus was still a King.

They all have roles to play, Ardyn realizes as a sword is driven through his chest, They all have roles to play, it just so happens that Ardyn is to become a demon. He is to become a sacrifice.

The flames of hate, never once felt in his chest before, burn into a wildfire.

-

He comes back.

Of course he comes back.

A lamb isn't going to die before it lays upon the altar.

A demon won't die until a saint plunges a sword through its chest.

Ardyn wakes.

Ardyn waits.

The flames of hate burn ever higher.

[green-eyedfirework]

It had already been a long patrol, and a long delay as he attempted to wrap up a case from a half-formed suspicion that had landed in his lap on patrol, and Bruce groaned when the Batcomputer chimed with a new message.  That particular sound was for a Justice League transmission.

When he opened it, his stomach twisted—League, yes, but not his League.  “Bruce,” the other, younger Clark said, face lighting up, “Hello!”

Bruce would’ve honestly preferred to never be reminded of that universe again.  When he’d seen the pictures—it had only been the confirmation that that universe’s Bruce Wayne was dead and buried that had stopped him from tearing the Manor down to its foundations.

“Superman,” Bruce said neutrally, “Can I help you with something?”  He had left them with a comm code, in case there was another failsafe, another plan from beyond the grave to ensure that if Batman died, everyone suffered.

“Yes—sorry for disturbing you—” On second glance, the other Clark’s face looked slightly frantic.  “We—I brought the kids up to the Watchtower, and no one realized that they’d disappeared for some time, and the last place the camera shows them entering is the artifact room—” Clark was pacing back and forth in nervous energy.  “And the portal device is still set to your universe, and they might not have gone through it, but I can’t find their heartbeats anywhere, so I thought I’d ask you if you’ve seen them—or maybe if you have any idea where they could possibly be—I have no idea where or why they left—”

“Yes,” Bruce said levelly, his voice vibrating against the knife at his jugular, “They’re here.”

“Really?” Clark spun towards him, face alight—and his eyes quickly sharpened at what he could see behind Bruce.  “Shit—I’ll be there in a second—”

Bruce wasn’t sure if he had a second.  He tracked the trembling grip—the knife was digging in, enough planning to launch a preemptive strike, but not enough willpower to see it through—and took a millisecond to track his surroundings before he acted.

He wrenched the wrist away, forcing them to drop the knife, and straightened out of his chair, sending his assailant to the ground.  Before he could step back, another one lunged at him with a growl, and Bruce blocked the strike before twisting the child into a simple hold—wrists crossed behind his back, just enough pressure upwards to force the child to straighten their back and keep them from kicking back at him.

The third child looked at him, wide blue eyes, a knife held in shaking fingers.

“Drop the knife,” Bruce said calmly.  Tim shook harder, glancing at Jason, held firm in Bruce’s grasp, and then to Dick, who was sprawled on the ground with a horrified expression on his face.  “Tim,” Bruce said levelly, drawing the child’s attention back to him, “Drop the knife.”

Dick was utterly silent.  Jason made a choked sound that tore at Bruce’s heart, but the knife was the greater threat.  Tim slowly put it down.

“Kick it towards me.”

Tim was crying now, tears dripping down pale cheeks, but he haphazardly kicked at the knife, sending it beyond anyone’s easy reach.  Bruce let Jason go, and the child immediately scrambled towards his brothers.

Thankfully, the whoosh of the portal opening sounded before Bruce had to make any attempt at comforting.  He tracked the younger Clark stumbling through and slumping in relief when he saw all three kids in one piece.

“Oh, thank Rao,” Clark murmured, speeding towards the children and crouching in front of them, “I was so worried when I realized you were gone—”

“No!” Dick protested as Clark knelt down, lunging up to—to cover Clark’s back.  As though Bruce was going to stab him.  “No, you—he’s angry—Clark, please—”

Bruce was goddamn furious, and it sat in his stomach, a sickly mess of roiling emotions with nowhere to go.

“No, Dick, he won’t—he’s not going to attack me,” Clark said desperately, trying to comfort the three of them.  Tim was crying silently, and Jason had joined Dick in a protective stance in front of Clark.

“It wasn’t his idea,” Dick’s voice cracked.  In fear.  In fear of him.  “He didn’t know about it, I swear—”

“Dick,” Clark said helplessly, “He’s not—he’s not your universe’s Bruce.  I promise he won’t attack you.”  It wasn’t getting through to them, Bruce could see that much, and Clark turned the helpless look towards him.

“Just go,” Bruce said tonelessly.

“Kids,” Clark exhaled in a rush, before scooping Tim up.  “Come on, let’s—let’s get back, okay?”  Dick and Jason allowed him to nudge them towards the portal, their wide eyes fixed on Bruce.  Bruce didn’t move until all four of them were through the portal, and the device was switched off.

Then he collapsed back into his chair and buried his head in his hands.

His children—no, not his children—looking at him in panicked terror, believing with all their hearts that he was going to hurt them in the most despicable of ways—so terrified that they’d planned to kill him before he got his hands on them—

The Batcomputer chimed with an incoming call.  Local.  He ignored it.  The chime stopped, and was replaced with the crackle of a video call as the caller rewrote the Batcomputer to accept access.

There were very few people that could do that.  “Oracle,” he said hoarsely, not raising his head.

“Bruce,” Barbara replied, her disidentifying voice distorter turned off.  He raised his gaze to meet her steady stare.

“You saw that,” he rasped.

“I did.”

He slumped further in his chair.  “I did that,” Bruce said, hollow, “Somewhere in the multiverse, there’s a version of me that did that.  Maybe more than one.”  Oh, gods, that was painful to face.

“Bruce—”

“I know I’m not a perfect father, I know I’ve made mistakes, but I—I thought I was still a good person.  I know—I’ve been to universes where I’ve been a bad father, but never—never that.  Never—”

The pictures, the videos, the trauma written over three painfully young faces—

“Bruce,” Barbara snapped, “You are a good person.”

“A version of me spent seven years abusing children,” Bruce said hollowly.

“He’s not you,” she replied, eyes flashing, “Don’t tell me you believe that crap about people being innately good or innately bad.  Who we are depends on the choices we make.”

“But I—”

“You became Batman to help people.  You’ve helped so many people.  Sharing a name with that monster doesn’t mean that you are, in any way, connected to him.”

“We grew up the same, didn’t we?” Bruce asked quietly, “We’re all mirrors of each other, we—”

“No, you’re not,” Barbara said fiercely, “You’re no more responsible for him than you are if you had an evil twin.  He chose to make bad decisions.  He chose to hurt people.  He chose to enslave and blackmail and torture and you are not him.”

It was just a little difficult to believe when the monster was wearing Bruce’s face.

“You had a horrible thing happen to you, and you made the choice to try and prevent it from happening to anyone ever again.  You took a tragedy, and you chose to protect,” Barbara said fiercely, “To make this city a better place.  To give lost children a chance at a family.  You did that, Bruce, and they were your own choices.”

And if he’d made the wrong ones, would he be where the other Bruce had been?  A villain, instead of a vigilante?

“Don’t take on demons that aren’t your own, Bruce,” Barbara said softly, “He isn’t you.  He was never you.  He has your face and he has your name, but neither of those two things are what makes you you.  He chose evil.  You chose good.  You are not the same.”

“Knowing there’s a world out there where I could’ve—”

“There’s a universe out there for all of us,” Barbara said flatly, “There’s a universe where we made the wrong choices, and kept making them, and turned out into monsters.  There’s a universe where Bruce Wayne is even worse than that one, and there’s a universe where Bruce Wayne is a better person than you.  There’s a universe for every possibility and every choice anyone has ever made, and taking the responsibility for all of them is not only insane, it is dangerously conceited.”

A small smile cracked Bruce’s lips.  “Are you saying I’m not the center of the universe?”

Barbara quirked her lips in a soft smile of her own.  “This isn’t your burden to bear, Bruce,” she said softly, “Don’t try to make it yours.”

“The children,” Bruce exhaled, “They’re terrified of me.”

“And you realized that, and removed yourself from the situation,” Barbara said calmly, “But their terror is not your fault.”

“I don’t want them to spend the rest of their lives worried that I’m going to attack them,” Bruce said mildly.  How to accomplish that, though, was a more difficult prospect.  If he—

“No.  Bruce, no.  Whatever you’re thinking, absolutely not.”

“You have no idea what I was going to say.”

“I know enough about you, you emotionally stunted bastard, to know that whatever you came up with is not a good idea.”

“If the children feel safer with me dead—”

Barbara groaned out loud.  “God, sometimes you are so much Alfred’s kid it’s infuriating.  You and all your children—overdramatic idiots, the lot of you.  No, Bruce, you aren’t faking your death to make them feel better.”

“But—”

“No,” Barbara said flatly, “I understand that they’re hurting.  I understand that you feel terrible about it.  But they need to learn how to deal with their triggers without killing them.”

“They think I’m going to come after them,” Bruce said quietly, “After them, after whatever family they manage to find—”

“And you’re not.  And that’s something they need to learn and accept.  They are not in danger, and they need to understand that, not murder anyone that looks remotely like their abuser.”

“What if they never do?” Bruce asked quietly.

“That’s not your fault either,” Barbara responded, equally soft, “Every child in the world is not your personal responsibility.”

But they were his children—no.  If he accepted that the other Bruce was not him, then the other Dick and Jason and Tim weren’t his children.  They looked like them, and shared similar memories, but they weren’t his.

[undersakit]

{ ...The War...}

-UnderSakit Prologue-

Trigger Warning/TW;

°may be disturbing

°mentions of SH (self-harm)

°mentions of gore and death

Hope you enjoy \[•^Π^•]/

The war ragged on as the sounds of swords and weapons alike collided, sweat and blood poured into each strike and perry. Even as they grew exhausted from the constant battle, they wouldn't give in to their opponents, their pride and honour keeping them from showing mercy or holding back. Holding themselves together as they held their stance high. A barrage of arrows rained down upon the unfortunate ones below, each and every archer there, stood behind thick metallic shields that were held by heavily armoured soldiers. The rim of the shield has a slight curve to set their advantages straight. The sounds of metal scraping the granite-mix below each step the backup soldiers took. Spells were tossed around, their blasts loud and increasingly terrifying to the naked eye, the impact caused everything in its range to be buried in burning light until it was all but ash, it was all too much causing many misfortunes to befall to both their opponents and themselves. It weakened the trees until they bear no fruit any longer with their leaves withering whilst the others fell and succumbed to the harsh environment. The smell of rot and decay evident in the air, the land suffered by the flames of the ongoing war. Both tribes were aware of the damage they caused, the lives that were lost due to their doing, however.. they seem to be more focused on winning against the opposing group, without showing mercy or giving the other a chance to redeem their own misdeeds, staying oblivious to the damage they have caused. It was.. chaos...

The war rarely had any survivors, and if there were.. they were found collecting everything that was left from their homes, searching for any supplies or recourses that could help them in such a dire situation. Though, no matter how one struggled or tried, if they cannot fight, they're killed on the spot. Pitiful if I may, the corpses of children and adults piling up day by day, diseases spreading as the air grew thick with greed for power. It was.. a cruel act of torture, the corpses weren't buried or burned and weren't respected, just thrown to the enemy's boundary to spread the disease there. Oh how cruel do you think war can get? The cries of children who deeply feared death as rivers of tears poured out of mothers who lost their children, fathers who cannot see their family until it was all over? Dear, it was just like a silly game the Lords played with.

No one would be spared, the only thing both sides desired was the death of their opponent, no matter how many children died, no matter how they destroyed each other's lives and homes, all they wanted was for it to end. However, their actions could never be accepted by their own citizens. Monsters feared being killed since they were weaker than humans, tears of dread came to their eyes, even if they tried and calculated every attack, it always ended up with more losses than winnings. The humans always had the upper hand because of their DETERMINATION... That's when they grew a more.. efficient way of ending it all.

Each human soul they would obtain, they would absorb it before it would shatter. Each time they did it, they grew stronger and more vigilant of their surroundings, their eyes sharpening and height slightly changed. New abilities but.. it was accompanied with a price. Their souls will weaken significantly and eventually crack. Their sanity slowly fading, the memories they have will be forgotten, hearing voices, and the most common, suicidal thoughts... It was odd for such to happen, but they do as these symptoms, due to the increasing guilt they'll experience every kill or every second of their lives, the voices and screams of the dead humans.. echoing continuously into their heads. Making every second of the day like living hell. A cycle of guilt and pressure being pushed onto them until they break.

Due to the blood spilt upon the ground, the rivers upon rivers of blood with piles of corpses rotting, the environment grew.. oddly as well. Flowers sprouted amongst these mountains of decay, their beauty unmatched to any flower many have seen.. yet..... it wasn't safe to just touch it. The flower was poisonous and deadly, inhaling its pollen is highly toxic, being around it was already a problem. But instant death to whoever ate it.... What a beautiful flower.

[centuryberry]

Fae AU

As I promised in an ask, here is a detailed outline of the Fae AU. The AU itself has grown and changed a bit since I first presented it.

Summary: Fae Lord Wukong fell in love with the mortal who entered his forest. It didn't matter that the said mortal had a wife and child. He would make him his. Years later, Yue willingly jumps through a fairy ring to bring back what the fae stole from her.

This AU is split into three parts: The Abduction, The Change, and The Rescue.

Part I: The Abduction

Macaque, Shanzha, and Yue (who are all humans in this AU) went out camping as a family one beautiful summer.

Fae Lord Wukong catches sight of Macaque and falls in love with the mortal instantly. Taking a mortal form, he lures Macaque away from his family. He tricks him into giving Wukong his true name. After that, he whisks the mortal away through a fairy ring.

While enthralled by Wukong's beauty, Macaque's love for his family and his iron wedding band gives him enough clarity to start struggling against the Fae Lord.

Fae Lord RinRin hears her husband complain about his lover's stubborn attachment to his mortal life and decides to sever it by killing the wife and snatching the child. She fails spectacularly when she takes one look at Shanzha and falls in love.

So, RinRin decides to approach Shanzha in a mortal form, get close to her, and then whisk her (and Yue) away into the Fae Realm. She's only half successful since Yue managed to slip away at the last second.

Macaque and Shanzha reunite in the Fae Realm and try to escape. Their fae kidnappers make a game of it. If the humans win, they can go home. If they fail, they stay in the realm forever.

Despite passing many of the trials set in front of them, Macaque and Shanzha lose when they're both inevitably charmed into the Fae Lords' beds in a moment of weakness. They take their defeat happily (their emotions are influenced mostly by fae magic).

What Wukong and RinRin didn't tell them was that they would have never won. They had already consumed food in the Fae Realm. They would have eventually crawled back or died of starvation.

At some point, Macaque and Shanzha snap out of their happy haze long enough to flee. They make it out of the boundaries of Wukong and RinRin's lands, which are the Summer and Spring Courts, respectively.

Part II: The Change

Being exposed to the Fae Realm started to affect Macaque and Shanzha and change them as they survived in their suddenly harsh environment. But they remain as their situation is better than being enthralled puppets of their kidnappers.

Macaque grew more ears. Shanzha's teeth and nails sharpened. Macaque's shadows started to move on their own. Shanzha's steps start to leave behind frost. They both gained monkey-like features, reminiscent of the natural forms of their fae.

The Autumn and Winter Courts were empty as their previous rulers had either disappeared or were struck down by Wukong and RinRin.

After growing into their new powers and forms, Macaque and Shanzha take over the seats of power and become the new rulers of the realm.

While they sometimes miss and yearn for Wukong and RinRin, they're also very bitter about being taken away from their old life and their child. So they are in constant conflict with the Spring and Summer Courts, who are unaware of their old identities.

The Seelie and Unseelie Court are embroiled in constant fights.

Part III: The Rescue

Years later in mortal years, Yue grows up beautifully under the care of her godparents DBK and Iron Fan. While she's still haunted by the events that took her parents away from her, she managed to move on and make a life for herself. She's even engaged.

Her spouse-to-be turned out to be a Changeling and was snatched back into the Fae Realm just a day before the wedding. Witnessing this, Yue jumps in after them.

Yue somehow comes out into the other side in the Autumn and Winter Court where she reunites with her parents, who are very changed.

Their reunion is tearful and very emotional.

Yue's beloved is stuck in the Spring and Summer Court, so she fights her way to them with her parents' help. It's very dramatic.

Wukong manages to take out Macaque's eye during the battle before he realizes his enemy's true identity. RinRin has a similar revelation. Struck with guilt and desperate to have them back, Wukong and RinRin allow Yue and her beloved to safely return home - no fae tricks this time.

Shadowpeach and Iceflower's relationships remain open-ended since forgiveness would take a lot of groveling and time, which the fae have a lot of. Perhaps Macaque and Shanzha eventually forgive them and take them in as lovers again. Perhaps Wukong and RinRin are stuck pining and yearning as their beloveds try to stab them. Who knows?

There are two endings:

"Good" Ending - Yue and her beloved reunite and escape back to the mortal realm, but not without a tearful goodbye to Macaque and Shanzha. She finds her closure and steps into her new life with her beloved and their families in the mortal realm.

"Bad" Ending - Yue's beloved embraces their fae nature and forces Yue to stay in the realm with them. She mourns the loss of her human life but is comforted that at least she's still with her parents.

[im-writing-extra]

when I tell you these two have never thought these thoughts before… I mean it!! They are very unsmart!! But they’ve loved each other this whole time in case you couldn’t tell. You probably knew it before they did.

shorter chapter because i’m tired reasons. I’ve gone full nerd in this story and I’ve already written the ending. I’ve decided it does go through the Acolyte, but I won’t have a retelling of the series, fear not.

table of contents

chapter 5 - longsuffering propriety

Finally, finally you’re back in your room. Ja-Leri hadn’t said a single word when she appeared through the trees, sighting you and Yord for the first time. A second-wave officer, clearly her vaguely-referenced lover, is in tow. Neither of them argue when Yord commands, “Nobody goes in. Find a new mine.” They just nod and begin the trudge back to the colony. 

Your hair is tousled and matted, blood and sweat dried on your face. Yord doesn’t look much better. His tunic is ripped and he has cuts on his face, too.

 The door closes, and he sets the deadbolt with a satisfying click before whirling on you.

“That was incredibly irresponsible of you,” he says, and his words are like daggers, carefully sharpened and aimed. “Using Trakata? I knew you studied alternative forms, but that is both forbidden and dishonorable! It’s one thing to utilize Ataru, but the way of the Sith…” He’s seething, angrier than you’ve ever seen him.

You’re taken aback. You hadn’t needed a thank you from him, but you certainly didn’t expect him to be mad that you saved his life.

“Irresponsible of me?” you retort, “I’m not the one who went off by myself. What the actual kriff were you thinking, that was-”

Yord strides toward you, interrupting mid-sentence. “What was I thinking, what were you thinking? Oh wait, you weren’t! You just ran headfirst like you always do, not a single thought about how-”

“I guess I should be more like you then, and run all my decisions by the Council instead of taking action??”

“You could have died-”

“Would you rather I just left you to-”

“Yes! You’re too attached, you should have put the assignment first, you could have gotten hurt-”

“Oh, so I should throw away almost two decades of a friendship for some stupid assignment? You’re my best friend in the whole galaxy, Yord! I can’t just let you die!” you snarl.

You realize Yord is no longer shouting, just staring down at you with a distinct, Yord-like intensity.

You barely have a moment to exasperatedly ask, “What?” when he crashes his mouth into yours.

Your mind goes blank except for the thought: We are one with the Force.

That’s the only thing running through your head as your hands reach for his tunic to pull him closer. But no sooner do you touch him than he’s pulling away in abject horror.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t- I’m sorry. I thought you were going to die. I think I’m just- tired, maybe? I’m sorry.” He’s panicking, the epitome of Yord-ness. And you realize, oh. Of course.

Of course this was going to happen- is happening. It feels inevitable, like the last cog of your friendship has finally clicked into place. You remember a thousand moments throughout your life of the two of you, where you both should have realized that this attachment was headed in this direction.

We are one with the Force.

“Yord?” you ask, uncertain.

He’s still close enough that you only have to move half a centimeter to touch your forehead to his, but you won’t. This is his moment to process.

Yord’s eyes are squeezed shut and you briefly wonder if he’s broken.

He just went against the Jedi Code for the first time in his life, and in no small manner.

He opens them at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze. 

His expression is assured. It’s so unlike him, and yet it suits him perfectly.

“We are one with the Force,” he says. 

Then he’s kissing you again, backing you toward the bed, and you let him.

—

Neither of you are entirely sure what time it is as you let the warm water from the shower wash away the last traces of the earlier fight. 

Yord’s hands skim along your arms and back as he leans down to kiss you. It’s slow, but no less hungry than before.

The more you touch him, the more you wonder why the thought never crossed your mind before. Or perhaps it did, but never in a way that truly registered with you. 

There’s nothing quite like the freedom to softly mouth your way across his chest while he cradles your head like it’s something holy. 

The entire affair feels reverent, each gasp a prayer instead of sacrilege. It doesn’t cross your mind until much later that there will be consequences if you’re found out, but for now, you’ll let his hands continue their exploration down your body.

He’s serious as always, not cracking even a hint of a smile until he brushes a soapy strand of hair out of your face.

“You look like a Nautolan,” he says, and you grin.

“My hair always looks like this in the shower,” you respond.

Yord hums. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

You raise an eyebrow and he continues, “I’m going to need to gather more evidence before coming to a complete conclusion.” 

He winds the hair around his finger and you reach for his free hand. You lift it and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist as he shudders. Any physical contact seems to send him into overdrive, contorting his muscles and sending sparks through his nervous system.

Yord drops your hair in favor of resting his hand on the side of your neck. “We should get some sleep.”

You nod, and it’s only at his words that you realize how tired you actually are. Yord steps out of the shower for a towel then turns off the water before wrapping it tight around you. He flips the water switch, gets his own towel, then follows you to the bed.

You settle into his strong arms, a relatively familiar action, but one that feels more like a puzzle piece being slotted into place.

You’re facing each other in the dark. It’s much different from hours before, yet it brings back vivid images of Yord gasping your name and pressing you into the mattress, consuming you like a fire.

It’s no less intimate.

Clothing seems like a crime at this point, but he’s helped you into sleeping trousers, at least.

“I know you can’t sleep without them,” he whispers and he’s right. You’ve never been able to sleep in the gown-style nightclothes that many Jedi opt to wear. There’s something sensory about needing full-length pants in order to rest, but Yord, Dalphri, and Venez are the only ones who know.

You tangle your legs with his and press as much of your skin against him as possible. He’s warm, contrasting with the cool blood pumping through your veins.

“Master Yoda taught me,” you say quietly, running your thumb and pointer finger along Yord’s collarbone.

“Hm?” he asks, voice rough.

“Trakata. Master Yoda taught me. He said the honor of defense supersedes the honor of combat. An opponent who fights without honor does not need to be shown it in return, especially when a life is at stake.”

You’re not entirely sure why, but it’s important to you that Yord knows. Knows that you’re not a Sith, not breaking the Code, not a stranger.

At least, not breaking the Code in a way that involves him.

“I expressed an interest in lightsaber combat, and he encouraged me to learn as many different styles as I could. We all have our interests and mine seems the most… well, it seems the least serious. I flip around and swing a stick. But the rules of Jedi combat run deeper than most Jedi realize, and they are only meant to be upheld when the opponent holds the same tenets.” You’re speaking barely above a whisper now. “Trakata… it’s about reacting. Thinking outside of the box. You use your opponents strengths against them instead of targeting their weakness. It was developed for a true fight and bastardized by the Sith; my use of it makes me no more susceptible to the Dark Side than a Sith using Soresu is to the Light. It’s about what’s in your chest.”

“That is… an interesting perspective,” he answers. He disagrees with you, but not enough to do anything about it. Later though, when he has the time, you know he’ll research what you’re telling him. This is a challenge to the Jedi Order he believes in; but not the the Order as it truly exists. It threatens his paradigm, but not the Jedi.

Yord ghosts his lips across your forehead and down your nose. A contented sigh escapes your lips, and you slip away into a deep sleep.

next chapter

[ca-suffit]

Don't you think it's strange for Louis to have a portrait of his brother and Claudia's dress at home but nothing that reminds him of Grace?I'm sure she probably had a less violent more peaceful life,I found it a bit ooc he loved his sister so much he was heartbroken when she said goodbye to him forever.I was hoping for something about, her or what she became,we will probably learn in future seasons.Does he ever see his sister again in the books?

(Other ppl feel free to give theories on this too if u want) I had taken it mostly to be about a specific type of grief, since both Paul and Claudia died as they did and it's assumed Grace did not. On a technical level too, idk if they'd have a real "prop" for her. He had that photo once but it could have been lost or washed out over time more easily than the dress or painting could have been damaged.

Louis' entire family dynamic in the show was v much a show only thing in a lot of ways. They're v sparse in the book itself. He does know his mother and sister (and eventually her husband too) after becoming a vampire. Him and his sister get along well too but it's nothing like what the show gives us for their relationship, it's a small paragraph here and there only.

As far as I remember, this is the final moment he sees his sister (who is unnamed in book canon). In the book, Louis "dies" in the plantation fire (that he set himself, although the public doesn't know that), so there's no burial scene between them like the show gave us.

"The sea lulled me to bad dreams, to sharp remembrances. A winter night in New Orleans when I wandered through the St. Louis cemetery and saw my sister, old and bent, a bouquet of white roses in her arms, the thorns carefully bound in an old parchment, her gray head bowed, her steps carrying her steadily along through the perilous dark to the grave where the stone of her brother Louis was set, side by side with that of his younger brother. . Louis, who had died in the fire of Pointe du Lac leaving a generous legacy to a godchild and namesake she never knew. Those flowers were for Louis, as if it had not been half a century since his death, as if her memory, like Louis's memory, left her no peace. Sorrow sharpened her ashen beauty, sorrow bent her narrow back. And what I would not have given, as I watched her, to touch her silver hair, to whisper love to her, if love would not have loosed on her remaining years a horror worse than grief. I left her with grief. Over and over and over."

[elliebyrrdwrites]

I'm just a Drabbler.

DRAMIONE

Death gives a whole new perspective to the simpler things in life.

There is a glow against the horizon that is starting to melt into the dark blues of the sky. The sun is promising light, while the night battles its end. Hermione watches the sun rise like a child being born, as the night gives in to it’s old age and the inevitable death that occurs every morning, without fail.

She never thought that, in death, she would enjoy the ongoing metamorphosis of the sky above. But it is something that, in life, she had paid little attention to.

She can feel Draco approaching. It’s been like that since they both died. Some sort of connection that formed as they both fell through the Veil. Though, it is one they seem to fight on a daily basis.

He appears to her right, the smell of mint and citrus filling her nostrils. She angles her head up to watch him lift an unlit cigarette to his mouth. Watches, as he lifts a lighter to it and sets it ablaze.

Through squinted eyes, he puffs on the cigarette, until the end is cherry red and crackling as the paper around the tobacco burns. Feeling her gaze on him, he lowers the cigarette from his mouth and exhales slowly. He lifts a brow at her and she rolls her eyes.

“Those things are disgusting.” She lifts her head. “Cancerous.”

The corner of Draco’s lips lift, just enough to cause her stomach to flip uncomfortably. “I’m already dead. Seems a good a time as any to start a new bad habit.”

“Well, I hate it.” She turns back to gaze out at the horizon, her chin lifting proudly.

“Yes, but that just makes it all the more alluring.”

He sticks the cigarette back into his mouth and stretches his arms high over his head and arches his back in a nice, long stretch. As the light of the sun begins to spread across the horizon, a little hut becomes visible. It’s so far away, it looks as small as a pin prick.

“That it?” Draco says around the butt of the cigarette. The smoke snakes up around his pale blue eyes and Hermione hums in ascent. “I think so.”

“So, this is it, huh?”

She nods, eagerly. “Finally.” She sighs and lifts her face to the sky. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply and allows the cool, damp air to touch her face just a little longer. Soon, they’ll be completing the task handed to them from the man in Limbo. And then, they can finally earn their passage back.

Hermione had initially accepted the task with enthusiasm, and very little questions. She just wanted to get back home. To Ron, to her job and her friends.

The journey to this spot was long and difficult. But together, she and Draco had walked mile after mile, day after day, until they finally arrived to the little home where a very important woman would be killed. Their job, was to ensure that she didn’t die. Their job, was to protect this woman. The woman, apparently, was going to be very important for the future of the human race. A vital figure in the tides of change, the man in Limbo had said. Once she and Draco would ensure that the woman would live past noon, the two of them would be transported back to Limbo, where they would be allowed to pass back through the Veil and back into their lives.

When she opened her eyes, Hermione found Draco watching her. Over the weeks, his gaze had softened considerably. It felt like hers had sharpened, finally seeing Draco for who he actually was.

Which was funny and charming, and not as prattish as she had once thought.

There was a lingering sadness that seemed to cling to them. it seemed to have developed over the past few days, having spent their nights curled up together around a campfire they stared at for hours on end, waiting for sleep to come.

Sleep, as it turns out, was not something the dead needed often, or even at all.

But, they both seemed to miss it. And often, they would lie still in each others warmth and pretend to sleep, eyes closed. Draco’s body would spoon around hers, his fingers soothing little circles over her abdomen and as they pretended to sleep, Hermione often found that she could allow him to dip the pads of his fingers onto her bare stomach, or to run the palm of his hand against her thigh.

It never went further than that. Because, back in the mortal realm, she was engaged, of course. And Draco was just her coworker.

Together, they had tumbled through the veil and erroneously began their journey into the afterlife.

[hypnotisedfireflies]

I miss Lachie! I specifically miss Tess and Lachie, their family friendship warms my heart every time. Would you perhaps consider giving us a snippet of the two of them? Perhaps a late night conversation while they’re camping out on their way towards Jackson? (I’m desperate to hear anything more about their road trip)

(Also will Lachie make any appearances in IO???)

Hi anon! Thank you for your ask (and giving me the chance to pop back into Driftersverse!)

I don't think Lachie will be appearing in IO. I tend to keep the OCs to their respective universes, DD/SQ, IO, Charro, etc. But who knows??

Hope you like this little ficlet. It's set during the events of TLOU while Ellie and Joel are off Ellieing and Joeling and Tess is making the trip across country with Lachie. This is as they begin to reconnect after the Firefly crew has perished, and Lachie is experiencing the earliest trouble with his lungs that later leads to something worse.

Autumn, 2023 Wisconsin.

In Little Hope, Wisconsin, Lachie did something that he hadn’t done in years.

Dear Mum, Dad and Col.

Lachlan Maynard had penned letters on scraps of paper up and down the USA and posted them in every undamaged mailbox he could find.  He was very careful to address them neatly and correctly.  If everything got back on track – one day, eventually – those letters might make their way home.  Somebody had to empty the mailboxes eventually, right?  And when that happened – if, if that happened – then Lachie wanted that chance of some small piece of him finding his way home, even if he was long-dead and nobody remembered his name anymore.

Some time ago – when exactly, who knew – Lachie had stopped.  The hope that those letters might one day find their way across the ocean had not dwindled (however increasingly unlikely it seemed) but there were fewer things to say.  Sometimes, he didn’t really want his family to know what he’d done.  It was increasingly difficult to explain or justify the confusing nature of the Firefly cause, which sometimes seemed so righteous and other times seemed like a poorly organised terrorist chapter. 

There just wasn’t much he wanted to write home about anymore.

But on this bright, golden autumn day in Little Hope, Lachie felt the urge tickling his fingers once again.  He dug around until he found a pencil.  Lachie sharpened it carefully with his smallest knife and lifted the shavings to his nose.  He breathed them in.  Fresh, new pencils!  His cousin, Shannon, had a box of Derwents that she only used for special occasions.  Nobody else was allowed to use them, but sometimes Lachie liked to lift up the tin lid and have a good, long sniff. 

I am in Wisconsin, he wrote.

“Lachlan.”

He looked up.  He was sitting on the bonnet of the truck to soak up the sunshine.  Tess only called him by his full name when she really wanted his attention.  He looked right and saw her standing against the vibrant backdrop of autumn leaves.  Many were still doggedly clinging to their branches like they could outlast winter.  Lachie could feel its cold, deadly little talons digging deeper into every day.  It made him cough in the mornings.

“Everything okay?”  Lachie pined the paper to his thigh with the side of his hand.  The wind buffeted up a little whirlwind of dry, crackling leaves.

“Your … friend,” she said with as much tact as he could expect, “has a much warmer jacket than mine.  I’m gonna take it.  I just wanted to … tell you before I did it.”

“Oh.”

Lachie glanced at the low ditch on the side of the road where Toni lay.   She’d fallen and suffered a terrible gash to her leg the day before, and had died in the back of the truck during the night.  Catastrophic blood loss.  Lachie used to think Toni was all right, but Toni hadn’t liked Tess, and Toni had made it clear – loudly and often – that Tess would be easier to transport with her vitals preserved in jars.  Dev (before he got himself ripped up by two clickers) told Lachie Toni’s prejudice was rooted in fear, and she was convinced Tess would turn eventually.  Some of the others were, too.   Toni also wanted Tess on reduced rations, and she wanted her restrained at all times. 

Tess gained her full freedom when the numbers of their team dwindled so pitifully that they desperately needed the extra, free hands.  Toni mouthed off only once more after that.  Tess decked her with two hard, savage hits, breaking the other woman’s nose.  The others just looked on – Toni had said some shit, after all.  And Lachie grinned as he gathered up some supplies to treat the injury.  He suddenly felt just that little bit safer.

Tess never had held back.

“I’ll help you,” he suggested.

Lachie jammed the paper in his pocket and pencil behind his ear.  He followed Tess to the ditch and helped skin the thick, fleece-lined jacket down Toni’s arms. 

“You want her boots?”

Tess considered it.  “No, they’re too small for me.”

“Let’s take her jumper too, just in case.”

“Jumper,” Tess repeated, grinning at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“What happened to your accent?”

“It has its moments.”

They completed the grisly task of stripping Toni for the last of her worth and then covered her body with leaves.  The ground wasn’t too hard yet.  They could bury her.  But Lachie didn’t see the point in going to that effort.  They needed to conserve their calories.  And Little Hope was a nice enough place in the world to become bird food.  Toni could do worse.

“Guess that makes you two even for the hard time she gave you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tess muttered, shedding her own jacket and dressing in Toni’s.  She emptied the pockets of meaningless trinkets, then turned up the collar.  “Thanks for making that easy.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“I know she was your friend so … I’m sorry.”

Lachie squinted as another squall twisted a pile of leaves up into a new dance.  “It doesn’t matter.”

The breeze lifted Tess’s hair.   She had long, silver strands throughout now.  It was still kind of hard for Lachie to believe she was really standing there, really alive.  He’d never had any doubt that she’d made it through the years – if anyone could, it was her – but the fact that their paths had crossed again was a miracle he couldn’t overlook.  It was almost more incredible than her surviving becoming infected, for fuck’s sake.

“We should make camp,” Lachie suggested.  “I reckon we’ve come far enough today.”

Tess was scanning the handful of crumbling old buildings.  This must have been a charming little town, once.  There was next to nothing here, but it had a postcard-selling vibe. 

“You feel up to trying a building or two?”

“Sure.” Lachie shrugged.  “What are we looking for?”

“I want to get you out of the cold, for starters,” Tess said, already pulling out her handgun and checking the load.  “The coughing in the morning’s getting worse.”

“Nah, that’s just – yeah, nah, that’s nothing,” Lachie tried to wave it off.  “That’s just – I had asthma kind of bad when I was a kid and sometimes it acts up a bit, that’s all.”

“Well, the cold can’t be helping.  Let’s find something with a bit more shelter tonight, okay?”

He was kind of stoked that she gave a shit.  Tess had looked out for him when they were in Indy, too.  He was definitely just an afterthought behind Joel and Tommy and Rachel, but the fact that she’d given a damn at all had meant something to him then, and it still did now.  And well – hey.  It was probably just strategy on her part.  Two of them stood a better chance of making it cross country than one alone.  But then she met his gaze and he recognised a softness entirely separate to survival. 

“Okay?” 

Lachie nodded.  “Yeah, okay.”

“Let’s try that one first.”

“You’re the boss.”

Tess, who had already turned away, stiffened.  Lachie looked on ahead.  Had she seen something?  And then Tess snapped the cartridge into place and plowed on ahead to the building.

“Come on, move.”

The town had been abandoned by living, dead and infected for a very, very long time.  The general store had been turned over of absolutely everything of value and there was a single, crumpled human who had perished at some phase of infection.  They were almost skeletal, their body and ragged clothing ruptured by powdery, dry fungal plates. 

At the back of the general store was a room claimed by the sky.  Half the roof was missing.  Tess and Lachie built their fire here, where the smoke could pour up into the air, and the walls around them would provide some warmth against the coming night.  Lachie pulled out two FEDRA-issued dinner ration packs.  The grade was excellent.

“Do you want Butter Chicken or Beef Ragu?”

“Have we got any of the Chicken Italiano left?”

“Nope.”

“Ragu, then.”

They prepared the meal packets in boiling water and ate inside their sleeping bags on two sides of the fire.  Tess had been right.  He felt warmer with the wall against his back, and there was no wind in the old structure, save that which whistled through the cracks.

“You know what really pisses me off about these?”  Tess said, poking around her bag with a fork.

“That they’re better than what ration cards could buy?”

“Yes,” she answered, sounding mildly annoyed that he guessed right. “The shit we used to eat in Boston sometimes, you know?  We knew what they were feeding the soldiers was better than what we got, but this is something else.”

Always we.  We did this, we did that.  Tess couldn’t name Joel, but he was always moving in and out of the conversation. 

“Fireflies didn’t have this stuff most of the time either,” Lachie admitted.  “Think we were eating better than most civilians though, if you were stationed outside the zones, that is.”

“Like you were.”

“Yeah, like I was.  Funny when you think we were only a few miles apart for years.”

Tess didn't respond.

“Anyway,” Lachie continued.  “Fireflies were raiding stuff all the time, but when they got their hands on premium rations like these, they stockpiled them for the big ticket events.”

“Like a cross-country trek?”

“Yeah. Build up the strength, that sort of thing. Speaking of.  We should reach that Firefly supply cache tomorrow, all things going well.”

“White Earth Reservation?”

“Yeah?” Lachie shot her a suspicious glance. “How'd you know that?”

“I've been listening. My ears weren't handcuffed.”

“This is gonna be awkward for awhile, isn't it?”

“Till the day you die, Lachlan.”

He coughed softly and set his meal aside. They'd argued about this many times already:  he'd plead his sorry case and she'd stonily stared him down.

“White Earth Reservation,” he confirmed, pulling out a map.  He held it up to Tess and followed a general route along the top of the country with his finger.  “So we’re … like … hereabouts.  We come up north into Minnesota – avoid Minneapolis, I’ve heard shit from there that’d make your hair curl – and come at the Reservation this way.”

Tess was studying the map with great interest, so he passed it into her custody. “Is anyone stationed there?”

“Supposed to have been deserted for a few years. Unless they sent someone up there from the east, I dunno. Seems unlikely, though. So yeah, nah. We'll scoop in and grab the gear, then go down through the Dakotas.”

“To Salt Lake City?”

Lachie held his breath while he calculated his answer. He sighed and picked up his chicken. That had been the original mission. Evacuate Massachusetts, empty the final Firefly caches cross country and regroup with the dwindling remnants of the cause out west. Deliver the subject - Tess - to Salt Lake City for further study.

There was nothing in that mandate about locating Tommy Miller out in whoop-whoop Wyoming or reuniting the subject with her spiritual husband.

“Maybe after,” Lachie mumbled around a mouthful of rations. “See if that dickhead Tommo’s all right first, maybe.”

“How… how was he last time you saw him?”

“I didn't know there was a problem till he fucked off without saying goodbye. I knew he wasn't happy but … shit, is anybody? You really think he's in trouble?”

“Maybe.”

“This trip was really for Joel, huh? He needed to know what was what.”

“It was for us both,” Tess quietly answered. “I don't know if we ever meant to stay so long.”

“In Boston?”

“We had an apartment,” she continued, eyes on the fire. “Living every day in a fucked up dollhouse for thirteen years.”

“A lifetime.”

“A parody.”

“Why didn't you leave?”

“Go where?”

“I dunno. Tommo said you'd come from some place up in the mountains. South? Could've gone back, tried for it. If anyone could've made it, it was you two.”

Tess shook her head slightly. “Bit past happy endings by then, Lachie.”

“Well,” he finished his meal. “Guess it's a good thing it's now. Hey Tess? Can do shitloads with now.”

“You're still painfully optimistic.”

He laughed a little. Sure. It was easy to have hope in and for other people. The heat was off.

He waited until Tess was asleep before digging out his letter again. He deliberated over the cordial lines and wondered what he could add. So deep in concentration was he that the bottom of the page caught on an ember and smoked. He swore softly and smothered both flame and another coughing fit.

Going to Yellowstone.

He didn't write any more until the following morning. Tess helped him sit up as a more aggressive spate of coughs woke him.

“This is asthma?” She asked, passing a flask of water.

“Woodsmoke doesn't do me any favours,” he managed, rubbing his watery eyes.

Tess didn't seem convinced. She did most of the packing up and loading while Lachie got himself together.

“I'll drive,” Tess announced.

“Yeah, no worries.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah, just give me a sec.”

Lachie looked down at his measly letter. He glanced at Tess, who was circling the truck and checking the tyres.

Catching up with some old mates.

He pushed the letter into a mailbox as Tess turned the ignition over.

[d3voured]

[    ozgu  kaya    +    cis  woman    +    she  or  her    ]    ⸻    meet  alize  ozdemir,  a  thirty  year  old,  who  has  been  in  cloyne  for  a  year  (  born  and  raised  in  cloyne  ).  they  are  the  co - owner  at  a  broken  record,  known  for  being  patient  and  reticent.  they  are  often  heard  humming  along  to  spiracle  by  flower  face.  residents  would  describe  them  as  the  washed  out  beauty  queen.

full  name  :  alize  ozdemir.    age  :  thirty.    date  of  birth  :  july  4th,  1994.    place  of  birth  :  cloyne,  ontario,  canada.    also  known  as  :  liz.    epithet  :  the  washed  out  beauty  queen.    gender  &  pronouns  :  cis  woman  &  she  or  her.    orientation  :  demisexual  demiromantic.    occupation  :  co - owner  of  a  broken  record  in  cloyne.  formerly  a  beauty  pageant  titleholder  (  crowned  miss  teen  canada  world  2012,  second  runner - up  miss  teen  world  2012,  first  runner - up  miss  universe  canada  2013,  crowned  miss  supranational  canada  2015,  first  runner - up  miss  supranational  2015,  crowned  miss  universe  canada  2017,  top  ten  miss  universe  2017  )  and  news  anchor  for  breakfast  television  (  2018 - 2020  )  and  the  morning  show  (  2020  -  2023  ).    parents  :  tba  ozdemir  &  tba  ozdemir.    siblings  :  asena  ozdemir  &  kismet  ozdemir.    partner(s)  :  it's  complicated.    children  :  shams  ozdemir  (  3  months  old  ).

introduction    ⸻  

beauty  had  always  been  her  weapon  ─  as  a  child,  the  good  looks  that  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother  had  been  paired  with  a  charming  precociousness  that  often  kept  alize  out  of  serious  trouble  with  her  elders,  but  as  she  grew  older,  features  sharpening  as  the  softness  of  childhood  melted  away  with  puberty,  she  learned  to  harness  her  looks  to  get  what  she  wanted.  this  proved  especially  useful  after  the  death  of  her  parents,  when  alize  became  the  sole  breadwinner  of  their  small  family  overnight.  she  had  always  been  interested  in  beauty  pageants,  having  joined  a  few  as  a  child  before  her  father  had  decided  that  such  competitiveness  at  her  young  age  would  be  more  detrimental  than  helpful,  so  it  had  been  easy  to  slip  back  into  the  swing  of  things  as  a  fresh  graduate.   it  had  been  her  goal  to  reach  the  miss  universe  stage  and  once  that  had  been  achieved,  alize  was  granted  several  offers  around  canada  to  work  on  television  ─  becoming  a  news  anchor  was  never  the  dream  (  she  cannot  remember  if  there  ever  was  a  dream  or  if  her  sense  of  individuality  died  along  with  her  parents  )  but  it  paid  well  enough  to  keep  a  roof  over  their  heads  and  see  her  sisters  through  whatever  they  wished  to  do  with  their  lives.  moving  away  from  cloyne  had  seemed  natural,  chasing  whatever  brought  the  most  stability,  but  it  also  invited  instability  into  her  life  in  the  form  of  a  professional  boxer  that  had  been  invited  onto  set  for  an  interview. alize  had  no  time  for  distractions  but  he  proved  relentless  and  endlessly  charming,  and  their  relationship  brought  more  publicity  to  her  name  (  both  good  and  bad  ),  which  in  turn  made  her  a  hot  commodity,  allowing  her  to  graduate  from  breakfast  television  to  the  morning  show.  what  had  started  as  something  casual  grew  into  something  more  serious  ─  she  brought  him  home  to  meet  her  sisters,  an  enormous  step  for  her,  and  alize  was  almost  certain  they  would  spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  together,  with  or  without  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  couple  of  rings  to  make  it  official,  but  life,  it  seemed,  had  other  plans. she  had  been  on  air  when  news  of  his  appearance  with  another  woman  in  some  distant  european  capital  was  broadcasted  ─  her  co - anchor,  at  least,  had  the  decency  not  to  shoot  her  a  pitying  look  after  the  cameras  were  called,  but  alize  had  never  been  as  embarrassed  as  she  had  been  then.  pride,  and  no  small  amount  of  hurt,  made  her  deaf  to  his  explanations  and  after  nearly  six  years  together,  she  broke  things  off  and  returned  home,  unknowingly  with  a  child  in  her  belly.  shams  ozdemir  was  born  eight  months  after  she  came  back  to  cloyne  and  two  months  after  she  co - signed  an  agreement  that  gave  her  half  of  a  broken  record  (  a  favorite  haunt  from  her  teenhood  ),  looking  the  very  image  of  his  father,  and  alize  has  never  been  more  grateful  for  her  reticence  to  speak  of  her  hometown  and  her  sisters,  for  she  knows  no  one  from  her  past  life  will  find  them  here. returning  to  cloyne  was  meant  to  be  peaceful  ─  her  second  chance  at  a  decent  life  with  her  sisters  around  her  ─  but  with  a  lunatic  taking  inspiration  from  the  movies,  alize  is  beginning  to  wonder  if  she  was  right  in  making  such  a  hasty  decision.

[iohourtime]

Ryosuke Yamada: SIDE B - Change

anan 2347

(There is some paraphrasing of the original article. Please let me know if there are any errors.)

Note: This is part 2 of a 2 part interview. You can read “Side A - Expression” here.

Yamada Ryosuke has been involved in various forms of expression, but there is one thing that he has cherished above all. That's the job of an actor. When he participated in his first drama “Tantei Gakuen Q” at the age of 13, he discovered the enjoyment and had been passionate [about acting] since then.

“I simply like this genre of work and this feeling of love has never changed since my first drama. With respect to acting, I have to become someone I haven’t seen or know before, and to do that, I have to think hard about who this person is and why he feels this way. However, the time [thinking about these things] is fun. The feeling is like when I just made a new friend and it is really nice to spend time with that person. I’d wonder about the kind of person he is, and the more I find out, the more interested I am. I think [the process of discovering a new character] is close to that. If this character is a historical figure, I can do research into the history and background of the person; if this character is fictional, I can make it up using my imagination.”

What comes to mind is a character in the movie "Moeyo Ken" released two years ago - Okita Souji, a genius swordsman of the Shinsengumi who is said to have died at the young age of 27. While there is a strong impression of him as someone with a tragic fate, but as played by Yamada san, who smiled innocently as he committed brutal murder without hesitation, his innocence was more intense than his fragility and was realistically portrayed.

“That movie was special. I think a big factor was that I was staying in Kyoto during the filming, so I was able to immerse myself in the real thing the whole time. When I went back to Tokyo, I was only doing group activities or recording variety shows, so there was little time to return to reality, and I felt that my sensibilities were gradually sharpened. I got so caught up in the role that it became normal for me not to drink or eat anything during that time, and I got sick... It was something I have never experienced on set before.”

The reason why he was so absorbed in his acting work was because he had tasted moments that shook him just by thinking about them.

“Just like with today’s shoot and when I was on set, there were moments when the actors, the camera operators, the lighting team, the audio team… and everyone involved were completely engaged as they worked together. It was the best feeling when I encountered these [moments] and I feel like I'm desperately trying to relive these moments again."

Because he valued his acting career, I wanted to ask him about his position as an idol. Perhaps because of this title, there are times when his acting is viewed with prejudice.

“I think it's more because I'm a Johnny's rather than being an idol, but I accept that as my destiny. There are hindrances with being a Johnny's, but on the other hand, there are things I can do because I'm a Johnny's and I think that's a huge benefit. If I don't want others to complain about me, I can only silence the discourse with my abilities. In fact, some of my senpais have done exactly that. On the contrary, it is only due to my own lack of ability that I can not do it. The idea is rather simple."

In the midst of such a conversation, he casually said, "Being an idol may be your vocation."

“Since I don’t know much about the world outside of [the entertainment industry], I won't be able to use [my skills] out there (laughs). However, since I've been an idol for a long time, I'm good at presenting what is needed [of me] in an instant. Although I also have a clear idea of what to do. However, what is asked of me is not always the same, so it is important to keep track of [the requests] and that is quite difficult. If I don't study how to present myself properly, I might not be able to do it. I've been conscious of that since I was small, so I'm good at it."

For example, during a live performance, your image is projected on the large screen at the venue.

“Basically, there are about 15 to 20 cameras installed at a live venue and the “switcher” decides when to cut one camera feed and switch to another. The other day, the switcher praised me, saying, "It's amazing that no matter what situation, no matter where the camera is faced, Yamada kun can find and look at it 100% of the time." I haven't been very conscious of this up till then, but if he said so, it must be true. Nowadays, cameras have a light that turns on when it is live, so the moment it lights up, I can find it in about a second no matter how large the venue. I want everyone at the venue to enjoy the show equally, whether they are sitting in the front row in the arena section or at the stands at the back of the dome. When [the camera] happens [to face me], I can interact through it so it can be seen by a lot of people, and I think that will be fair to everyone who has come [to the concert]. So when I think about that (including the technique), I feel that [being an idol] is my vocation."

However, he has been active since his early teens and there were times when he resisted being an idol.

“But it's work. It's amazing to know that there are people who are happy because of our hard work, right? I've thought about quitting several times in the past, but I still haven't quit, so I guess that's what I want to do after all."

He is the type who obsessively pursues things that he likes from the start. Gaming is something that exemplifies this. Among the games he’s enthusiastic about is "Apex Legends" and he reached the highest rank of Predator in February this year. Only the top 750 players in the world can attain the Predator rank. [T/N: Ignoring the 14+ hours of live streaming when he got the predator rank, he also just streamed for 9+ hours in the morning I wrote this part. Obsessive sounds apt.😅]

"Simply speaking, I find gaming fun. Especially when I’m playing with the pros, my motivation shoots up and I feel like I need to get better and I want to get better. After all, I want to do well. I want to be good at acting, I want to be good at dancing, and I want to be good at singing. Once I'm hooked, I want to taste and see the same thing all the time, so I keep doing the same things and that's not a problem. In my mind, rather than hard work, I feel like this is what happens when I pursue what I want to do.”

He started a gaming channel on YouTube called “Leo’s Playground” (Leoの游び場) two years ago, which is now a popular channel with about 860,000 subscribers. [T/N: I just checked and it’s now at 924,000 subscribers.]

“Regarding this, I am just really enjoying myself. I’m not conscious of being watched, it’s like I’m revealing my private life (laughs); it is really just a hobby. There are people who enjoy watching it, new fans are also increasing, and that’s a plus for both myself and the group, so I'm really grateful for this era. For me, I’m glad I can show my kouhai’s that there are other paths like this."

Yamada san said that since last year, there has been a big change in his approach to work. He used to think more about the group than anyone else and take the lead, but he said he's become more focused on himself.

“There was a time last year when I felt a little out of sorts. I cannot say more about that but after going through that, I thought I should take better care of myself.”

And at this time, he is turning 30.

“You may look at me like this (laughs), but isn't 30 years old a proper adult? It's the age when I have to look at myself and think about how to live. Up to now, I have been thinking about how to give back to the group through my solo activities. As a result, I have chosen not to do some jobs or things. But from this point on, I don't think I’ll make it too complicated and simply go “I’ll do it because I want to do it” or “I won’t do it because I don’t want to do it”. I think I should prioritize myself more. Of course I'll continue to do activities for the group and the fans, but it has always been a 70/30 split, where 30 were things I did for myself, so I'll try to reverse the ratio. I don't know if this choice will turn out to be good or bad, but I'm going to give it a try anyway." [T/N: About damn time.]

[what-even-is-thiss]

super rough draft of thing

Thetis was allowed to set the conditions. She was as strong as the tides and as slippery as her father, so the solution to deter as many mortal men as possible seemed obvious. 

“He’ll have to pin me in a wrestling match.” she said.

“One of them will find a way.” Proteus warned her. 

“Don’t be stupid, old man.” she said. “I’m stronger than you.”

“You also know less about mortals than I do.” he said. “When they’re determined, they’re determined.”

He spoke in the cryptic way that those with forms of sight always spoke. With her father it was knowledge of the past and present, remembered like it was his own memory, but memory can fail from time to time, so he spoke as carefully as an oracle. She’d learned by now to not demand information out of him. He didn’t know her inner determination. Her hatred of weakness. Her anger born from the depths of the ocean with the skeletal remains and living forms of the deadliest fish. No mortal could be strong enough for her.

Men came anyways. Some were sent by the olympians or recommended to her by her sisters. Some heard the rumors from the men who failed. Once or twice a woman attempted it. They found just as much bad luck, burns, sheer cold, and near-drownings as the men did. One or two men died in the attempt. Most just gave up. There were mortal women almost as beautiful as her, much easier to wrestle to the ground.

Nymphs and minor gods were notified throughout Greece. Find a mortal man who is good enough for Thetis. A strong man, a powerful man, a pious man, a man that can quench the anger of the ocean. A man worthy of fathering a great hero.

…..

The huntress Atalanta was making new arrows, sitting in her hunting clothes behind her husband's house, linen sheets wrapped tightly around herself as she smoothed out the shafts in preparation of attaching them to the arrowheads.

The sun shone down on her from his chariot, warming her skin lazily in the summer heat. She wondered if her husband would join her on the hunt tomorrow.

“Hey”

She jumped and instinctively pointed the stick she was sharpening in the direction of the voice.

A woman. Hair tied up in green knots, general glow about her. Definitely a nymph.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” the nymph warned.

“What did I do now?” Atalanta asked. “Can’t you people leave well enough alone?”

“I know what you mean.” the nymph said, “But I have a message from Zeus.”

Atalanta instinctively wanted to cover her body at that name. Most women involved with the gods did.

“Not like that. He’s looking for a mortal husband for Thetis. You’ve met her?”

“Maybe once.”

“She’ll only marry a man who can wrestle her to the ground. Hopefully one that she’ll get along with.  Do you know a man like that, by any chance?”

“A man worthy of a goddess? I wouldn’t say there’s a lot of those.”

“Well if you don’t know…”

“No, wait. There might be one.”

…..

Peleus was happy to see her again. He ordered his cooks to make as big of a feast as they could manage with the current supplies. He asked Atalanta if she wanted to hunt the meat for tonight herself or if she would be happy with the sacrificed cow later.

She hadn’t seen him since they had abandoned the Argo. He hadn’t met Hippomenes yet. The two of them got along immediately. They were both favored by the gods, begrudgingly. They had both been bested by Atalanta and had their worldviews shifted because of it. They let her in on the conversation, treating her the same as a man.

So Peleus hadn’t forgotten then. Bare minimum test passed. She allowed herself to dance with her husband and laugh with her friend. So you got yourself a kingship after all? So you finally caved in and fell for a man? Well yeah long story. You should’ve seen her face when I dropped those apples. I almost killed him but he got out of my way.

Eventually she had to break the comfortable fog of old friends catching up. She waited until after the sacrifice and the burning of fat and bones, the roasting of the meat. Atalanta witnessed a gentle mist lift up from the fire. The gods were listening.

In the sleepy wine-filled depths of the night, she knelt before her old crewmate’s chair, hands on his knees.

“Peleus, I need to be honest about why I came. I’ve been sent here by the gods, possibly with a blessing, if you can earn it.”

Hippomenes sat silently at the window, staring out at the ocean. Peleus sighed. They all knew the curse of being blessed. He gently touched his old friend’s hand.

“Tell me.”

“Have you gotten any better at wrestling?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, the goddess Thetis is to be betrothed to a mortal man. The nymphs asked me who could be worthy of such a thing.”

“Me?” he asked.

“Maybe.” she answered. “First you need to catch her.”

…..

Atalanta had beaten Peleus in a wrestling match a long, long time ago when both of them had joined the hero Jason on his quest for the golden fleece. Now they were both more mature, a bit slower and more careful in their judgment, and Peleus knew now that he hadn’t been weak when he lost to her. Nobody could realistically beat a woman raised by bears. By many estimations the strongest mortal woman alive. But was she harder to beat than a goddess?

“She’ll be relying on the same strategy as Proteus.” Atalanta had warned him. “She’s strong, but she’ll be shapeshifting. Determination is more important than brute strength when hunting a god. They don’t know any technique. Their hubris is even bigger than ours.”

She showed him how to sneak so quietly that even a goddess couldn’t hear him. 

“Just don’t let go.” he told himself silently. “Don’t let go.”

He saw through the mortal mist into the rocks. She was disguised as a normal woman, hair all curly and black, white and yellow chiton blown about her body by the sea wind. And she was simultaneously unremarkable, terrible, and beautiful beyond measure. Knowing who she was, he could feel her cold deep anger from here, or maybe that was just the bone-deep terror choking him from the inside out.

Atalanta and Hippomenes watched from the palace walls, but only her eyes were sharp enough to pick out the details of what was happening. Hippomenes gently held his wife from behind, more for his own comfort than anything else.

“How do you know it’s her?” he asked.

Atalanta placed one hand over his hand, over her own stomach. 

“The nymphs say so.”

Thetis had been told to wait on different shores, at least sometimes. For a bit. In a pseudo-mortal form, the universe above the sky seemed even more infinite than it normally did. She wondered how long the olympians would keep up this charade. She wondered if it was too late to become a virgin goddess. No. She had never wanted that. Despite herself, despite her anger, despite feeling the safest among her sisters, despite her interest in governing, she had always seen her future self as a mother by a man. But why a mortal man?

Her question was soon to be answered as arms found her arms and began to pull her down.

Somehow her senses had failed her. She hadn’t heard him coming. Not even a smell. Panicked, she turned into an eagle and tried to fly away, but he still held her close, her wings unable to fly. Then she became a beetle but he kept her in his palm, then a shark, sharp scales cutting up his face, then a fire, burning his hands calloused from holding a spear, then a cat, a giantess, a pile of salt, a chariot, a mermaid, a rock, a sword, a poisonous snake, an eel, a gorgon, a goat.

And on and on she changed for hours, trying to stab him, freeze him, burn him, eventually reverting to her true form, giant, cold, force of nature. The unseen mortal man averted his eyes the moment he felt the brain-rearranging form of a goddess assault his eyes, but still he held on.

Eventually in her struggling she caught sight of his bloodied face, curiously red, curiously charming, and she returned to her pseudo-mortal form, layed in his embrace, and placed one hand on his beard while another wiped the curiously red ooze away from his eyes.

She coated her hand in the red substance and showed it to him.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Blood, my lady.” Peleus answered.

“Call me Thetis.”