#nine measures instead of eight

[mythrae]

There has to be a reason why Borislav Slavov made Down By the River, The Power, AND The Nightsong all very similar. And I am going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do!!!

[mediumgayitalian]

“Eight o’clock.”

Will’s jaw drops. “What?” He leans sideways to make deliberate and intensive eye contact with Switzerland, who deliberately and intensively avoids it, pretending to be folding laundry. “No way! Cass, tell him no way!”

“Not my business,” says Switzerland, smiling, for some reason, at Will’s oppression. “Your curfew is Lee’s to handle, you know that.”

“Yeah, when I was ten! I’m sixteen! My curfew is not eight o’ fu —” he thinks better of himself, mindful of Lee’s twitching eye — “fudging clock!”

“Eight is a perfectly reasonable curfew for a sixteen year old. Especially if you’re going out with that —” Lee scoffs — “boy.”

“It’s just Nico!” Will cries, nearly braining a poor visitor with the force of his flailing arms. The visitor, after a moment of careful deliberation and several vague, pointed screeching noises from Will, chooses to pull the blood-soaked t-shirt acting as a bandage tighter over their arm and seek help elsewhere. Wise. When he fails, after several extended minutes of flailing, to extrapolate upon his undoubtedly most excellent argument, he repeats, “It’s just Nico!” And then adds, for good measure, “You like Nico!”

“He is a bad influence,” Lee insists, as if he did not cry for five days when Nico asked for his blessing to date Will. “He has too much freedom, you know, his father lets him run amuck like some harlot —”

Will screeches again, so high this time it is soundless, and must be restrained by Gabriel’s firm grip on his collar from mauling Lee like a bear. Lee, in an uncharacteristically smart move — Carter must be rubbing off on him — takes a delicate step back to avoid Will’s clawing fingers.

“—and has no respect for his elders. You’re going to end up bereft or in jail should you keep seeing him, Will, mark my words.”

Will bares his teeth. “If this is about the eyebrow piercing, you sack of shit, I swear to the gods —”

“He looks like a criminal!” Lee looks around the cabin as if anyone is going to agree with him. He is met, instead, with seven raised eyebrows and nine heavy, deep-seated sighs, but remains stubbornly undeterred. Delusional enough to miscredit the incredulity to Will rather than himself, likely. Truly Apollo’s pride.

“I am going to hunt you to death.”

“So long as you’re back by eight.”

Will deigns, instead of a verbal response, to scream, loud and long, and stomp his way away from the cabin and across the common.

“I’ll take that as compliance!” Lee calls out after him. The scream, somehow, increases in volume, not breaking even as seven people trip to remove themselves hastily from Will’s path. “If you are not back there will be consequences!”

“I hate you!”

“Be safe! I will be waiting up!

“I hope you pass away in your sleep!” A pause. “I don’t mean that, but fuck you!”

“Children,” Lee scoffs to himself, retreating back into the cabin. “No respect anymore.”

“You’re a loser,” Diana informs him.

“It’s those godsdamned iPods, is what it is.”

“Oh my gods.”

———

next

[esamastation]

Part sixty of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-fix, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine

-

The demon is up to something.

The demon has been up to something ever since he'd crawled out of the Endless Abyss, and especially so since Shen Qingqiu died. The moves Luo Binghe has made have been blatant to the point of being insulting, cutting down obstacles and rivals left and right. He'd conquered the Northern Desert and he rules Huan Hua Palace, the wealthiest sect around, in everything but the name. And why?

Revenge, greed, demonic desire for dominance?

Liu Qingge doesn't care why. He doesn't really even care how. What is it to him if the Northern Demon Realm falls to a half-demon upstart, what do Huan Hua Palace's power struggles have to do with him? Nothing! They can mingle as much they like, they can tear eachother apart for all he cares.

And yet here he is, day after day, to challenge Luo Binghe to a duel. Because in his rotten halls, there is one thing Liu Qingge cares about.

Somewhere in Huan Hua Palace, there's the body of Shen Qingqiu.

Liu Qingge knows it, because the rumours about it are vile. They go at length about how Luo Binghe spends himself to preserve his dead master. How he slept in the same chambers as his dead master. How he didn't so much as let anyone touch his dead master, not even to wash him or clean the chambers.

And Luo Binghe never denied it.

Liu Qingge hadn't ever seen Shen Qingqiu's body, not since the awful day Luo Binghe had whisked him away - but he'd seen Luo Binghe. He'd seen him bereft, grieving, furious, raging, and always, always in denial. 

"I will bring him back. If you'd just leave me in peace to work, I will bring him back!"

Insanity. No matter how Liu Qingge wishes it could be otherwise… it's pure insanity. Shen Qingqiu is dead, he's long dead. Far too much time has passed. He must've reincarnated by now. Even if Luo Binghe could drag him back now, it would be cruel to force him into the shape of his previous life. As much as they might wish it… it isn't up to them.

Luo Binghe it's deluding himself. When he should've expressed his gratitude for his master's sacrifice, he instead besmirched his honour. It's shameful, and Shen Qingqiu would've been grieved beyond measure, had he known.

So Liu Qingge has made it his mission to get Shen Qingqiu's body back for a proper burial, and to hopefully knock some sense into Shen Qingqiu most favourite, most troublesome, disciple while he's at it. He would've done it already, if only the brat hadn't grown so damned strong in the Abyss.

And now… now Luo Binghe is up to something.

"Where is your master?" Liu Qingge barks at the nearest Huan Hua Palace disciple, upon arriving at the palace's gaudy, gilded gates once more.

"Apologising to Peak Lord Liu, the master is… busy," the disciple says with a mixture of resignation and nervousness.

Too busy to defend his claim on Shen Qingqiu? "We'll see about that," Liu Qingge mutters and draws his sword. 

With the Huan Hua Palace's warning bells ringing all around, the War God of Bai Zhan Peak rushes the gates and pierces his way through.

He's halfway in and on his way to the wealthier living quarters when Luo Binghe finally deigns to show himself.

"Liu-shishu," the Half demon growls. "This lord doesn't have the time for you now."

"If you don't have time for me, you don't have time for Shen Qingqiu," Liu Qingge answers and waves his sword, aiming it at Shen Qingqiu's student. "Release his body to us!"

Luo Binghe looks frustrated and harried - much like he has in the previous days as well. The demon has been busy, Liu Qingge knows - everyone knows. There's a strange movement in the Northern Desert, and everyone in Huan Hua Palace is on the edge. Something is clearly wrong, and Luo Binghe is distracted.

It's all the opening Liu Qingge needs to attack him.

But ultimately Luo Binghe's state of mind doesn't make a difference.

"I'm so close now! So close to finding him!" Luo Binghe snarls, pinning him down. "I'm not going to let anyone stop me, least of all you! You, of all people, should understand!"

"What's there to understand!" Liu Qingge answers with angry frustration. "Shen Qingqiu is dead! He should have reincarnated by now -"

"Shizun hasn't been reincarnated! He's transmigrated! He's stuck in another body but he's still out there, he's still himself!"

It sounds like nonsense. Annoyingly so, it also sounds like the type of nonsense that has the irritating way of being true. "What are you talking about?!"

Luo Binghe leans closer. "I know all about it. Shizun wasn't the original Shen Qingqiu - he took over his body when Shen Qingqiu died. With that body's death he moved on again, to another body, in another world. And he doesn't even know that his last body is right here, that he can come back at any moment! If only I can find him -!

"Shen Qingqiu isn't -?" Liu Qingge blinks at the crazed look on the half-demon's face. "You're crazy. You're lying!"

"I'm not! You remember it, everyone noticed it! Shizun changed - he became good!" Luo Binghe's hands clutch to Liu Qingge, convulsive, demanding understanding. "He became kind. We disciples of Qing Jing Peak thought he had a Qi-deviation - and I know the other Peak Lords tested him for possession."

They head, again and again. Yue Qingyuan had been obsessive about it, using every means to make sure Shen Qingqiu was who he was. They'd all failed. "How do you know he was possessed?"

"It doesn't matter how, what matters is finding where he went next!"

Liu Qingge struggles to free himself and fails. "Why?! You claim your Shizun is a spirit, a wraith possession another - why do you want him back?!" He means to sound forbidding, but his voice comes out barely incredulous. He knows why. The whole damned world knows why.

And there's still a traitorous part of him, going, what if…

"Because he's my Shizun," Luo Binghe says softly, and then suddenly drags Liu Qingge up by the collar of his robes. "Come here, Shishu - you can finally be of use to Shizun and help me."

Liu Qingge struggles, but is dragged away regardless - through the corridor and into a room he suspects might be part of Luo Binghe's personal rooms. They're grandiose and finely furnished, and there's a decorated doorway with curtains the he suspects might lead to a bedchamber -

But before he can try and take a look, Luo Binghe has pushed him forward, and in front of a great black mirror that dominates the room.

"The Looking Glass," Luo Binghe says with that crazed intensity he only gets about Shen Qingqiu. He's gripping Liu Qingge's shoulders from behind, his fingers like steel, his nails like knives. "It shows you what you most want to see, as long as you know what it is. I don't know what Shizun looks like now, I don't know where he is, so I only get vague images. But maybe with you here -"

"I'm not going to do anything for you!" Liu Qingge snarls.

Luo Binghe's nails dig into his shoulders. "Don't you want to see Shizun?" he breathes and leans in, his red eyes on the mirror. "Don't you want to see Shen Qingqiu - see your shixiong? To hear him call you Liu-shidi, one more time?"

As much as Liu Qingge tries to fight it, tries to not think… that does it. His mind immediately conjures up a mental image and a voice to go with it, of Shen Qingqiu smiling that teasing smile at him while playfully cajoling favours from him. No one, not even his sister, put so much fondness into addressing him.

"Shidii~"

As Liu Qingge stares at the mirror in trepidation, as Luo Binghe glares at it like he's trying to force the mirror into compliance… the black surface begins to change.

First they see green. Then some whites and blues. Then the picture is painted as though stroke by stroke to reveal a view of a forest canopy against the sky - and a man, tall and broad-shouldered with hair like spun silver, flying over tree branches with the grace of a Cultivator… but not with a sword. Instead the man is jumping on the thinnest of tree branches, seemingly light as a feather, barely even disturbing the leaves with his weight.

And in his arms is another man, slender with smooth dark hair and a mark on his upper dantian, clutching into the bigger man with barely restrained alarm as he's carried through the air. It's it him? The indignation looks familiar. The black-haired man is saying - shouting - something at the silver-haired man. Who looks down…

And smiles.

Liu Qingge gapes. He knows that smile.

"Shizun," Luo Binghe sighs, his eyes shining. "I found you, Shizun. I finally found you."

[fox-bright]

Rage Cheesecake with Oreo Crust, Whipped Chocolate Ganache Frosting, and Home-Grown Tart Cherry Topping

I took recipe-bits from all over and changed them into something that sounded more like what I wanted, so here's what I did today instead of committing a felony!

RECIPE BEHIND CUT

Oreo crust part:

* 25 Oreos

* 5 tablespoons of melted butter

* Pan--pie pan or springform, depending on how deep a cheesecake you want. This makes a nice, not-too-deep cheesecake in a nine-inch springform; it would be Too Much Filling in a pie pan, which would mean you have extra, and that's always fun too. An eight-inch springform is probably perfect.

1. Preheat oven to 350.

2. You may eat TWO OREOS. Crush the remainder. I have the best time with this when I use a food processor, but if you are *particularly* spirited today, this is a good place to take out some aggression. Just pulverize the things, filling and all, until they are all reduced to the consistency of sand.

3. Add melted butter and mix until it's like *wet* sand.

4. Put buttery chocolate sand into your chosen cooking dish. I use a little jar and push push push pat pat pat until it's all nice and level from the center of the dish to the edge and has no holes.

5. Bake for eight to twelve minutes. You want it to still look a little moist. Do not overcook!

6. Remove from oven and let cool. Don't move the pan around too much before it's cool or you risk fracturing the crust.

Cheesecake part:

* Two packages of cream cheese, room temperature unless you like cream cheese chunks in your cheesecake. No judgment, some people are into that.

* 2/3C white sugar

* 3 eggs

* 3 cups of sour cream (this is a very moist cheesecake!)

* Vanilla to taste

1. Preheat oven to 325F, that's 25 degrees LOWER than for the crust.

2. Cream sugar and cream cheese until smooth.

3. Add eggs, one at a time, mix until just blended.

4. Add all sour cream and vanilla, mix until just homogenous. Don't overmix or you get weird dry pillowy stuff instead of nice dense cheesecake.

5. Cook in prepared crust for approximately 50 minutes, until it's set at the edges but a little jiggly yet in the middle.

Note: Properly you'd do this in a bain marie, but I don't have one, so I wrap the bottom of my springform pan in aluminum foil and set the whole kit and kaboodle into a sturdy cookie sheet, put all that into the preheated oven, and pour water into the cookie sheet once it's safely on the oven rack. If the cheesecake starts to overcook on the top before the center is set, cover it with aluminum foil.

6. Remove from oven; let rest in bain marie/rigged pan for ten minutes before removing springform pan to clean towel. Let rest *there* until it's cool enough to put in the fridge. Cover and chill for two to four hours.

Cherry topping part:

* Sour cherries that have been frozen since last year, or a bag of cherries, or fresh cherries, whichever, approximately 4.5 cups which is too many for just this cheesecake but it's nice to have around anyway

* Granulated sugar to taste

* Corn starch

Or just pick up a can or two of cherry pie filling, in which case you can skip this whole step.

1. Defrost cherries. If you don't do this in a pot, there's a good chance that they will leak precious juice all over your clean counter. Don't be me; thaw that stuff in the pot you'll heat it in.

2. Once they're not a singular ice block but instead a bunch of big ice chunks, turn the temperature on low, maybe around a 2.

3. Once the cherries are separate from each other, add sugar to taste. This changes a lot depending on your cherries' tartness; I eventually used nearly two cups of sugar for around 4.5 cups of cherries. Usually I'd use a good bit less, but they're very tart this time.

4. Cook and cook and cook until the liquid is reduced by about a third.

5. Add corn starch. For those measurements I added about a tablespoon and a half. Remember to make it a slurry before pouring it into the pot; you can either do this with a little water, or you can spoon out some of the cherry syrup (don't burn yourself!), mix that into a little bowl along with the corn starch, and then pour it all into the pot. Bring back to a good bubble for four or five minutes, then remove from heat and allow to come to room temperature.

Whipped chocolate ganache part:

* 1 part heavy cream to 1 part chocolate (I just use Toll House. Everyone says not to do that. It's been fine).

1. Put the chocolate in a heatproof bowl.

2. Warm the cream on the stove until it's juuuust about to start bubbling. Stir frequently so it doesn't get a skin.

3. Remove from heat, pour into heatproof bowl over the chocolate.

4. WALK AWAY. I'm serious. Don't touch it. Don't poke at it. Do not, do NOT, attempt to stir it. Walk away.

5. After five minutes, come back and stir, stir, until it's all one thing. It should be like a very good, very thick chocolate syrup. You *can* just eat this, with a spoon. You can pour it over a cake, or dip strawberries in it. Chilled right as it is, it is a dessert on its own.

6. Let it cool to room temperature.

7. Come back and use your hand mixer or stand mixer to whip it up. This should get to a pipeable consistency; if it doesn't, you may need to incorporate powdered sugar. If you add butter and powdered sugar, you'll get a very stable buttercream.

Finishing part:

1. Remove springform edge from nice cold cheesecake.

2. Pipe or dollop whipped ganache in ring atop the cheesecake.

3. Fill the ring with cooled cherry filling.

4. Garnish further if you'd like. I used decorative Sixlets and some more crushed Oreo.

5. Finished!

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

Eliot hit the ground forearm-first, rolling along the left side of his body to spare himself as much pain as possible. Lancaster’s shot went high—he heard it thud into the wall, well past the desk he’d landed beneath—but his attention was on the sound of Parker’s footsteps as she broke from cover. One, two, three... The door crashed open, and Lancaster’s answering shot came four seconds too late.

Parker was safe. The rest, he’d figure out.

The radio buzzed against the floor in the middle of the lobby, and he heard a muffled, “Ford, I have Parker. Come around to the front. Lancaster’s still inside with Spencer.”

Thank God for J.B. He really didn’t know how he was going to repay him.

“Hear that?” Eliot called. “Now it’s just you and me. We can still walk out of here before the police show up.”

“No one’s walking out,” Lancaster said. “But you’re right about one thing: we don’t have time to play. Stand up. I won’t shoot, I just want to talk to you face to face.”

Eliot snorted. “Somehow, I’m doubting your sincerity.”

“I give you my word.”

That was as good as useless, but if Eliot wanted to keep him talking long enough to chance an escape, he had to play along. “All right,” he said, sucking in a fortifying breath before straightening behind the desk. His right leg throbbed, and he could feel the blood soaking into his jeans—another pair of Sunny’s ruined. He’d never pay her back at this rate.

Lancaster stood across the room, his derringer aimed at Eliot’s chest. “See you worked your hands free,” Eliot said, rolling his shoulders. “What took you so long? We shouldn’t have been able to beat you down the stairs.”

Lancaster grinned. “I had to stop at my safe. Didn’t want this to get caught up in the explosion.”

He lifted a gun belt, and Eliot snorted. “Don’t you think you’re taking this cowboy thing a little too far?”

“This isn’t a cowboy thing,” Lancaster sneered. “This is a Colt Model 1860 Army Percussion Revolver, owned by Jesse James himself when he rode with the Quantrill Raiders. I bought it for $230,000, but I figured once I found the James treasure, it would sell for twice that.”

A flicker of color outside caught Eliot’s eye: police lights. Their sirens joined the wail of the alarm, and Eliot did his best to push the noise to the back of his mind. “Hard to dig up a treasure on someone else’s property,” he said.

“Well, with you out of the way, that won’t be much of a problem.”

Eliot eased a step backward, shuffling to keep from putting too much pressure on his right leg. “You don’t know Sunny June very well.”

“I don’t need to,” Lancaster said. “That’s the beauty of money. You never have to get your hands dirty.”

“Until now,” Eliot said.

“Until now.” Lancaster lifted the gun, sighting down his arm and closing one eye. “A fact I’m about to remedy.”

Eliot braced himself to turn and run, but Lancaster didn’t shoot. Instead, he bent his knees, set the gun at his feet, and slid it across the floor toward Eliot.

“Pick it up,” he said.

Eliot stared at him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Shooting at the range is one thing,” Lancaster said, sliding the gun belt off his shoulder and fastening it around his waist. “But I’ve always wanted to know how I’d measure up in a real gun fight.”

“Your gun is 150 years old,” Eliot said. “And mine has a range of like seven yards. Not exactly worthy of the O.K. Corral.”

“You scared?” Lancaster needled.

Eliot laughed. “That don’t work on professionals, hoss. I got nothing to prove to you.”

“Then put it this way.” Lancaster spun the cylinder on his revolver, sliding bullets in as he spoke. “I’m shooting either way. You can pick up that gun and defend yourself, or stand there and take a bullet. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Fire sirens joined the cacophony of alarms, but no one was coming inside. Waiting for the bomb squad, probably—he had to keep stalling. Slowly, he lowered himself into a crouch and reached for the derringer, his eyes on Lancaster’s right hand. He’d holstered the gun and stood with his feet planted wide, grinning.

“How do you see this going down?” Eliot asked. 

Lancaster flexed his hands. “You pick up the gun. It’s already loaded, but you’ll need to cock the hammer. Stand with it at your side, and then we draw. Fastest man wins.”

“Speed’s got nothing to do with it if you can’t land a hit,” Eliot said.

“Then I guess we’re about to test your aim.”

Great—Eliot had no idea if he could shoot. Probably, given his other skills, but it would be just his luck that guns weren’t one of the weapons he was apparently proficient with. But even if he could shoot, even if he could manage to hit Lancaster at the edge of the derringer’s range, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Whatever he’d done in the past, whoever he’d been before… he didn’t want to be a killer. Parker had trusted him to follow her out, and if killed Lancaster now…

He wasn’t sure how much of himself would stay behind.

“On three?” Eliot asked. He’d picked up the gun, frowning at the feel of the short handle in his palm, but was careful to keep it pointed away from Lancaster. 

“So you can shoot on two?” Lancaster said. “You’re not getting inside my head, Spencer. Just draw.”

“It’s not really drawing if I don’t have a holster,” Eliot muttered. He lifted the gun carefully, keeping it at his hip as he rose on his good leg.

“There’s no talking your way out of this one,” Lancaster said, sneering. “Either way, you’re not getting out of this alive.”

Eliot went still. “Either way?”

Lancaster’s fingers twitched, and his gaze darted toward a clock on the wall over Eliot’s head. “You think you’re the only one who can stall?”

Alarms and sirens screamed. Eliot’s heart pounded, sending stabs of adrenaline through him—but no fear. Time was up, and he was getting out. 

He’d made a promise.

“You assumed I had to call to set off the bombs,” Lancaster said, misinterpreting his silence. “That ain’t the only way to do it. I would’ve taken a long lunch, only to come back and find the evil Mr. Ford had made good on his threats again—but this will work. You’ve got about ten seconds to decide whether you want to go out with a bang or a bullet.”

Eliot fired. He aimed high, hoping to take Lancaster by surprise, make him flinch—hoping to steal an extra second while he turned for the door. Lancaster’s gun clicked behind him—a misfire—the idiot had probably tried using the ammunition in the gun belt. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if Lancaster was following. He fixed his eyes on the doors—on the golden hair he could see beyond them.

The explosion started above them. Without the charges in the basement, the building shook, but held—windows burst overhead, raining glass down on the sidewalk outside. The firefighters and police flinched at the sound, hurrying to usher spectators out of the way. Eliot’s leg gave out and he stumbled, caught himself on one hand, and ran on. He was ten feet away—seven, five, two.

The next charges blew as his hand hit the door, and the force of the blast threw it open, glass shattering around him. He lost his feet, crashing into the sidewalk as heat exploded against his back, and then something hit his head—

[crystaltoa]

Had to say goodbye to my dog Bruce yesterday.

I'm a wreck.

But reaching the age of nine and succumbing to natural causes (degradation of his spinal tissue) was nothing short of miraculous given that over the course of his life, he had

Eaten rat poison

Had a heated argument with a scorpion

Fought at least two venomous snakes and won

Had to be prevented from fighting a feral cow

Escaped the yard of a friend who was dogsitting him, skipped town and was found two months later living in an off-grid shack with a hardcore survivalist guy who hunts camels with a bow and arrow and is known to have eaten his own dog at least once.

Escaped from a yard with an eight foot barbed wire fence (not a scratch on him)

Developed a habit of licking cane toads to get high off the poison

One time just straight up swallowed a cane toad whole (puked it up and had Tummy Hurt for a day, no other apparent side effects)

TORE A LIGHT SWITCH PANEL OUT OF THE WALL (Electrician was simultaneously horrified and impressed, it left scorch marks on the wall but Bruce seemed unfazed and unscathed by the experience)

Now, don't get me wrong, he was a sweet boy and a generally laid back chill kinda guy. Everyone liked him. But he sure had his "hold my beer" moments.

Goodbye, old friend. Despite your best efforts, you lived long enough to have your first grey hairs. You've probably given me a few along the way too.

...Nine years still seems too short.

I will measure your life in stories instead.

[onthepyre]

Hi June! No.1 for the prompt meme if you feel inspired? 💖

hi calli!! thanks for dropping in <3 this is kind of loosely the "dirtiest white boy in america" period but honestly. fuck if i know. it's sad though

send me a number and ill write something angsty

1 - keeping things from the other to spare their feelings

Sometimes Dad had to bail, Mickey knew. When they were little kids, not smart enough to keep their traps shut, he and Mandy got dragged along, lying in the backseat, her head in his lap. Perks of being the youngest two, Mickey guesses. Seeing Indiana before they turned six. By the time Mom was gone, they were told to keep their heads down and wait it out while Dad fucked off to who-knows-where. It sucked, but it sucked less than having him home. It was tolerable.

When the pigs started sniffing around the Alibi, Dad got itchy. They were just around to "ask questions," but the proximity was enough. He had a bag packed in ten minutes, four loaded handguns tucked under dirty underwear and ratty cutoffs. It was damn near a rampage, but Mickey didn't have the sixth sense his siblings did that told them to get the fuck out of dodge. He didn't even realize the depth of shit he was in until Dad pitched a backpack at him and asked what the fuck he was standing around with his thumb up his ass for.

Arguing was useless. If he ran now, Mickey would be dead when Dad inevitably made it back to Chicago. So he took the backpack and stuffed it with a change of clothes and a handful of knives and cash, tucking his busted flip phone into a wad of underwear. In case he needed it, Mickey told himself. So he could contact Mandy if they were gonna be gone long. Not Ian.

That's what he told himself, at least, but when they were halfway to Dad's buddy's cabin in Minnesota and it slipped out that he was wanted for eight counts of trafficking, when Mickey's throat started to burn, he knew.

A nine hour drive meant sitting next to Dad all night. When they finally, finally made it, got out to stretch their legs deep in the woods, it set in. Mickey was very firmly stuck here, at least for the coming days, nobody to keep him company but Dad and the fucking raccoons.

Just about as soon as they set foot in the cabin, Dad was snoring. Mickey wasn't about to take his chances in the same room, only four feet of space between the twin beds. He crept to the bathroom, locked the door, propped a stepstool against it for good measure. He texted Mandy first, short and to the point: sos in mn.

Then there was the problem of Ian. He had, at best, one message to make sure he'd leave him alone. There was no telling how long it would take Mandy to figure out how the fuck to get him out of this three-room shithole, assuming he wasn't cursed to die in it. Mickey couldn't say nothing. Ian would get antsy, go looking for him. Say something he shouldn't. But he couldn't tell him what was actually happening, either, because he couldn't give Ian that false hope. Couldn't let him stay attached, pine, worry, wait for something that wasn't going to come.

He had to let him get over it like a normal heartbreak. Ian could cry for a week and then find some other South Side street rat to fuck instead, a thought that had Mickey gnawing on his bottom lip to distract from the pit in his stomach. Yeah. That was what he had to do.

cant c u anymore, he wrote. dont txt.

Mickey deleted both messages as soon as they went through. He allowed himself ten seconds to let it sink in. Knuckles pressed into his eyes, sitting on the toilet lit bent double, he sniffled once. Then, after a few shuddering breaths, he opened the door, and thank fuck, Dad was still snoring.

[contentment-of-cats]

Thrawn origin story headcanon

Thrawn is the youngest of three - Kivu'rai'neito, Kivu'rik'ardok, and Kivu'raw'nuru. Before Thawns was born, Vuraine became a merit adoptive to one of the Great Houses at nine and a blackdock engineer later in life. Vurika was taken by the CEDF to become a Sky-walker and had her memory wiped at five. Thrawn's parents tried desperately to hold onto him but they were a Common family. Thrawn's mother, who had already lost three children, became profoundly depressed and died postpartum after the stillbirth of a fourth child following Vurawn being taken by the Mitth. She was buried with honors. Thrawn's father did not remarry, nor did he father more children, and died in a berg rollover at the age of fifty-one.

It is illegal for a merit adoptive to contact their family of origin, but instead of the penalty falling on the adoptive, it falls on the family. Thrawn never tried to get in touch with his Kivu relatives or his parents to spare them the loss of employment, benefits, and even a possible prison term. Likewise a family contacting a merit adoptive would see their child severely punished for the family's attempt.

Thrawn's mother was the granddaughter of a former Sky-walker, born to a Lesser family and had been inducted into the program herself. There are Sky-walkers who wash out of the program, or who can't be retrained after a disaster in space. After one such disaster, Riv'kaein was adopted by a Great family at the age of eight. She married Kivu'sha'neza after obtaining a degree in pelagic aquaculture. She never spoke of her past, or her prosthetic legs, to any of her children.

Kivu'sha'neza was the Rentor equivalent of the Coast Guard, holding the rank of Warrant Officer, leading a squad of boarding troops. Rentor was home to deep-sea vents that spewed valuable gases (in liquid form because of the pressure). Pirates were ever-present and often from rival houses.

The Kivu, one of the most populous Common families, had a deep resentment to the casual gathering of their children, sometimes all of the children of a couple would be taken by higher-ranked families. Only Greater and Ruling houses can induct Merit Adoptives and though many are adopted in adulthood, the exceptional children of Common and Lesser families are taken as young as eight. Someone shows up at school, the child is called to the office, and never sees home or family again. Some of the Great and Ruling families openly refer to this as 'harvesting.' This trauma is one of the reasons for the punitive measures to stop contact between adoptives and families of origin.

Thrawn does not remember his oldest sister, but as long as he could remember, Vurika was his playmate and also his interpreter. She did all the talking for him. The team sent to take Vurika took her in full view of her brother while they played at the pre-school/day care. One of the sergeants still has a chunk of missing flesh from Vurawn's new meat teeth. Thrawn remembers it as clear as day.

Thrawn was offered a slot at CEDF boarding prep following standard testing at age nine. It was on Rentor, so he did get to see his parents. His mother was supposed to give birth about the same time the Mitth adopted him and he was sent to Taharim to finish his education.

His parents applied for emigration to one of the planets on the edge of the Ascendancy, thinking to make a run for it to Lesser Space. They were denied, despite being law-abiding subjects. When Thrawn became an adoptive the Mitth recognized that all three children were taken from this pair, and offered to allow them to emigrate or be adopted into a Great family after Vurivkae gave birth to her fourth child. They would not, however, promise not to take the child if it showed any talent.

There is no legal roadblock preventing a 'harvested' children from contacting each other as adults - if they can find each other. Often there is only the middle personal name to go on, as the beginning of the core name may change the way Vurika/Rik'ardok/Zirika/Borika did. Thrawn's eldest sister did look for her siblings when she was an adult, but did not find either him or Vurika.

Eli searched out Vuraine after he saw a young man who looked like Thrawn when the Steadfast visited the UAG base. Vuraine was now Stybla'rai'neito or Laraine, and her son was Stybla'raw'neza - called Arawne.

As always, these are my own headcanon and worldbuilding notes. YMMV. Please feel free to use them or not as you see fit.

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong With Dale - Part Seven and a Half*

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself. 

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

*Please note this is a bonus/missing scene

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] Part Seven.5 [Part Eight] [Part Nine][Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You hold still as the tailoress and her assistants draw their measuring tapes around you. 

After selecting your fabrics, the vendors needed to take down those displays to make way for various accessories and embellishments they also hope will be purchased. Some of the drapers sold those as well, but some independent milliners had also been invited to display their wares. 

While that change was happening, both you and Dale had been whisked off to let the clothing-makers take new measurements, in your case, or updated measurements, in Dale’s. Grandmother went with Dale, saying she needed to ensure they knew that Dale would be recovering from the dip in weight caused by illness and she’d not have them forget take that into account, leaving you to manage on your own.

Your maid helps you out of your current dress, a light green one, and into the undergarments which you expect to be wed in. The chemise is a gift from your sister, with beautiful maroon ribbon throughout it, finer than any other such garment you usually wear. Then came a pair of white stays and your newer underskirts—corded to give your skirt the right amount of fullness for the current fashion trend.

The tailoress is efficient as she takes your measurements, keeping up a steady stream of chatter to her apprentice and letting you know ahead of time how she wanted you to move or if she was going to reposition you herself. 

The curtains around this area make it easy to forget that on the other side of the room, Dale is also in some state of undress, but the thought is never far from your mind for whatever reason. You don't know why such a thought won’t leave your be–they certainly never bothered you before, either with regards to Dale or regarding other students at your school. 

Instead, you try to distract yourself with the fashion plates Grandmother passed to you before she went with Dale. For all you are sure Dale shall choose a very fine suit pattern, the truth is there is less variety to men’s suits these days. He is likely to choose some fine embellishments and you’re sure his waistcoat will have high quality and elaborate embroidery, but the actual cut of the suit is unlikely to be a difficult decision.

Even for your own dress, the primary decision with the fabric chosen is the neckline, sleeves, and waistline. Even your options are not hugely disparate. Despite the tailoress working around you, with your maid’s help, you are able to study each plate and rank your top choices for Dale and Grandmother’s approval with relative ease. Between the efficiency of the tailoring process and the quiet, you are able to recenter yourself from how overwhelmed you had abruptly felt earlier and rejoin the Northridges’ in a more settled mindset.

You spot Dale, who has already finished with his fitting, inspecting some boots. When you join him, you frown in confusion at them–not sure what they have to do with wedding clothing accessories. Dale must read the confusion on your face as he says, “There is a fashion in the capital to have new boots fashioned for a wedding, in addition to the other clothing. Can you not tell these are specifically designed wedding boots?”

You stifle a smile behind a carefully raised hand, now able to tell when Dale is having fun. Beyond the fact that the shelf of boots, while of high quality leather, are indistinguishable from normal boots to your eyes, his eyes twinkle as he smiles down at you. His playful mood is infectious. “Of course, my Lord. How could they be anything but for such a specific and important occasion? Nothing like ordinary, everyday boots at all.”

“Alas, I do believe this will not be a fashion trend my Grandmother will entertain as anything more than an admirable attempt of the cobblers to wring some additional coin from our wallets.” He holds out his arm for you to take. “I must turn away from this display before I grow heartsick over what I cannot have.”

You barely resist the urge to shake your head at his dramatic playacting, but take his free arm without hesitation. “And what shall you distract yourself with instead?”

“Aside from my lovely bride’s presence?” You duck your head, not able to even look at him at such a tease–the original Dale would never say such a thing unless ironically, but it did not seem so with this Dale. But was there another meaning? Why did he express such sentiments? To flatter you? To what end? “Surely there are other decorations here which can catch our interest. Does any table in particular stand out to you?”

You scan the room, noting many milliners have quite different displays. Were they all told to focus on one accessory? Evidently not all, so you head for the table with the greatest variety of accessories. Everything from parasols to lace trimmings to bonnets are arranged for your viewing. You examine a shawl, wondering if, given the weather, one was necessary or if perhaps you should be reviewing the parasols instead. It would not due to be burned from the sun on such an auspicious day.

Dale wanders over to the table next to this one as something catches his attention while you continue to slowly circle the original table. While fashion these days requires many accessories, people varied in what they purchased new for a wedding. Many only polished up what they had or wore their best, the older or richer the noble family, the more was bespoke for the occasion. Northridge was not particularly wealthy, but they were an old house.

The cost for a wedding was also something that varied, often unspoken to those not involved unless one family wanted to show off their wealth or culture. Your parents had been very clear about the finances of your betrothal. You had a larger dowry than was typical for a youngest daughter of little distinction–nominally in the interest of seeing you well settled. Unofficially it was to see you settled quickly, with minimal digging into your past health issues.

Your mother had implied that they would see you dressed well, but no more than what was appropriate. That your dowry was already more than generous. You thought there had been a compliment mixed in with these instructions, when Mother said you were not one for frivolous adornment as it was and so should not find it hard to resist. Mostly having to be judicious with your wedding clothes had seemed like another thing you could not have. She had said if the Northridges’ wished for anything more well-to-do, they could cover the cost or take it from your dowry themselves. 

So you knew precisely how much you had to contribute to your wedding clothing and it was for the dress alone, with perhaps one new accessory. You think through your clothing in your mind, trying to determine what you have that will do and therefore what item you should purchase to cover what you lacked.

“What do you think?” Dale has walked back over to show you some lace cuffs that are very finely worked. They might be the most expensive lace cuffs you’ve seen. Well, aside from your schoolmate’s, heir-apparent to the Jasika duchy, who loved lace above all else, including her considerable allowance. You resist your immediate response regarding how much they must cost and focus on their appearance alone.

“They are exquisite,” you say truthfully as you let him usher you over to the lace table he has been perusing. “They will go well with your suit.”

“I think so as well. Which do you think will go best with your dress?” Dale sets aside his own lace to look over the gauzier style usually attached to the ends of gown sleeves. “How long were you anticipating the sleeves to be?”

You blink. “Pardon? I was not going to. Not on my dress. Truly, I do not need the extra embellishment.”

Dale pouts. “But it is our wedding. If that is not the occasion for embellishment, what is?”

You struggle to find the right words to say that, as your dowry would go directly to Dale at the wedding itself, you did not control how it was spent, with only enough for the dress alone at the moment. The Northridges had acquiesced to that deal with no counters. That had been Grandmother and Grandfather, not Dale–did he not know that you could not afford such adornment?

“With the silk brocade for my fabric, I do not believe I require additional decorations,” you settle on, hoping he will understand.

He does not, frowning. 

“What is that, dear?” Grandmother has rejoined the two of you. “Are you not preferential to lace? It is of the highest quality and locally produced. I had hoped you would consent to wearing a collar mantle of it as well, to match. I have seen that you prefer plainer dress–which speaks well to your modesty and sensibility. However, I should think this was an instance where such restraint was not required.” 

Her words echo Dale’s own from earlier and you find yourself similarly unable to form an intelligent response. “Oh, no-that’s not it at all. I, I simply…” You wring your hands together as you try to find the words. How do one remind someone else they hold one’s pursestrings? 

“Is this about the manner in which your parents divided your dowry?” Grandmother leans in close to say, “That is of no consequence. I assure you there is no better use for one’s dowry than on the wedding.” 

Grandmother’s voice drops even lower, so none of the vendors can hear, “Pay no mind to the cost our enterprising entrepreneurs have listed. I will not have them overcharge us, however, a wedding is known to be a veritable catalyst to the local businesses and we intend for this one to be so as well.” She leans away and says in a clearer voice, “Indulge an old woman in spoiling her grandchild and his bride, will you not?”

Grandmother pulls away completely before you can respond, turning back to the table. “Some lace fringe for your sleeve caps would be lovely. Unless you wished for full length sleeves?”

“I,” you start to say before giving a slight shake of your head, trying to rally your thoughts. “No, as it will only be further into summer by the wedding. I had believed capped, shorter sleeves would be best.”

“As I anticipated,” Grandmother says, triumphant. “These are all suitable, which do you prefer?” She has selected four specific lace trims. You're still trying to catch up to the idea that Grandmother wishes to have you so fully outfitted for the wedding. In the end, you realize you’re waiting for Dale’s protest–that he would not want to waste your dowry that will be his on such trinkets for you.

Instead, he’s bent over the trims before he looks up at you. “I like the first and third, but of course the choice is yours, my Lady.”

You look down at the fine lace. Truthfully they are all very pretty and you have no preference. Reaching out, you pick up the first with one hand and the third in the other. Grandmother leans closer to see the details more clearly. She taps your left hand. 

You nod. “Yes, I believe the third would be lovely with the brocade.”

“Wonderful,” Grandmother says, putting them over with Dale’s chosen cuffs. “Now, I am aware it is no longer an aspect of high society to wear gloves, but I am afraid I shall have to insist for the wedding.” Grandmother strokes her own light blue gloves. 

Dale doesn’t appear to mind, merely walking over to the other side of the table to inspect the gloves available. When you start to follow, Grandmother steers you over to another table. “Missus Glass is where I purchase my own gloves and they are the superior ladies choice, I assure you. The softest and most comfortable by far.” 

When you lean down to take a closer look at the options, Grandmother tuts, “It is not enough to look at these, you must try them on. Go on, dear. You shall be the one wearing them.”

She waits patiently, sharing stories about her other children’s weddings as you try on a variety of gloves for her benefit, eventually settling on a light cotton pair of gloves. After receiving Grandmother’s approval, with only minimal tutting at the open weave before she admits they were more than acceptable for summer, she goes over to where Dale was examining some canes. 

You find yourself heading back over to the dress forms of Dale’s parents' clothing. Dale was to use his father’s handkerchief, but you are supposed to figure out some way to augment your own outfit with something from them as well. The obvious choice is some part of Dale’s mother’s silver, but that’s also the most delicate and well constructed part of the outfit. Anything you might take seems like a black mark against the way it is now, the whole it has managed to remain these years.

You slowly circle the form, trying to see how it is specifically put together and what seems the most easily removed without damage. You wonder what your parents might send in response to the letter you promised Grandmother you’d write. While aiding in your sister’s wedding, you heard all manner of comment about how weddings had changed, but your mother had never said anything about what became of her actual dress. Most likely she will provide jewelry of some sort, you think and so do not touch the jewelry on a pedestal nearby.

Perhaps…you move closer to inspect the round hat and its connected veil. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dale walk over to join you, obviously in a far better mood from these days as opposed to yesterday's endless discussion.

“I was thinking that perhaps your mother’s veil would be the best way to incorporate some of her clothing into mine,” you say, gesturing to it pinned to the mannequin’s neck.

“A good idea,” Dale agrees, already reaching out to unfasten it. “The silver will go very well with your hair.”

You blush at the compliment, barely resisting the urge to reach a hand up and make sure he’s seeing the same plain hair on your head as you see. “The rest of the dress is so finely put together, I fear any other alteration could never live up to it.”

Dale nods absently as he takes the hat and veil from the form’s head. He turns you to a nearby mirror with confident hands on your shoulders. More quickly than you expect, he slips behind you to arrange the hat and veil onto your head. You freeze, not wanting to damage such an artifact. You feel Dale delicately arrange the veil and your hair, adjusting some braids so it sits better on your head. 

“What a lovely idea,” Grandmother coos before she leans closer for a more critical look. “I don’t believe the hat suits you though—and it's not the fashion anymore.” You agree, it makes your hair an odd shape and the black would not go with your dress. “We shall have that piece detached from the silver train. The decrease in length shouldn’t be a problem since you’re shorter than Qiana as it is.”

“Are you certain? I wouldn’t want to damage it.” Remaking these items is what Grandmother spoke of, but it's such fine, delicate work.

“Nonsense, it is meant to be worn–not kept in a crate somewhere in the dark. Dale,” she asks imperiously, “fetch one of those little caps so we can see how the veil would look with it. We shall ensure your bride is the finest in years.”

You stare at your reflection, which thankfully does not look as bewildered as you feel. Everything is coming together so quickly and easily, it's as surprising as it is rather wonderful.

Dale smiles to you in the mirror and goes to do as he is bid.

[Part Eight]

[thatredheadwriter]

absolution

javi gutierrez x reader (2.7k)

Javi misses your date and has some making up to do.

A/N: This started because I was listening to MAMMAMIA by Maneskin on repeat and I couldn’t stop thinking about Javi G on his knees in front of his lady. These two love the pants off of each other (literally).

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Javi Gutierrez of The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

fiance!Javi

some D/s dynamics (not hardcore)

dom!reader

sub!Javi

use of religious language to describe sex (there’s a theme, idk)

oral sex (male + female receiving)

anal fingering (male receiving), just a little as a treat

a very sexy dress (link in case you’re having trouble visualizing)

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

-

10:42 pm

You’re seething as the numbers tick higher on the small clock beside the huge king-sized bed. One thing that never changed in all the hotels you visited with Javi, they all had the same shitty, annoying alarm clock sitting by the bed.

Shooting for this most recent project had so many locations–between photography, location shoots, studio shoots–and Javi insisted on being there for all of them. You’ve spent the last eight months crisscrossing the globe after your fiance and his passion project, watching him work to the bone for some sort of perceived perfection while the rest of the world turned on without him.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

Javi made reservations at the hotel restaurant for seven o’clock and promised he would be there. In all your time knowing him, he’d never broken a date with you, or anyone for that matter. But when eight o’clock rolled around, you settled back in your chair, called the waitress over, and ordered.

The mushroom risotto was delicious and the chardonnay tasted as expensive as it billed. You had the rest of the bottle sent up to your room for good measure. And now you’re waiting. Because good food and wine have sated your hunger, but not your fire.

It’s not until 11:03 that you hear the electronic click of the lock and your fiance finally enters the room. He strides in with his back to you,

“Late night?” you clear your throat and retrieve your half-finished glass from the low table by your seat.

Javi turns on a dime and his mouth falls open. Even from your seat across the room, you can practically see his pupils dilate as he takes in your form, clad in the sexiest dress you’d ever braved. It featured a false wrap-style v-neck, and for the kicker–double thigh slits. If you moved a certain way, it was clear you weren’t wearing underwear beneath.

You’d shown up at dinner dressed to the nines, dripping in the jewelry Javi had bought you over the years. And you’d left the same way. In the suite, you’d dressed down, putting your heels away in the small closet and taking everything off except for the earrings you always left in and the pendant he’d gifted you for your first anniversary–a single blue-green sapphire set in white gold that hung just perfectly at the crest of your cleavage.

“It’s the same color as the sea back home. Reminds me of you, because well, you’re my home too,” he’d explained as you had looked over it speechlessly.

“Have you eaten? My dinner was delicious,” you stand and turn your body to face the window, but your eyes stay on him.

You see it in his eyes. The exact moment he remembers the date he planned and everything he promised you, swept up in time and replaced with this crackling tension between you.

“Mi amor,” his face pales instantly as he crosses the room to you, but you hardly give him a glance. Instead, you lazily sip at the wine in your glass and circle the room to maintain your distance. “Please forgive me. I got caught up at work. I’m so sorry.”

“I waited for you, Javi,” you finish the wine and set the glass on top of a dresser, striding languidly towards the bed. “Alone in that damn restaurant.”

“Fuck, my love, it was never my intention to leave you there tonight. The shooting ran late and then the director wanted to go over some things, and then one of the actor’s agents called about a contract dispute…It’s a poor excuse, I know. I just now got away, and…Please forgive me, mi amorcita.”

“I won’t be a bystander in your life, Javi,” you settle yourself on the end of the bed and part your legs so the fabric parts around them. “It hurt me, sitting there alone. I miss my fiance.”

Javi drops to his knees in front of you, his gorgeous face twisted in anguish. “Please, tell me how to make it up to you.”

Showing the slightest mercy, you reach for him and relish the way he leans into your touch. With the softest grip on his golden chocolate curls, you guide his cheek to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. “Beg.”

So close to what he wants, he’ll never take it without your permission, even as he eyes the wetness peeking out from under the slit in your skirt.

“I want to taste you, please. I want to drown in you and feel you cum on my tongue. Let me give you as many orgasms as you can take.”

“I don’t know if you deserve it,” you muse, pretending to be distracted by something on the bedspread. The truth is, you know you’ll cave as soon as you look him in those gorgeous brown eyes.

“Please, princesa, I know I fucked up,” his accent weighs heavy with his distress. Javi’s hand traces up and down the outside of your thigh, “Let me make it up to you.”

You look down at your fiance, and your heart breaks a little. He didn’t mean to forget dinner, and you know he feels awful. Besides, he’s been terribly stressed with his new project and it’s not like you two have spent much time together lately, not like you used to.

“Okay, Javi, I forgive you. Now make me cum,” you purr.

A giggle escapes when he hooks his arms around your knees, forcing you to land back on the bed with a light bounce.

“I am so fucking sorry, mi querida,” he growls, sucking and kissing up the skin of your inner thighs. “I swear on my life, on my father’s grave, it will never happen again.”

You want to remind him that maybe now isn’t the best time to bring up his dead father, but then he swipes his thumb against your clit and all that comes out is a high-pitched moan

“Fuck, Jav,” you reach down to bury your hands in his curls and feel him nip at your skin in response.

“Never leaving this bed again,” he licks the flat of his tongue up your slit and you buck your hips up, chasing the sensation. “Can’t leave you, can’t leave this.”

Javi is a man used to the finer things in life. It’s what happens when you grow up on a huge estate, surrounded by servants, never wanting for anything. But one thing has always sated him, left him content and pliant at the end of your fingertips, and he’ll drink at it for hours if you let him.

You’re still clothed, however the dress you’d specially chosen for the occasion is just garnish. He’d been meant to savor it all through dinner, feast his eyes before taking an indulgence of the flesh, but you were never one to deny your lover. Especially when his absolution feels so divine.

From the first time he took you to bed, Javi made it a point to learn you. He was certainly a skilled lover, but over time he’s grown incredibly attuned to every little sound, every little twitch and jerk as he works you over. And he’s certainly eager.

A steady-building pleasure grows in your belly as he licks from your entrance up to your clit, over and over. Each time you can feel the proud jut of his nose bumping against that little bundle of nerves as he dips lower.

Your first orgasm comes quickly, and your fingers grip hard at Javi’s hair. But he doesn’t stop. If anything it spurs him on further. The taste of your first release drives him on and you can’t help but cry out when he sucks on your clit.

-

You’re not sure how long it is, or how many times you’ve cum, but eventually you’re overstimulated to the point of pain. You push Javi’s head away from your core, making him whine.

“S’too much,” you pant, “Gotta give me a break.”

At the blown-out look in your eyes, he’s worried. “Did I do too much? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, Javi, you never hurt me. M’just sensitive is all.”

You reach for him and he obliges, laying down beside you on the bed. Now that he’s finally close, you pull him in for a deep kiss, whining when you taste yourself on his tongue. When you need air again, he just kisses and nips down your jaw, still putting his mouth to really good use.

“I’m so sorry, mi amorcita,” he murmurs into the tender skin he soothes with a kiss. “My mind has just been so-so…scrambled lately.”

“I know, Jav. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

At your confession, his face falls. You know he never wants you to worry about anything.

“You work too hard, Javi,” you continue, running your hand down his exposed chest. “Too much espresso, not enough sleep.”

Your love sighs deeply under your touch, a weight lifting at your words. “I will do better.”

“Let me relieve some of that stress?” your lip curls in a smirk as your hand slips lower and lower until you’re fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Just below, his zipper is struggling to contain an impressive erection, the thought of which already has you salivating.

Javi flushes, voice raspy all of a sudden. “I still have some making up to do, no?”

You shake your head as you slip from the bed beside him into nearly the same spot he was in moments ago. “This night was supposed to be about you, cariño. I’d like to get it back on schedule.”

He doesn’t breathe as you settle into position, a serpent preparing to strike. Your hands run up and down his clothed thighs, just to feel him tremble beneath you.

“Easy, baby,” you soothe. “Gonna let me get you all nice and relaxed?”

Looking up at him, you wonder how you got so lucky. His curls are disheveled, sticking every which way from your grip on them as he brought you to ecstasy after ecstasy. Sweat glistens across his golden skin, flushed from the summer heat and more. You want nothing more than to bite his bottom lip, the one that sticks out as he pants for breath, nodding eagerly as you finally cup his bulge with your hand.

“Words,” you click your tongue at him.

“Yes, please.”

With his consent, you take your time with his belt, removing it completely from the loops and setting it to the side. Then you’re undoing his pants, careful not to pinch or pull on the skin that pushes up against his waistband. As the button pops open, you lean forward and give the imprint it left behind a kiss, and Javi shudders above you. You’re just as methodical with the zipper, pulling it down tooth by tooth until it reaches its end.

When you look back at your fiance, his face is caught in a mixture of concentration and ecstasy, eyes pinched shut as his chest heaves with the struggle of staying still.

“Javi.”

Deep brown eyes find yours in a heartbeat, searching for answers, instructions, pleasure. Whatever you’re willing to give.

“I love you.”

Immediately he relaxes, the curve of his spine returning to normal as some of the energy pent up from his day releases, leaving only room for you and the pleasure that’s to come.

“I love you too, mi princesa.”

“Tell me you want me to suck your cock.”

A groan rattles somewhere in his chest and his knuckles go white as he grips the sheets. Javi is vocal about giving you pleasure, but tends to go mute when asked about his own. But you’re not doing anything else until he asks for it. You want him to get used to asking for what he needs. You won’t let him burn himself out like this anymore.

“I want-I want you…mierda. I want you to suck my cock. Please,” he rasps, little more than a whisper.

You grin up at him as your hand slips under the band of his boxer briefs to find the weeping head of his cock. “You’re so good for me Javi,” you praise as you run your thumb through the dribble of precum that’s gathered there. “Telling me what you want. I love that, thank you.”

He’s more than ready when you finally take him out, but you still take your time. The first sloppy kiss to his head and Javi is digging his fingers into the bed below, brow knit in concentration. You work your way down to his neatly trimmed base before coming back up the other side.

Javi’s fingers thread through your hair, not insistent, just an anchor to the present. He tugs lightly when you first swallow him down, curses dripping from his kiss-swollen lips. After all your time together, you know exactly what it takes to get him right to the edge. Your tongue works the underside of him as you lazily bob up and down.

Your eyes cut to his to find them glued on yours as you work him. “Fuck, Jesus, querida, stop or I’m going to-”

You pull off of him, but your hand still works up and down his shaft. “You’re going to cum for me Javi, just like this. Let this be your final penance.”

With that you go back to your task, taking him down your throat until your eyes water. Two of your fingers gather some of the spit and precum that’s dribbled down to his base and you use it to gently work against the tight ring of muscle just a few inches below.

Javi looks divine like this. The tendons in his neck bulge as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s screwed his eyes shut and you wish you could be in two places at once so you could lick the bead of sweat away forming at his temple.

“Wanted to- wanted to, fuck- I wanted to fuck you like you deserve,” he pants through gritted teeth. “But this is…” He doesn’t finish, because that’s when your fingers press in to breach his ass, and a low groan rattles through his chest.

The taste of him hits as you curl your fingers against his prostate. His fingers scratch against your scalp as you swallow against him again and again until he’s a shaking, muttering mess above you.

You release his softening cock with a soft pop sound and grin up at your utterly wrecked, not-a-stressed-bone-left-in-his-body fiance. As he tries to catch his breath, you rise from your position on the floor and hope Javi can’t hear your knees pop as you slide onto the bed next to him.

Javi pulls you in for a kiss and tugs you up the bed so you can lay beside of him. He doesn’t pull away until you’re firmly tangled in his embrace.

“I love you, and I’m so sorry about dinner.”

You smooth a hand over his disheveled curls. “Javi, you’re forgiven. Just don’t forget that you have a life outside of work. I will do everything in my power to support you in whatever you choose to do, but I won’t watch you neglect yourself. I love you too much.”

“I hear you. And I will…I will try to do better.”

“That’s all I ask. Maybe one day this week you can let the cast and crew have a break and we can have a do-over for dinner?” you ask hopefully.

“Yes, I think maybe Tuesday, or Wednesday. We’re supposed to shoot with-”

“Details later, Jav,” you silence him with a peck to the lips. “You never answered my question earlier. Did you get a chance to eat?”

He winces a bit and gives you a look, “I had some crackers and hummus from food services.”

“Let’s call down for room service and then you should get some rest. I plan on letting you do some more making up before you head off to set tomorrow.”

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // september 15 // prompt: pleasure // words: 980 // explicit sexual content // part 1

For all his confidence when inquiring about Regulus’ piercings the first time, they actually took it quite slow. Regulus wanted to wait for James’ piercing to be healed up before they did anything, so the first few dates were rather chaste. Nothing beyond making out on the couch or on the sidewalk or in the car or- well, you get the picture.

It was during one of those moments that James had discovered piercings number eight and nine. He’d laid Regulus out on the couch, taking his time to twist and tweak his pierced nipples until Regulus was shaking with it. But still, their clothes stayed on.

So when they finally get around to it, James is feeling pent up and desperate and “ready, Regulus, I promise, I’m so ready, please just-”

But Regulus shushes him, taking his time to stretch James out, fingers twisting this way and that until James is a writhing mess on the bed and Regulus thinks he’s prepped sufficiently. It takes another few moments of James mindlessly begging and Regulus putting on a condom, but eventually finally thankfully, Regulus leans over to kiss James as he presses up against his hole.

James’ back arches as Regulus slides in, breath stuttering in his lungs. “You okay?” Regulus murmurs, voice low in James’ ear. James sighs as Regulus settles, giving James a moment to adjust.

“Yeah, ‘s good.” He clenches once for good measure, silently giving Regulus the go-ahead. When Regulus eventually finally thankfully starts moving, James lets out a low groan.

He’s so focused on the feeling of having Regulus inside, of being so close, that he almost forgets about the piercing. When he notices it, though, his vision whites out a bit at the edges.

The pleasure is twofold; the slow drag of Regulus inside him followed by the piercing at the base of his dick catching on his rim. James moans, low and long, as Regulus works his way toward a steady rhythm.

“You’re amazing,” Regulus moans, voice low and strained. “God, you feel amazing, fuck.”

“Faster,” James begs, “please.”

Regulus, the little shit, slows down instead. “Patience,” he tells him, but it sounds strained. Regulus swivels his hips so he hits the spot inside James that makes him see stars.

“Shit,” James pants. He feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin; Regulus thrusting inside, the piercing pushing against his rim, Regulus’ musky scent all around him. He tries to bear down on Regulus to nudge him into speeding up, but Regulus grabs his hips and pins him to the mattress, limiting his mobility. His fingers bite into the skin of his hips. James hopes it bruises.

The idea of being marked by Regulus, of being claimed, sends a thrill through his body. He needs more, but Regulus’ grip simply tightens as he keeps his pace slow, hips grinding into James.

Frustrated, James reaches for Regulus’ hair, tugging at it until Regulus comes closer. James kisses him, except it’s more like he’s moaning and panting into Regulus’ mouth because he can’t catch his breath with how good Regulus feels.

His hands slide down to Regulus’ neck, then his shoulders, then his chest. James twists and tugs at the nipple piercings, causing Regulus' hips to stutter, a low moan ripping from his throat.

James feels pressure build up, the tell-tale heat sparking down his spine. He clenches around Regulus involuntarily, back arching off the mattress. He’s so close, he can almost taste it, just a few mo-

“You can’t come yet,” Regulus tells him, stilling. “Want you on your knees first.” He pulls out of James, who moans at the movement and then whines at the emptiness. When James doesn’t move fast enough, Regulus hurries him along with a light swat on his ass that has James’ dick twitching.

“Fuck you,” James mutters, petulant.

“Next time.”

James settles on his hands and knees, stretching out until his back is arched, throwing a sly look over his shoulder. Regulus looks like a wet dream; pale skin flushed down to his shoulders, glowing with sweat from exertion, black curls sticking to his forehead. His piercings catch light when he moves, and James whimpers when Regulus tugs at the piercing on his lip, seemingly lost in thought.

“Barty told me, back when you first came in for your appointment, that he knew you were my type from the second you walked in. He was right. Look at you,” he says reverently.

James wants to tell him off for mentioning Barty while they’re having sex, but right as he opens his mouth to do so, Regulus nudges the head of his dick against James’ rim. James’ head drops forward again with a groan, glasses slipping off his face, lost somewhere in the sheets.

Regulus pushes the rest of the way inside and immediately starts moving again, not giving James a moment to catch his breath. The slide of the piercing over his rim is so much more intense like this, James feels his toes curl.

Regulus’ hand shifts, one stays on his hip, but the other slides to James’ lower back, pushing down on him to make him arch his back even more. “You feel so good,” he grunts between thrusts, “tight and warm, just right. Just for me.”

“Yeah,” James pants, voice thin and breathless, “just for you.” His fingers clench in the sheets as Regulus hits that spot again. And again. And again, until James is spilling all over his own stomach without being touched.

The continued drag of the piercing over his sensitive rim is almost too much, but it only takes Regulus a few more thrusts until he’s coming, spilling inside the condom. They stay like that for a moment, locked in pleasure, panting and satiated.

“Yeah, big fan of piercing number ten,” James says, punched out and breathless. “Looks good and feels good.”

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Running from the Flames {9}

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x OFC Warnings: 18+ only, kissing, alcohol - this is a work of fiction and the events are not based on reality. Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten || Eleven* || under construction

“Go,” I urged as I pushed Pierre to the door but he wouldn’t budge. “I’m not going to be the reason you miss out on fun stuff.”

Pierre took my hands from where I had planted them on his chest and kissed my palms. “There’ll be other parties, mon ange, and next year when we come back it’ll be from the top of the podium.”

“People are going to blame me.”

“Then I’ll tell them the truth.” The walk had completely sobered him up and he was once again talking clearly and back in English. But now that he was sober he wasn’t interested in going back to the casino and getting drunk again with his friends. “You are completely to blame.” He laughed as my jaw dropped. “What? I want to spend my time with you, and Addie. You make me happy. The parties are good at filling the emptiness inside but that’s all.”

When he put out like that I could hardly keep pushing him towards the door and so I stepped into his embrace instead. “What happens tomorrow? Or next week, Pierre? How does this work long term?”

“We make it work, because it’s worth it,” he answered honestly. “I have three days off and if you’ll let me, I’ll follow wherever you go.”

Butterflies erupted in my tummy and while my head warmed me we were moving too fast my heart ignored it completely. “I don’t actually have anything planned, I was going to play it by ear for the next two months until I have to be in Paris for the job I have lined up.”

Hope filled Pierre’s face at the news and he eagerly led me to the couch, tugging me down beside him to make our plans together.

“Three days and I’ll see you in Spain,” Otmar confirmed after we had finished our late breakfast and he shook hands with Pierre before turning to me. “And what about you, kiddo?”

I looked at Pierre and he winked back, our plans already made together for the week ahead - at least. “I’ll be there too.”

With that, we waved Otmar off as he left to go to the airport and spend a few days at home before the next race in Spain. 

Overnight the city had changed dramatically and aside from the grandstand seating that was still being dismantled, the streets were back to normal and far emptier with most of the teams leaving. With everyone leaving Addie was in a terrible mood, after all the goodbyes to Grandad and then Poppa Otty, plus the new found friends she had made in the Alpine team, she became clingy and stuck like glue to Pierre. 

“Sweetie, you are going to choke him,” I chided as I loosened her grip around his throat from where she was piggybacking on his back. 

She fought against my hands, holding on even tighter. “Don’t want Pear to go.”

“Pierre,” I tried to correct her, but it was a work in progress.

“Pee-year,” she repeated.

Pierre laughed at the attempt. “Close enough.”

“Pierre isn’t leaving us. We are going to spend the next few days taking a little road trip with him. If that’s alright with you?”

He grunted as she suddenly bounced excitedly on his back with approval at the idea and I helped her off him so we could head back up to our room to pack our bags. Pierre had already checked out of his hotel so it was just mine and Addie’s to pick up and I was grateful to have the extra pair of hands and a large SUV to fit everything in.

“Did she hurt you?” I asked as I noticed him putting pressure on his lower back with the heel of his hands when we entered my suite. 

“No, she’s fine, I’m just stiff from yesterday. Street races are bumpier than the circuits.”

I wasn’t a masseuse by any measure of the word but I didn’t want Pierre to be in pain and sent Addie off to her toiletry bag to get her bottle of baby oil while I pointed to the couch. “Take your shirt off and lay down,” I ordered him as Addie quickly delivered the bottle. 

“I’m fine,” he tried to insist but I gave him the same look I had when he lied about his gums hurting. 

“It’s over two and a half hours to Marseille and it might get worse,” I coaxed, reaching for the hem of his shirt when he placed his hand over mine. “You don’t need to be all macho.”

His hand fell away and I pulled the loose cotton shirt over his head, laying it over the arm of the couch so it didn’t get crinkled. Pierre jumped slightly when I poured the oil down his spine and again when my cold hands touched his skin. He soon relaxed into the soft cushions as I massaged his lower back and the oil warmed from the friction.

The relaxation only lasted until Addie decided she didn’t want to miss out and started to ‘help’ smearing the baby oil all over his back and shoulders and trying to copy what I was doing. 

We soon learnt that he had a ticklish spot when Addie prodded his ribs and he jolted in response with a laugh, “not there.”

Even a two year old knew that giving away a ticklish spot was an invitation and she was not wasting the opportunity. English quickly turned to French as Pierre tried to scramble away but he was trapped by the back of the couch, his pleas for mercy not something she was able to understand.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said when I finally recovered from laughing and caught Addie’s hands to stop her from trying again, “or he won’t want to take us anywhere. You can take a shower if you want, or you’ll get oil all over your shirt.”

While Pierre was in the bathroom I packed my suitcase and checked there was nothing of Addie’s left lying around or under the beds. Satisfied I had everything, I piled our belongings by the front door and called reception for a bellhop to help take it to Pierre’s car.

I had just hung up the room phone when my cell phone blared to life. 

“Dr Pascoe, did we have an appointment?” I answered, confused because I didn’t remember seeing an email from her. 

“No, no, I saw some of the Formula One news in the papers here and I thought I would check in to see how you are doing.” 

“Oh, that’s kind of you, but I’m actually handling things pretty well. Pierre is a great support and it is easy to be open with him.”

“That’s great to hear, and what about Trent Gordon? He’s always been a trigger when we have spoken.”

I sat down on the couch and hung my head in my hands. “I still can’t believe what he did. What if Erik tries to get custody of her? She’s safe while he’s still in prison but then what? I don’t want to have this hanging over me for the next seven years.”

“Your mother is a brilliant lawyer, you should speak to her when you can.  For now, I suggest you focus on what you can control. Use the exercises we have been over in our sessions and write down what positives there are in your life right now.”

“She’s too wrapped up in some big case to worry about this.”

“Don’t underestimate what a mother will do to help her child, I’m sure she can find time for you. I’ll check in next week but you have my number if you need to talk before then.”

I dropped my phone on my lap after hanging up and sagged back into the chair. Positives, positives, think of the positives. 

I had a healthy, happy child

We were going to have the summer of a lifetime together

I had met a wonderful man who treated me and Addie with respect

I felt like I had a place I belonged again - the paddock

The mental list worked to make me feel better and I took a few deep breaths before the bathroom door opened and Pierre stepped out.

“Ready to go?”

Addie was already at the front door sitting on her suitcase eating crackers, even though she’d  had breakfast not too long ago, and she jumped up in an instant. “Ready!”

He walked over to me and offered his hand to pull me up as the doorbell rang. “Perfect timing,” I said with a smile, feeling like the planets were aligning for us and giving this road trip a blessing. “Marseille here we come.”

Click here for chapter ten.

@my-only-way-tocooperatewithlife

[chrisbuckleydiaz]

Nest ao3

They get the call two hours before the shift is over.

Buck isn’t working, Dario from C-shift asked if someone could switch so he could go to a baseball-game and Buck offered.

Eddie is glad he isn’t there, doesn’t have to see it. It’s a boy. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. Skateboard vs. SUV. Tale as old as cars. He was probably on his way to school. His backpack lies five feet away, burst open. Eddie and Dario are busy with recovering the driver - but not busy enough. 

The ride back is quiet. Eddie’s stomach churns at the thought of the boy - his parents, his dreams, his future. Their shift is over, so there’s no need - except survival - to store those thoughts away. 

Maybe he had been into Guardians Of The Galaxy the same way Chris is right now - playing the game night after night. Maybe his parents had been at their wits end on how to coax him away from it.

Maybe he had spent every afternoon at the skatepark and came home on time and did his chores without having to be asked twice.

Maybe he’d wanted to become a pilot or a vet or a kindergarten teacher. Maybe he’d wanted to hike the Appalachian trail after graduation. 

Eddie takes a shaky breath, steadying himself by grabbing his own thighs. 

There’s a figure leaning against the glass wall of the locker room when they pull up at the station. Eddie feels Cap’s hand squeezing his shoulder in passing.

“Bobby texted me,” Tommy takes a step forward, forehead creased in worry.

“Oh.”

Eddie comes to a halt one, two feet apart from him.

“Evan is dropping off Christopher at school and has therapy after,” his voice is soft and measured.

Maybe Eddie almost flinched at the mention of his son. 

He knows Buck’s schedule - all of their schedules actually, they have a shared calendar, so he’s not sure why Tommy mentions it, but he doesn’t really care either. He nods.

“Yeah.”

“You want to grab breakfast?”

“Not sure I have an appetite,” Tommy nods, eyes warm with understanding, “But I could do with coffee.”

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

Tommy wraps him in his arms as soon as Eddie approaches the car and Eddie lets himself fall into the older one’s arms. 

“I’ve got you.”

Eddie inhales the familiar scent of Tommy and stays still for a moment, while Tommy rubs circles over his shoulder blades. Eventually Tommy pulls back, kissing his temple.

“You feel like driving?” 

He shakes his head and doesn’t let himself worry about the logistics of letting his car behind in the 118’s parking lot. Instead he climbs into the SUV. There’s soft rock music quietly playing and Eddie remembers with a sense of gratitude that Tommy rarely listens to the radio but has a number of curated playlists on his phone.

“Feel free to change that to whatever you feel like.”

“No, it’s - It’s good.”

Tommy rubs his thumb over Eddie’s hand while backing out of the parking space. 

“La Rosa ok?”

La Rosa is a tiny café in Ocean Park that has an elaborate coffee and breakfast menu and its own mascot in the form of Cupcake, the owner’s dog. Christopher, naturally, absolutely adores the dog.

Eddie nods and a short while later they find seats on the backyard patio that is equipped with seats in all different forms and colors. 

“Talk to me. Tell me something. A story. Whatever.” Eddie doesn’t let go of Tommy’s hand even for a second, not when they walked here and not now, after they ordered.

Tommy hums, thinking for a moment, then he smiles and Eddie feels better already.

“I used to spend a lot of my holidays at my aunt’s house. When I was eight or nine, my cousin became really obsessed with Back To The Future . We would watch the first and the sequel - the third one wasn’t released yet - like every other day. He could recite half of the script. And I guess I had something like a crush on Marty, but that’s not the point of the story,” Tommy winks and Eddie squeezes his hand, “The town my aunt lived in had - no joke - the same kind of clock as in the movie on the town hall. I think in the movie it wasn’t town hall. Anyway. One evening, there was a thunderstorm raging outside and my cousin begged his mom to let us go outside. Not sure what he wanted to do, since we didn’t have an actual time machine, but he begged for like half an hour. My aunt obviously refused to let us go and my cousin got so mad he didn’t speak to her the rest of the evening.”

While Tommy told his story, the waiter brought their order: Café con leche for Eddie and a mocha and strawberry muffin for Tommy.

“Did you like spending time at your aunt’s?”

“Yeah. She was a really kind woman that also took no shit. I mean, she had to be, growing up with my dad, I guess. She was really into quilts”, he frowns, “I should have a quilt of hers somewhere, now that I think about it.”

Eddie smiles at the thought of a keepsake like that when he feels something nudge his knee. It’s Cupcake, who’s looking expectantly at him.

“Hey, bud,” he greets him, instantly starting to scratch his ears, “It’s good to see you!”

He lets himself get carried away and baby-talks to the dog for a while. So long, that when he looks up again, Buck is standing behind Tommy, hands on his shoulders. Both of them are smiling fondly at him.

“Did you sneak up on us?”

“A buffalo herd could have trampled through here and you wouldn’t have noticed,” Buck teases, rounding the table and sitting down next to Eddie. He leans forward, his hand cupping Eddie’s face. “Hey, baby. Chris says hi.”

Eddie swallows a whine when Buck withdraws his hand to grab the menu.

“I’m starving! I hope they still serve the three-cheese omelet.”

“Any thoughts on how to spend the rest of the day? My on-call doesn’t start until noon.”

Eddie shrugs, stirring his café slowly. Buck musters him.

“Your eyes are teeny-tiny, Eds.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’m a teeny-tiny bit tired.”

Tommy smiles. “I could do with a nap.”

“Same.”

“So that’s decided then?” Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

“Looks like it,” Buck nods and grabs a fork to dig into the omelett.

When Eddie wakes up two hours later, Buck is propped up against the headboard, scrolling on his phone.

“Did Tommy have to leave already?” Eddie pats the empty side of the mattress.

“Hey sleepyhead. No. He’s looking for something in the garage. Didn’t want to tell me what,” Buck shrugs. 

Eddie hums, positioning himself in Buck’s lap. Buck immediately starts scratching his head and Eddie sighs. For a while, they’re quiet.

“You want to talk about it?” Buck eventually asks.

Does he? 

“I assume you have the context?”

“I texted Bobby.”

Eddie clicks his tongue, looking for words.

“I know that we have to suppress the fact that this planet is a really fucked up, unsafe place because otherwise…,” he shakes his head, “But it just hit me. Full force. Life isn’t safe and I won’t be able to protect him.”

Buck’s still caressing his hair.

“You think…,” he clears his throat, “A pedestrian hit by a car - that - You think that brought up something else as well?”

Eddie looks at him, looks at his face that’s so full of love and care and gentleness, and blinks.

It’s not like they don’t respond to that kind of call at least once a week. But the combination of a fourteen year old teenage boy and - his stomach clenches painfully.

His breath stutters, resentment rising in him. But Buck beats him to it.

“Grief is incredibly messy, Eds. There’s no endpoint to it.”

“I know,” he rubs his face, “But I have this,” he gestures towards the room, “I have you, and Tommy, and Chris is thriving … Then why -”

“Because you love her. Emotions don’t ask for reasons.”

Eddie huffs out a breath, still frustrated. 

“It’s not going to get any easier if you’re trying to will the feelings away.”

He glances at Buck, a retort about therapy speech on his tongue when he hears rummaging in the living room.

“I guess he’s done,” Eddie claps his hand and pushes himself up, calling out, “Tommy, you wanna shoot some hoops?” 

“Eddie,” Buck sighs, but his expression is so incredibly soft that it makes Eddie’s heart skip a beat.

He halts and bends down to give Buck a kiss. “I love you.”

It’s half past eleven, so they have at least half an hour until Tommy’s phone might go off and Eddie feels the stress bleed away from his body ten minutes in. He’s okay. Chris is okay. Tommy is okay. Buck is okay. They’re okay.

It takes Eddie all the self-control he has to not to hug Chris when he’s picking him up from school. Hugs in front of his friends are uncool. At least hugs in private are tolerated, yet.

Chris climbs in and sits down in the passenger seat (it took Eddie two weeks to adjust to that. He isn’t sure if Buck has adjusted yet.) and promptly connects his phone to the car radio. 

“Learned anything exciting today, mijo?”

His son starts talking about the three types of sedimentary rocks and Eddie doesn’t get half of it, and surely isn’t as excited about it as Buck would be, but just hearing Christopher talk, and be excited, is enough to make him fill with warmth.

“I was thinking, if you’re done with your homework before dinner, we could watch a movie after.”

Christopher glances at him.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Smart kid.”

“And Tommy is on call.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “That sounds a lot like a no, champ. Are you ill?”

Christopher scoffs. “I’m just confused. I mean, yeah, of course. As long as it’s nothing boring.”

“Just want to do something nice. And the aquarium really doesn’t fit into a weekday-schedule.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

By some kind of miracle Tommy is still at home when they have dinner and has the brilliant idea of making popcorn. 

Buck and Eddie get settled on the couch, while Chris throws his legs over the armrest of the armchair. 

“One second,” Tommy sets down the second bowl with popcorn and disappears for a moment. Eddie frowns but Buck shrugs cluelessly. They select the movie and Tommy comes back, holding a quilt in his hand. 

“I found it,” he beams at Eddie and sits down next to him, so Eddie is squished in the middle (they really have to get a bigger couch). WIthout hesitation he spreads the quilt over them and Eddie marvels at the colors. It’s obviously a coincidence, probably some gendered bs, but Eddie’s heart fills with warmth when he sees the squares in different shades of blue and turquoise. 

“Tommy, that’s … It’s really beautiful.”

“My aunt made it for me when I was ten,” he explains to Chris and Buck, “I found it in the garage this morning.”

Eddie rests his head on Tommy’s shoulder while caressing Buck’s hand with his thumb, while the opening credits of Back To The Future start playing.

The world might be a fucked-up place, but he has his own little corner inside of it. And that’s everything.

[ink-and-dagger]

Copia Slow-burn sneak peak 👀

So yesterday my follower count hit a number that wouldn't ordinarily be a considered a milestone, but because I'm in the Ghost fandom it definitely is 🎉

BUT I don't have any fics ready to go to celebrate... So I figured I'd share a little sneak peek of the multi-chapter project I've been working on instead.

It's a slow-burn Cardinal Copia romance, and I've chosen the below section because it makes me giggle and I also think it's a pretty good introduction to the reader character.

I'm not going to be giving away the full summary or title just yet, but all you need to know right now is that our sweet, naive, accident prone reader is attempting to break into the Ghost Ministry grounds in the dead of night...

[I hope you enjoy. Any feedback at this stage is super welcome 🙏🏼]

[Unedited draft - may be subject to change]

You adjust your rucksack and turn back towards the Ministry to examine the iron fencing which encircles the grounds. It must be around eight or nine feet tall. The twisting spikes which adorn the top are blunt – more decorative than an actual measure to prevent trespassers – but the vertical bars ensure there are no footholds with which to climb.

You gnaw at your lip. Going home is not an option. You refuse to admit defeat before you’ve even begun. You could wait until morning – find somewhere to hunker down out of the wind until someone comes to unlock the gates – but a well timed duet of thunder and lightning sends that idea scattering. The storm is fast approaching, and you’ve no choice but to find a way in. You’ll be of no use to anyone if you die from exposure.

This is merely the first trial on your pilgrim’s journey.

The sky flashes once more, and the light bounces off a tree trunk fifty yards or so down the perimeter of the fence; a gnarled old oak, with several branches overhanging the very barrier you’re looking to cross. Perfect.

You assess your route as you jog over; plenty of protruding knots and handy branches to grab. You’ve always been a strong climber, and you’re halfway up the trunk in almost no time at all. The lichen-touched bark is thick and tough beneath your palms, and the smell of sap and budding young leaves is bitter-fresh. A tiny, unconscious smile curls the edges of your mouth. It’s so much nicer to climb without someone scolding you from below. 

Before long you’re swinging a leg up and over to sit astride one the thicker branches that breaches the Ministry grounds. You start scooting yourself forward, bit by bit.

Ten feet away from the fence. Eight. Six.

The branch begins to bow beneath your weight. 

You scoot faster.

Four feet. Two—

A splintering snap at your backhas you diving forwards with a panicked yelp. Your fingers latch over the top of the fence just as the wood gives way beneath you; sending your body swinging straight into the iron bars with a resounding clang. You maintain your grip, even though the impact turns your entire skeleton into a glorified tuning fork, and you pray that your kneecaps only feel like they’re broken.

It takes a bit of heaving, but you manage to pull yourself up into an awkward crouch atop the fence; feet slotting in the gaps between the decorative spikes. You peep back over your shoulder towards the branch, now hanging by a few feeble splinters. You wince.

“Sorry tree,” you apologise softly.

The drop you’re now faced with isn’t exceptionally far, but it’s high enough to give you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut, but that only makes your head swim, and your muscles tremble with the effort of stabilising your gradually withering balance. 

“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” you mutter. You can hardly squat here like the world’s most graceless monkey all night. You puff out several quick breaths that don’t actually do anything to help calm your nerves, and then you tip forward.

For a surreal half-moment you’re completely weightless, legs extending, ready to meet the ground—

An almighty rip sunders the nighttime peace, and you jerk to an abrupt halt; shoulders hitching right up to your ears and feet dangling freely beneath you. With some difficulty you manage twist your head to peer upwards from the corner of your eye. 

Yup. Backpack. Spike. Seems you’ve been promoted from graceless monkey to idiot scarecrow.

“Fiddlesticks,” you curse beneath your breath.

You wriggle in midair in an attempt to dislodge yourself. And when that doesn’t work you try kicking backwards off the railings. Of course that only succeeds in swinging you out over the lawn, where you somehow manage to twirl a full circle in the air, (thus twisting the straps into a hopeless muddle above you), before your spine crashes back into the iron fence. Hard.

“Son of a mongoose.”

Why is it that stuff like never happens to anyone else but you?

The bag tears a little more, and you drop an inch lower. You begin frantically cycling your legs, threshing around like a fish out of water— 

The fabric gives way, dumping you into an undignified pile upon the Ministry lawn. 

In the grand scheme of things it’s far from your worst ever landing. The ground is spring-time soft at least, and your panicked squawk could have easily been mistaken for a fox or some other nocturnal creature. Still, you take a moment to lay face down and reevaluate your existence.

The contents of your bag lay scattered around you; nothing more than a few items of clothing and some toiletries. A cheap flip-phone with only a single stored number. A small book, bound in black calfskin leather…

The grass flashes brilliant emerald, and a clap of thunder follows barely a second later. You push yourself up onto your knees with a groan and tug what’s left of your rucksack off your back; grimacing at the pitiful scraps in your hand.

Only the heavens aren’t content to let you sulk for long. They open upon you.

A sheet of rain sweeps across the grounds. A torrential curtain of chilled water that freezes your shocked gasp in your throat and plasters your hair to your skull within seconds. You scramble around the grass on your hands and knees, gathering your meagre belongings and shoving them unceremoniously into your tattered rucksack, hugging the haphazard bundle to your chest as you clamber to your feet—

—and promptly slip back over.

The sky blazes and crashes overhead.

“Not! Helping!” You yell pointedly out into the night, but the blustering wind snatches your voice and carries it away to nowhere. 

You push to your feet, quickly grabbing the sweater and socks which escaped your bundle when you fell again, and manage to remain upright this time as you begin your sprint up the lawn. The rain drives against you with a vengeance, slicing at your skin like tiny knives and leaving you squinting as you battle your way through its ceaseless assault.

The Ministry complex looms just ahead, and you make a dash for what looks to be the main entrance. But as you draw near, you’re greeted with a sight that until now had remained hidden by the crest of the hill. A white-hot needle of terror pierces straight through you, and you skid to an unbalanced halt mere feet away from the promise of cover. You clutch your belongings tighter against your chest, as though they might muffle the pounding of your heart, and you stare wide-eyed down at the marble tiling set in front of the porch. 

A giant, gothically-ornate rendering of a crucifix. Or it would be… were it not upside down.

.

.

[craftercat]

Northern Wei Part 6: The 398-406 Reforms

In 398-406, Tuoba Gui instituted a number of reforms to various administrative and old Xianbei systems in order to adapt his rule to a larger territory than before. During this time, Tuoba Gui was essentially forced to change his systems, which were designed for governing small, Xianbei states. Now, Tuoba Gui governed a state that was a major power and predominantly Han. So what new systems did Tuoba Gui establish. Some of them I mentioned in Part 5, but here is a list of new systems established and major changes to existing systems from 396 to 409:

396: Five ranks of officials are established, and the Han-style local officials are established (WS113).

398, First Month: Established basic social relief policies and systems for local inspection (WS002).

398, Seventh Month: Moved the capital Pingcheng and built palaces and temples (WS002).

398, Eighth Month: Created the capital region, and standardised measurements across the empire (WS002).

398, Eleventh Month: Established a new official system with greater noble ranks. Established court music. Formulated the rites of temple sacrifices, imperial audiences and banquets. Revised the legal code (WS002).

398, Twelfth Month: Dissolved the tribes (may have actually happened earlier, but definitely happened by this point), and established the Eight Units (WS083, WS113). Imperial Academy and scholars created this year.

399, First Month: Established imperial carriage regulations (WS002).

399, Third Month: Added students to the Imperial Academy (WS113).

399, Eighth Month: Compiled ceremonies into a new decree (WS002).

404, Fifth Month: Established a foundry system with convicted criminals sentenced to hard labour making weapons and armour (WS002).

404, Eleventh Month: Compensated the tribal nobility who lost their positions by granting them noble titles (WS002).

405: Abolished the 36 main departments of Directors, a Han official title (WS113).

406: Renovated the region south of the Lei into a new Pingcheng, and established a city organisation system (WS105, WS002).

So how did these reforms actually work? I will discuss the dissolution of the tribes and building Pingcheng as a capital separately, because there is so much to talk about that it warrants its own article. The other things will be talked about here.

Despite attempts at Sinicisation, the granting of noble titles in 404 was clearly meant to appease the Xianbei who were ousted by these reforms.

THE OFFICIAL SYSTEM

A timeline of changes to the official system (WS113):

396: Created five ranks of officials (later became nine), and the local Regional Inspectors (刺史), Governors (太守) and Commanders (令长). Under Han systems, Regional Inspectors were the chief officials of provinces, Governors were the chief officials of commanderies and Commanders were the chief officials of counties.

398: Ordered for official Deng Yuan to create an official system, and establish noble ranks. There had been noble titles granted before 398, but it appeared to be very rare before 398. Established the Ministers of the Eight Units (八部大夫, also referred to as 八部师 and 八部大人), Riding Attendants (散骑常侍), and Edict Attendants (待诏).

399: Split the 36 bureaus of Directors (尚书) into 360 bureaus, led by the Ministers of the Eight Units. Established the subordinate officials of the Ministers of the Eight Units.

400: Established the Grace Recipients (受恩), Receivers of Nurture (蒙养), Leaders of Virtue (长德) and Admonishment Gentlemen (训士). Established the Immortal Scholars (仙人博士).

401: Ordered the tribal protector armies to submit to the generals. Again established 36 bureaus of Directors instead of 360. Abolished the Xiongnu Palace General (匈奴中郎将) and Outer Orchid Terrace Censor (外兰台御史).

404: Established the Six Explanatory Officials (六謁官) and subordinate officials. Reduced the five noble ranks to four. Established five ranks of Dispersed Officials (散官). Established Grand Masters (大师) and Small Masters (小师) of the Eight Units. Established Masters (师) for the commanderies. Established Commanders in Chief (都尉) for the provinces. Established the Ceremonies Master (典师).

405: Abolished the thirty-six Director bureaus. Established the Military Return (武归) and Diligence Cultivators (修勤).

406: Established Inner Officials (内官). Increased the local chief officials' numbers to 3 per province/commandery/county. Established Cavalry Attendants (散骑郎), Hunting Attendants (猎郎), Provincial Commandant Historian (诸省令史), Administrators (省事) and Tally Administrators (典籤)

407: Established Attendant Officials (侍官).

The main things to note is that there is a mix of Han and Xianbei systems, and that positions were often named after virtues Tuoba Gui wanted to see in governance, rather than following old Han names. It is also noted that many of Tuoba Gui's official positions were named after the bird positions of very ancient times.

Despite the fancy names, however, many of these positions were just Han official positions with different names. For example, the Grace Recipients were comparable to the Han position of Distinguished Entrant (特进), the Receivers of Nurture were comparable to the Han position of Glorious Grand Master (光祿大夫), the Leaders of Virtue were comparable to the Han position of Dispelled Minister (中散大夫), and the Admonishment Gentlemen were comparable to the Han position of Remonstrance Official (諫議大夫) (WS113).

I think the purpose of this was to try and appease the still-powerful Xianbei nobility while also streamlining bureaucracy. He was probably thinking "I need to use the old Han systems as a blueprint, but the Xianbei might not like it. Let's have the same jobs but with different names and hope that the Xianbei don't notice". That being said, it appears that Tuoba Si dropped the fancy naming, as Zhou Dan became a Distinguished Entrant and Cui Hao became a Glorious Grand Master instead of being a Grace Recipient or Receiver of Nurture (WS035 and WS091). Tuoba Si was paradoxically both pro-Han gentry and a conservative emperor at the same time, and its reflects in the changes he made to his official system.

The next thing to note about the system is the expansion of the Xianbei system as well as the Han system. Tuoba Gui greatly expanded the Xianbei system in 404 with his establishment of the Masters, even establishing them in commanderies with the same duties as those of the Masters of the Eight Units (WS113). In 405, Tuoba Gui abolished the main Director bureaus (WS113). Directors were a major part of the Han official system, and although they persisted for a while, they were abolished completely in the 410s and were not brought back until Tuoba Tao's reign, in 428.

This suggests that after the dissolution of the tribes, the Xianbei aristocrats still remained a dominant player in court until the time of Tuoba Tao. Tuoba Tao was able to counter the power of the aristocrats by promoting Han officials such as Cui Hao and his faction to oppose them. However, under Tuoba Gui there were few Han officials, and under Tuoba Si, even though Han officials increased, there appears to have been internal conflict within the Han gentry that prevented them from countering the Xianbei. So Tuoba Gui and Tuoba Si, despite their own pro-Han leanings, had to make concessions to conservative Xianbei.

This can also be seen in that when selecting his Attendant Officials, Tuoba Gui selected them from the Xianbei nobility and from the commanderies of Dai, Shanggu, Yanmen and Guangning, which were the most northerly commanderies before reaching the old territory of the Xianbei (WS113). Therefore, these Attendant Officials would be Xianbei or Han who were perhaps somewhat Xianbeified.

RITES AND ETIQUETTE CHANGES

The imperial chariots system was a Northern Wei system for the emperor's travel chariots. There were three types of carriages: 大驾, 法驾 and 小驾 (WS108).

大驾: Had five carriages, and there were 81 carriages accompanying the emperor. The procession was led by the Commander of Pingcheng, Governor of Dai, Commandant of Sili (the capital province), the Grand Marshal accompanied the chariot, and the Grand Servant followed them.

法驾: Had 36 carriages accompanying the emperor. The procession was led by the Commander of Pingcheng, Governor of Dai and Grand Marshal, the Palace Attendants accompanied the chariot. They were created for imperial tours.

小驾: Had 12 chariots accompanying the emperor. The Commander of Pingcheng and Grand Servant led the procession and the Regular Attendants accompanied the chariot. Used for travelling to tour palaces (mostly Cai Mountain Palace under Tuoba Gui).

The main giveaway is that Tuoba Gui wanted to transform to a more sophisticated ceremonies system after taking most of Hebei. As well, there were traditionally 81 carriages accompanying the dajia and 36 accompanying the fajia, and Tuoba Gui following this shows a willingness to follow Han systems.

There were other changes that Tuoba Gui made to the chariot system in order to expand it. I will not go into detail on these other chariots used by Tuoba Gui until Yuan Hong because it's not really important when discussing him. The main thing to note is that while Tuoba Gui was inspired by Chinese ceremonies, there were many elements of his system that did not comply with Chinese regulations (WS108).

So while Tuoba Gui did show willingness to follow Han systems, he did not follow them completely, instead creating a Xianbei-Han system. But I don't intend to spend this article discussing chariot rites, so we'll quickly move on.

Tuoba Gui also created rites on official clothing, but they were not in line with Han systems (WS108).

There were also developments of the sacrifices system under Tuoba Gui (WS108):

Established sacrifices to heaven in the fourth. These followed the old Zhou rites.

Started to sacrifice to the Lord on High and to the Five Sacred Mountains.

Established temples for Tuoba Yulu, Tuoba Shiyijian and Tuoba Shi. Later established a temple for Tuoba Liwei, Tuoba Fu, Tuoba Yulu, Tuoba Shiyijian and Tuoba Shi.

Started to sacrifice to the God of Roads.

Tuoba Gui also established major sacrifice rites. For major sacrifices, he would ride a dajia, with the officials and leaders of vassal states following him to the sacrifice area (WS108).

The changes Tuoba Gui made to the sacrifice system mostly show an increasing Sinicisation, sacrificing to Chinese gods, and greatly expanding the system to create ancestral temples for the old Kings of Dai. This trend continued in the reign of Tuoba Si, who sacrificed to more Chinese gods. (WS108).

In 398, Tuoba Gui expanded the music system, and composed his own dance to honour his ancestors when he was posthumously making them emperors (WS109). He also established the music for various ceremonies. In 403, Tuoba Gui ordered for new tunes to be composed, and a number of performances were created. They were played in the hall during feasts, according to Chinese custom (WS109).

So why am I talking about the rites and music system? Because I think they demonstrate well that Tuoba Gui wanted to adapt his empire to be a more "Chinese" state, even if he didn't yet want to abandon his Xianbei roots. In reforming these systems, Northern Wei took on a more sophisticated character that not only appealed more to the Han but also was intended to develop it in a way that emulated the glory of dynasties like Han and Jin that ruled a unified China.

THE IMPERIAL ACADEMY AND EDUCATION

As well, Tuoba Gui also encouraged education. In 398, after taking Zhongshan, he established the Imperial Academy, with the scholars of the Five Classics and 1000 students (WS084). In 399, he increased the number of students in the Imperial Academy to be 3000 (WS084).

As well, Tuoba Gui ordered for the people to gather together scholarly works in order to collect them in Pingcheng (WS033). In 401, he collected Confucian scholars in the empire to compare words from classics and their meanings, and their work had tens of thousands of characters (WS002). These incidents of Tuoba Gui sponsoring scholarship shows his interest in improving education.

Unfortunately, it's hard to change a society to make them more educated when all they've known is war. His education reforms were great in theory, but in practice, the nobility were more interested in wielding swords than books, due to the fact that there were still wars because of the turbulent nature of the period (WS084).

Tuoba Si himself was known to be interested in scholarship (WS003), but he made very little reform to the education system, though he did call for those with scholarly talent to serve as officials in 413 (WS003). It took until the reign of Tuoba Tao, the unification of the north, and the work of Liang province scholars to change social attitudes towards education (WS084).

Tuoba Gui clearly made important steps towards education in Northern Wei, but education didn't really prosper until Tuoba Tao's reforms, showing the difficulty of trying to change cultural attitudes. The Sixteen Kingdoms had instilled a martial nobility, and it would take time to change that. Tuoba Gui couldn't just flip a switch and expect them to suddenly value education. But his steps were important for laying the foundation for Tuoba Tao.

CONCLUSION

The reforms of this era show Tuoba Gui was both willing to adapt to Chinese systems but that he also didn't want to fully copy them. He didn't want a straight Han system, but he realised that he needed to take elements from Han systems in order to rule a much larger territory than the Tuoba Xianbei had ever had. As well, there were still many reactionaries, and cultural attitudes need time to change. This started a reactionary trend from 405-425, a period that saw a decrease in Sinicisation and in fact notable Xianbeification of the official system, though there was Sinicisation in sacrificial ceremonies during this period, and there was still Han influence. This was due to the power of the former tribes that they still held and the aftermath of a power struggle in 409 that forced a more reformist Tuoba Si to compromise with traditionalist forces. It shows both how rapidly Northern Wei was reforming and the challenges of implementing such rapid reforms.

[bugwolfsstuff]

Wine Child chapter 1

Finnally finished chapter 1 and two of this fic. But i will only be posting those chapters here. the rest will be going on Ao3:

Summary: Mr D pisses off Hebe, gets dumped at camp as an 8 year old.

Chiron: Just a quiet day in Camp Half-Blood....I wish.

It was quiet at Camp Half-Blood. 

That alone should have been my first hint that something was about to go very wrong.

It was the afternoon, Apollo was midway through his daily drive in his sun chariot. Campers were peacefully going about their scheduled activities, and Mr. D hadn't turned anyone into a dolphin.

I was at the archery range instructing the Hephaestus cabin: Issac had actually hit the target and not my back, Shane hadn't gotten into an argument with Kayla Knowles from the Apollo Cabin, and Harley had refrained from shooting his siblings (A very big achievement for him. He will be getting extra dessert at dinner.) Everything was going smoothly. 

Of course, in Camp Half-Blood, even the smallest moments of peace never last long.

I was speaking to the head counsellors, Jake and Nyssa, at that moment about adding proper safety measures to their workshop in cabin nine (despite what some believe, we do have some safety standards at camp, just not very high ones) when suddenly the chatter around us got very quiet.

The unusual hush that fell over the children made me pause mid-sentence. Hephaestus's children were usually quiet like their father, yes, but not to this degree, especially not when they're talking about machinery.

I turned to see what silenced them and internally sighed.

"Good evening, Lady Hebe," I said calmly.

"Hello, Chiron," She replied.

As the goddess of youth, Hebe preferred to take the form of a young woman. Today, however, she looked like a little girl with blonde pigtails, and if I didn't know better, I would say she was around seven or eight. 

She was holding a gym bag almost as big as she was...that was also moving...I don't think gym equipment does that.

She was also smiling.

Which didn't bring me any peace of mind.

"Me and Dio got into a little argument." She said, looking up at me.

Of course he did. Why does that not surprise me in the slightest? I thought. I, of course, did not verbalize my thoughts. That'd be blasphemy....However true it is. 

Instead, I smiled and said, "Ah, sorry to hear that. What kind of argument did you have? If you don't mind me asking."

The fact that she was telling me this scares me. Gods can be dangerous when angered, especially when another god is the one to anger them. If Hebe was angry at Dionysus, then she might take it out on someone he cares about.

Someone like Pollux.

"Well, it's a funny story, really." Hebe's 'innocent' smile persisted as she started swinging the gym bag gently back and forth by the straps. Whatever was inside the bag did not appreciate this movement and started to move even more fiercely, like it was trying to escape. 

"Dio had said some extremely offensive words to me about youth, and I simply couldn't let that slide. So, I decided to teach him a lesson about the value of youth."

Campers had started to gather around us. Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase pushed to the front of the crowd to see what was going on.

My eyes flickered toward the gym bag, and a sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Whatever was inside, it seemed alive and determined to escape.

Hebe's eyes swivelled around to look at the other campers, her grin widening. She twirled the bag straps in her hand, pulling the bag upwards before tipping it upside down.

"What I didn't account for was how whiney he was. So then I thought, hmm, where was the best place where he could learn to appreciate youth? Nowhere else but summer camp!"

The pit in my stomach settled as my eyes focused on the bag, muffled sounds of protest emanating from it as it struggled. I think I just figured out what was in the bag, and gods did I hope I was wrong.

"Welp, I must love you and leave you, demigods!" She unzipped the bag, dumping its contents on the grass, and my worst fear was confirmed.

Purple eyes looked up at me with pure fear.

"No more monsters!"

-----

Chapter 2 on tumblr here