#or if i were writing their pov

[wantonlywindswept]

forgotten fox ficbit

With Palpatine's dying breath, he curses Fox to be Forgotten.

(Fox isn't really bothered.)

---

There was a personnel transfer authorization sitting in Marshal Commander Thorn's crowded inbox.

He didn't remember requesting a fourth commander. The Guard was in desperate need of one following Thire finding Palpatine's wrinkled ass dead in his office, and the ensuing shitshow about the former Chancellor being a Sith and also controlling the war from both sides. Interim Chancellor Organa was incredibly competent and parsecs better than their previous natborn overlord, but even he was being swamped by the uproar in the Senate and the peace talks with the Separatists and the doubled amount of assassination attempts and the petabytes and petabytes of datawork--

Thorn couldn't remember requesting another commander, but he also couldn't remember the last time he slept.

Commander Vertex stood calm and at the ready on the other side of Thorn's desk, all-black helmet tucked under his arm as he waited patiently for Thorn to remember how to read. His hair was stark white, and there were vine-like scars wrapped around his neck that disappeared down into his blacks. The remnants of Sith lightning, Thorn knew, now that they'd been briefed on what that kind of thing looked like. 

Vertex's file was sparse, mostly redacted, and marked him as coming from the Special Operations Brigade, which Thorn could entirely believe.

"This isn't part of an investigation, is it?" he blurted, brain-to-mouth filter entirely gone after five too many cups of caf and an inadvisable number of stims over the past month. "The Guard was already cleared of suspicion involving the former Chancellor's death--"

Vertex held up a hand. Thorn's mouth snapped shut. 

"It's not," Vertex said, his voice firm, reassuring. There was something about it that made Thorn relax, as if his beleaguered hindbrain knew that the other commander had everything under control.

Spec Ops troops were amazing.

"The GAR is just reallocating resources given the recent upheaval," Vertex continued. Thorn nodded along like that all made sense. "I'm here to help with anything you need."

The word 'help' triggered a sudden burst of manic hope in Thorn's chest, and he lurched forward across his desk, grabbing Vertex's free hand in both of his own. The commander didn't even blink at the sudden movement, calmly meeting Thorn's wide, desperate eyes.

"Can you--" Thorn struggled to keep from sounding like he was begging, which he definitely was. "Can you do datawork?"

Vertex's sigh was entirely exasperated, and the roll of his eyes oddly, familiarly fond.

"Yes, Thorn. I can do your datawork."

---

Pt 2

[reineydraws]

Hi hi! For the spotify wrapped art game, can I suggest akataka with 56?

oh, i think i was doomed before i began

56 is special girl by dodie. a particular fave, so im glad u chose mishanks for it since they've been on my mind. :')

wrapped 2023 game

[anistarrose]

The possible explanations for why the fuck Barry could've felt the need to open that scene with "are you afraid?" have been analyzed by this fandom for basically ever since the Red Robe identity reveal, and a lot of people have brought up good theories that I've adopted bits and pieces of from each. But one thing that I haven't actually seen proposed as a factor is this:

Talking to Tres Horny Boys through the facade of the faceless "Red Robe" might've just been Barry's backup plan. Plan A was, quite possibly, to sneak Junior's ichor out of Lucretia's private quarters, be able to actually inoculate THB, and actually have them recognize him. (A proper reunion, with no cryptic warnings. With no dancing around static — just Barry and Tres Horny Boys, actually trusting each other innately.)

Why do I think this is plausible? Let me clarify the timeline a little: at the start of the Petals arc, before THB leave the Bureau, all is normal with their soon to be ex-roommate Pringles/Robbie (Ep. 18). Upon return, THB are informed that at some point during their (overnight, so 24 hour-ish?) absence, Pringles was thrown in the brig (Ep. 28).

It's eventually revealed by Pringles and Barry, in The Suffering Game and Reunion Tour respectively, that Barry possessed Pringles to do "reconnaissance" on the Bureau, specifically on where to find the second Voidfish (ie, Lucretia's private office, which is where Pringles "woke up" and was "arrested summarily").

I will note that Barry describes this as just recon — implying information gathering, and not necessarily a Voidfish ichor heist. However, this was an explanation he gave through a recorded message in the coin, where he was likely choosing his words carefully to confuse THB the least amount possible. And moreover... I just find it hard to believe that Barry wouldn't let himself hope, leading up to and during this infiltration, that he could make it out with the ichor he so desperately needed.

After all, Barry may be Going Through It during the podcast, but he definitely knows that as much as he needs information, it's going to be a lot harder to pull off his eventual heist if Lucretia catches him in the act, and winds up knowing that he has that information. Barry also chose to make his infiltration attempt while the Bureau was distracted, monitoring the Gaia Sash — in a lot of ways, this might've seemed like not just his first chance at the ichor, but also his best chance at it.

Barry's both an incredibly determined and opportunistic, calculating guy. I don't think Barry would've left Pringles' body unless/until he was absolutely cornered; no hope left of getting out with the ichor this time. He wouldn't pass up a chance to restore his family's memories — because of his deep, deep emotional and practical stakes in restoring those memories, first and foremost — but he even feels kinda bad about possessing Pringles (calling it "unfortunate collateral damage"), and would certainly prefer for his unsavory tactics to be, you know, worth it.

So when Barry fails? When he comes away from his mission he's no doubt been planning for weeks, waiting intently and single-mindedly for his chance with the right Relic-based distraction — and it turns out he has information, but no ichor, to show for it? When he fails, Barry's left on the back foot.

He'd dared to hope it might turn out better than this. He'd dared to hope this might be a turning point, and the world might remain in danger, but at least he'd have his family back. He'd dared to hope he might be able to speak to them, in his right mind, with his memories, and be recognized for the first time in a decade.

So when none of that comes to fruition? When he knows his boys won't recognize him yet, no matter what he does? Yet he still needs them on his side? He still needs them to be prepared for the horrors coming?

Well, he just fucking improvises.

"Are you afraid?"

[q--uee--n]

It doesn't quite sit well with me when parts of the fandom act as though they don't understand why, exactly, people become so hyper-defensive/are so hyper-sensitive when people bring up Mel being manipulative. It's because this trait has been weaponized to demean and disparage her at the expense of acknowledging any other nuance/facet about her character, and this also often goes hand-in-hand with ignoring the faults of other characters as to emphasize hers. The fact that Mel is a Black woman can not be put aside as a definitive factor as to why and how she's perceived the way she is—by both the fandom and the writers of the show. I would even argue that one of the show's original sins is a lack of understanding of the real-world intersections between race, class, and colonialism.

In regards to both Mel and Ambessa, this lack of understanding is evident in the writing. Writing that ignores the real-world implications of the Medardas and their social position relative to whiteness, which is one informed by socioeconomic and sociocultural disparities as a result of racism and misogyny. Yes, I understand it's a high fantasy show where things like racism don't exist, so to speak, but Arcane, like all media, is informed by the state of affairs of the world we live in. With classism—classism, which Black people are disproportionately victims of—being a core theme of the show (ostensibly), it's disingenuous to disregard the, from a Doylist perspective, haphazard nature of Mel's function in the narrative as a wealthy Black woman in a classist society juxtaposed against poor, oppressed white main characters (this also applies to Ambessa as a warmonger).

With that said, and harkening back to the beginning of this post, even if you're not bringing attention to Mel's flaws and complexities to demonize her, you have to acknowledge them in the context of her as a Black female character being written with little understanding of intersectionality and how they've been weaponized against her, which are the reasons people—specifically Black woman fans such as myself—are compelled to defend her (or even pretend these flaws don't exist. After all, it's never been a problem in fandom when non-black and male characters' flaws are erased/diminished. It can't suddenly become one now). It's easy to say Mel is a multi-faceted, three-dimensional character, thus, that's why downplaying her flaws is a disservice to her charcter, and this isn't an unreasonable point. However, it's harder to admit that the reason people point out these flaws is not always in the service of acknowledging her complexities but instead in the service of demonizing her due to internalized/unknown biases against Black women. In the end, no one has to like a character. No one even has to defend a character they don't like on principle. No one has to not be annoyed at the sanitization of a multidimensional character. But if those things are being done without an acknowledgement of how the perception of that character is mired by racism and misogyny—knowing or unknowing, from the writers on down—then maybe it's time to address some oversights or unpack some internalized biases before wondering why people feel the need to defend that character.

[asolareclipses]

“Isn’t she a beaut?”

“A what?”

“Gods Nico, you never know what i’m talking about.” Leo sighed, turning his attention away from the chariot he was just boasting about.

“Maybe because you never make any sense,” Nico rolled his eyes anticipating the next comment about to leave Leo’s mouth.

“Or…you’re just an old abuelo,” Leo failed to hold back his smirk.

Nico glared at him, he didn’t speak spanish but he’d heard that word enough to know what it meant. “Call me that one more time fire boy and you’ll wish you died the first time.”

“Holy smokes! Someone’s feisty today,” Leo raised his hands signifying a truce. “Anyways, moving back to the important things, just look at this masterpiece!” Leo gestured back to his creation.

As Nico’s eyes move to scan over the chariot, he had to try not to be visibly impressed. It was incredible. Each wheel had hundreds of gears all lined with celestial bronze and steel. The sides and rims danced with various contraptions, every piece was delicately crafted with the upmost detail. It looked as if it was built to withstand whatever may come in its way.

“You built this in a week?” Nico asked, hoping his awe wasn’t evident in his tone.

“Yeah,” Leo shrugged. “Perfect for the race don’t you think?”

Yeah? Nico almost sang his inner praises to Leo at that moment. But he knew if he were to boast Leo’s ego like that, he wouldn’t see the end of it for days.

“It’s not bad..” Nico spoke carefully.

Leo smirked, “Finally glad you decided to be on my team?”

“I didn’t decide anything,” Nico said. “You begged me for weeks and weeks on end until I said yes, just so you would leave me alone.”

“Hm, funny. I don’t remember that happening.”

“Leo-“

“Anyways- You said you had the horses taken care of?” Leo masterfully changed the subject.

Nico nodded with a sigh.

Leo stared at him, before looking around as if he were expecting something. “Well…where are they?”

“Right, you might want to step back.” Nico suggested.

“Step back why would I-“ Leo was cut off by the ground beginning to rumble, kicking up dust and small rocks. “Right that’s why,” he hurriedly stepped backwards.

The grass shivered and after a moment of rumbling, a bone popped out from the ground. It was then followed by another and another. Soon several bones came together forming two skeletal horses. They moved similar to regular horses, if regular horses had no skin or organs.

Nico stepped back, admiring his work. In the back of his mind he imagined the future lecture he’d receive from Will. ‘What did I say about unnecessary power usage?’ Still, looking at the horses, Nico figured it was worth it.

“Woah,” Leo smiled. “That’s so much cooler than a regular horse, or even a robot one.”

“More durable too, any attack and they’ll just reassemble.”

“Dude!” Leo was now practically jumping up and down, “we are so going to win this!”

Part of Nico wanted to join Leo in the excited jumping. But the other part of him thought that would be out of character; what this ‘character’ of himself was though, he didn’t know. Nico had struggled with displaying his excitement, every time he felt that burst of joy. That buzz of happiness. It reminded him of when he was younger, first arriving at camp with that same feeling. He wondered where that little boy had gone.

A horn blew, drawing Nico out of thoughts.

“That’s Chiron,” Leo said. “Time to head to the starting line.” A devilish grin appeared on his face that made Nico a little nervous. Clearly Leo’s chariot was armed with machinery that would even make the Stoll brothers jealous.

As they stood in the chariot at the starting line, Nico rethought all his life decisions. Why had he agreed to do this race again? At the time it seemed like the only way to get Leo to leave him alone, since he had been profusely begging Nico to team up with him every day. Now Nico couldn’t decide which one was worse, and annoying Leo or a brutal chariot race. Suddenly a cold chill ran down Nicos spine, he couldn’t place it but something was wrong.

Before he could dig deeper into this feeling, Chiron blew his horn again, signaling the beginning of the race. The chariot promptly took off, immediately blasting ahead with the upmost speed. Nico had to grip the railing just to not go flying off, struggling as the winds made it hard to keep his eyes open.

The Athena chariot tried to launch a net from behind them in an attempt to catch the chariot, but it wasn’t fast enough. Instead, the net came flying back at their chariot getting caught in the wheels and sending the campers into a panic. At the same time the Stoll brothers were shooting some contraption they’d made at the Ares cabin. When resulted in both chariots veering off track and into the woods.

As they continued to speed up, Nico watched as all the other chariots got farther and farther away. He’d began to think this was going to be a lot easier than he’d initially thought.

“Works just like a dream!” Leo yelled over the winds.

Nico nodded, pointing to the floating finish line, Chiron had decided the chariots needed to not just be fast but be able to account for height too. Of course for Leo that had been an easy task. For the others, well they had to hope their pegasuses were strong

Sooner than expected they were nearing the finish line, and Nico waited for something to go wrong. He was sure the others would catch up and give them a hard time, but when he looked back the other chariots were still lagging behind.

Then a hint of smoke began to fill the air, slowly becoming stronger. Nico looked around, the chariot was shaking now. A deep rumbling that shook his whole body. More smoke started pouring out from the golden edges, polluting Nico’s lungs.

Leo looked shocked, rushing around as he tried to find the culprit of the smoke. “I don’t get what’s wrong?”

A fire sprung up and danced along the rims of the chariot, Nico stepped away, coughing as his lungs begged for clean air. He looked at Leo with panic in his eyes at the same time Leo seemed to realize that Nico wasn’t immune to smoke.

“Oh gods what do we do?” Leo called out.

Turns out Nico didn’t need to answer that question because in a blast of light the chariot exploded, sending them both flying.

The world went black.

—

Why did every creation of his blow up? That’s what Leo wondered as he plummeted from the sky. He figured he would turn into a Leo pancake when he hit the ground, splat.

The idea would’ve made him laugh if he weren’t currently falling to his death. Leo could still see the flaming chariot above him, another masterpiece blown to pieces. Maybe that would be his legacy, the demigod who destroyed everything he made.

The wind was fast as he fell, blowing through his hair and stinging his eyes. It was eerily familiar, probably because it wasn’t the first time he’d fallen from the sky. As he fell further, Leo tightly shut his eyes, expecting to hit the ground any second. But instead he felt something hit him. Well, less like hit and more like grab. When he opened his eyes, he almost jumped out of his skin.

Jason had caught him, he was now face to face with him. Startlingly close. All Leo could see were his striking icy blue eyes. He felt Jason’s arms tightly secured around his waist, and he felt the breath of relief Jason sighed when he realized Leo was safely in one piece.

Why Leo obsessed over each of these small incriminate details, he would never say.

“Thanks superman,” Leo grinned nervously. He hoped the blush across his face wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

Jason glared at him as they began to descend to the ground. “Next time i’ll let you fall.”

Leo was about to make another comment when his heart dropped, “Nico.”

Jason’s eyes widened as he looked up at the chariot. They seemed to flicker across the sky, as he tried to locate the other chariot rider. “Oh gods.”

Splash.

Just in time Leo turned to see Nico plunge into the lake, Jason had been too far to reach him seeing as they’d somehow been blasted in two different directions.

Leo’s shirt was still smoking from the explosion and his bones felt like jelly, but it didn’t stop him from rushing to the lake as soon as they touched the ground.

Will had gotten there first, he’d always managed to get there first. He began dragging Nico from the water, a crowd of panicked demigods forming around them.

As soon as Nico was pulled to shore Leo stumbled his way over, pushing through the crowd. “Is he okay? Is he breathing? Oh gods this is all my fault.” He stuttered and tripped over his words as the guilt built up inside his stomach like rocks. He shouldn’t have made Nico join this stupid race, he should’ve known it would go wrong. Everything he did always went wrong.

“Leo, don’t say that.” Jason stepped forward putting a hand on Leo’s shoulder.

Leo wanted to believe him but the guilt was overpowering it consumed his mind.

He silently watched as Will hummed placing his hand on Nico’s chest. Leo didn’t know what he’d do if Nico didn’t wake up, but luckily he did. Shooting up, coughing and spluttering, Leo recognized the look of relief that flashed across Wills face.

Jason’s hand gripped Leo’s shoulder tighter as he remembered to breathe. Suddenly his adrenaline rush crashed and so did he. His knees went weak and he would’ve fallen if Jason hadn’t caught him, again.

“You okay?” Jason asked softly. A warm tone that felt delicate and strange, yet it reassured Leo every time he heard it.

Leo nodded, looking back at Nico who was smothered in a hug from Will. He seemed to be repeatedly telling Will he was okay, despite him being dripping wet with several burnt holes in his shirt.

Nicos seemed to search the crowd until he locked eyes with Leo, he figured Nico would be incredibly pissed off at him. But he wasn’t, his eyes flashed a look of concern before he mouthed you okay?

Leo nodded as convincingly as he could, overly aware of Jason’s warm presence behind him, being the only thing holding him up.

The crowd was dispersing as Will managed to pull Nico to his feet, draping his arm across his shoulders. “Both of you,” he looked towards Leo, “infirmary. Now.”

On the way, Jason did most of the walking, as Leo’s new jelly legs hadn’t regained their sense of feeling yet. His whole body was aching by the time they’d reached the infirmary. Turns out, being exploded hurts. Shouldn’t have been surprising as he’d been exploded before.

As Leo sat on the infirmary bed his mind was spinning. He thought through every piece of bronze, every gear, wondering what had gone wrong. He had double, scratch that, triple checked to make sure everything was in tip top shape. Yet something still went wrong, seemingly out of nowhere. He replayed when the fire broke out, despite his frantic waving and patting down of the fire it didn’t extinguish. The realization hit him like a semi truck.

“Greek fire,” he said out of nowhere while Jason and Will rushed around; checking that he and Nico weren’t severely injured.

“What?” Jason said, his hand freezing in place as he picked up a bandage.

Nico inhaled sharply, looking at Leo as if he immediately understood. After hanging out for so long Nico had learned how to understand whatever thought process Leo was on, “That’s what it was, that’s why it kept burning. Why was it in the chariot?”

“I don’t know,” Leo sighed. He racked his brain for any contraptions that would lead to the emergence of greek fire. But he was sure that it wasn’t built into his chariot at all. “I never used greek fire, I don’t get how it would just erupt like that…unless…”

Jason’s eyes widened, “Do you think someone put it there on purpose?”

Leo met his eyes, he knew an accusation like this was dangerous. It meant that someone intentionally sabotaged their chariot, in a way that could only be intended to kill.

“But why would someone try to hurt you with fire?” Jason asked.

Leo felt his heartbeat stick in his throat, “Maybe I wasn’t the one they were intending to harm.”

He looked over at Nico whose face was now unreadable.

“You’re saying someone tried to kill Nico?” Will asked, his tone laced with anger.

“That or they meant to injure him severely, I guess they didn’t account for the explosion preventions I had in place.” Leo replied.

“Explosion preventions?” Jason asked, his eyebrow tilting up in the way it always did when he was confused.

“Yeah, I figured with my track record i’d add an extra layer of protection. Something that would lessen the impact of a possible explosion. That’s why we went flying away and not…well everywhere.”

“First of all, that’s impressive.” Jason spoke, “Secondly, who would intentionally try to hurt Nico?”

No one answered. None of them could fathom the idea that someone in camp would deliberately do something like this. Leo grasped at straws to find meaning, to find an excuse as to why this happened. But there was nothing. He knew Nico had never done any harm to cause this, he’d been nothing but a hero. He thought that everyone knew that, that everyone should know that. So why did this happen?

“We should talk to Chiron,” Jason said, breaking the heavy silence that filled the room.

—

Will was fuming. Almost literally. He was sure if he’d been Leo his whole body would be aflame. The idea that someone had targeted Nico in such a way, was impossible for him to swallow. His anger felt hot, it bubbled up like a volcano inside of him. He could feel it ready to erupt any second as he dug his nails into his palm.

Then a light touch pulled him from his inner turmoil. A cold hand had slipped its way between his fingers, releasing the tension. Will looked over at Nico and felt a wave of guilt, he hadn’t thought about how Nico must be feeling now.

Years ago Will had told Nico that he was welcome at camp, that no one had pushed him away. Now someone had tried to kill him.

His guilt was followed by fear. Will tightly squeezed Nico’s hand, pouring every ounce of assurance into the touch and praying in his mind that this situation wouldn’t influence Nico to run away again. Just the thought of Nico suddenly disappearing like he had years ago made his heart feel like it was being suffocated slowly. He had to remind himself Nico was okay, he was right by his side.

Explaining what had happened to Chiron was the easy part, it was Dionysus who was difficult.

“We must find this traitor at once!” Mr D. stood up slamming the table, vines began to crawl up from the floor and around the table legs.

Will had never seen him so mad. Of course, if it were anyone else he’d probably just shrug it off. But this was Nico. So Mrs D. was reasonably pissed.

“We have to handle this carefully,” Chiron said; his eyes were filled with a deep sense of sadness and disappointment. He too couldn’t imagine why someone had done this.

“Carefully?” Mr. D asked, his eyes glowed with a dangerous hue of purple. “I say we round everybody up and unrelentlessly interrogate them until the rat comes out.”

“We cannot tortue innocent campers in hopes of finding the culprit,” Chiron calmly explained.

“We can’t. I can.”

“Then you would be punished by several angry gods.”

Mr D. had no response this time, sighing as he sat back down. The vines following suite as they shrank back into the floorboards.

“I don’t understand who would’ve done this, and why now?” Jason said, his eyes seemed to be clouded in worries.

“Leo, is there anyway this could’ve been a prank taken too far?” Chiron asked, there was a sort of desperation in his eyes.

“I really wish it was, but there’s no way they couldn’t of known about the precautions. I added the explosion barrier last second. The greek fire must’ve been somewhere near the engine, whoever put it there wanted the chariot to catch fire and explode. Midair,” Leos voice was somber, he leaned listlessly on his elbows which set on the table.

Jason watched Leo carefully, his face seemed to analyze Leo’s every movement, every word. Will recognized his attentiveness.

Chiron sighed, “We will investigate this. Perhaps there is someone, something, whispering things to the demigods again.”

“We can talk to Clovis,” Will added. “If it’s something to do with dreams or visions he might be able to help.”

Chiron nodded, “Just be careful. I don’t know how whoever did this will react if they catch on that we are suspicious.”

Will nodded, he couldn’t help but notice how silent Nico had been. He seemed to be lost in thought. Will wish he could crawl into his brain and disintegrate all the negative thoughts.

It appeared Mr D. was also concerned, his face flashed with worry as he looked over at Nico.

“We’ll talk to Clovis tomorrow,” Will made the executive decision. “You two need rest.”

Jason agreed, not allowing Leo to protest by quickly grabbing him and dragging him out the door way. “Let’s go hotshot.”

It was dark, a cold breeze blowing through camp as Will and Nico walked; a blanket of silence lay between them. Nico seemed to be trapped inside his mind again, his eyes dancing with unspoken worries.

“You okay?” Will asked as softly as possible, reaching out to touch Nico’s shoulder.

Nico nodded, “I guess.”

Will frowned, “You guess?” He expected Nico to lie and hit him with a ‘I’m fine’ like he normally did.

“I’m not sure what to think to be honest.” Nico replied, he began chewing on his bottom lip; a nervous habit Will had taken note of several times.

“Yeah...” Wills voice was quiet, his racked his mind for the perfect thing to say, but came back with nothing.

The two of them kept walking as Nico slightly leaned into Wills touch, despite his uncertainty he still sought comfort.

“I’ll stay in your cabin tonight,” Will paused, “to protect you.”

Nico face spread into a smile, a smile that punched Will right in his stomach. He felt a sense of relief to see him smile, “Yeah i’m sure that’s the reason.”

“What?” Will raised his hands in false defense, “It’s a perfectly reasonable excuse.”

“Uh huh, super convincing.” Nico’s voice was coated with sarcasm, which was a stark contrast to the smile that danced across his face.

“It’s an excuse that would hold up in court, you know i’m not a lawyer but I know these things-“

Nico cut him off by grabbing his hand, “Come on sunshine.” He tugged Will lightly towards his cabin, it was obvious he didn’t want to be alone. That’s not to say Will didn’t want to stay with him on his own accord, obviously it was a little bit for himself. But mostly for Nico, mostly.

—

“Gods Leo use your legs.”

“I can’t they feel like jello, my arms too, and my-my everything!” Leo whined as he let himself be dragged along by Jason.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head in the explosion too?” Jason feigned annoyance. He was intentionally bantering with Leo, trying to boost the mood. Anything that could distract him from the fact of a potential murderer in camp was good, and Leo was really good at distracting.

“I think the explosion hit everything,” Leo stumbled. Jason quickly caught him, snaking his hand around Leo’s waist. He hoped Leo couldn’t hear his heartbeat which was pounding so loudly in his ears.

“You’re clearly incapable of walking,” Jason sighed. He figured he was getting quite good at acting as he almost believed his own false annoyance. “Just let me carry you or at this rate we’re going to be eaten by harpy’s.”

Leo smirked, “If you insist.”

Leo was a light weight against Jason’s back as he locked his arms around Leo’s legs; and when Jason walked, Leo’s arms dangled from around his shoulders. Then with a sigh he rested his chin on the top of Jason’s head.

“Dang the weather is pretty nice up here,” Leo said, his hands absently drumming against Jason’s shirt.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jason replied, earning a small thump against his chest.

Leo paused as he noticed where Jason was headed, “Correct me if i’m wrong, but this does not look like the way to my cabin.”

“Well..” Jason almost panicked looking for any excuse, “I figure you need to be watched over. You know, with your jello legs and brain.”

“Aww,” Leo teased, “are you scared?”

Jason tried to bite back a smile when his lame excuse succeeded. “Yes, terrified.”

“Don’t worry Jace, I’ll protect you from the big bad scary Zeus statue.” Leo giggled as he tightened his arms around Jason.

Jason smiled, he didn’t say the real reason he’d wanted Leo to stay with him. He didn’t say it was because he worried about his safety, that he didn’t want him beating himself up with guilt. Or that he’d seen Will sneak into the Hades cabin and felt a sense of envy.

Jason contentedly carried Leo on his back into the cabin; and as they entered Leo seemed to shrink against Jason whispering, “He’s looking at me,” before bursting into giggles.

“Now you know how I feel every night,” Jason complained. He walked over to his bed, where he’d recently gotten a divider; placing it so that his view of the statue was obscured. When he reached the bed he turned and promptly dropped Leo onto his bed.

“Ouch,” Leo said, sprawling out on the bed with his eyes closed and tongue stuck out as if he were emulating roadkill.

“Looks like jello boy died, what a shame.”

Leo opened one of his eyes and when he saw Jason was still staring at him he closed it again; a grin began spreading across his face, though he’d tried to hold back.

“You leave me no choice,” Jason rubbed his hands together, creating a harmless amount of static electricity. “Clear!” He called out thrusting his hands towards Leo.

A small shock was produced and Leo sprung up falling onto the floor with a yelp, pieces of his curly hair stuck up in the static.

Jason burst into laughter, almost doubling over as his whole body shook.

“What the hades man,” Leo looked up at him with wide eyes.

“I resurrected you,” Jason said between giggles. He’d laughed so hard his eyes began to water.

Leo stood up, patting down his hair. “Okay, i’ve been resurrected before and it did not feel like that.”

Jason shrugged, “What can I say? I’m too good.”

Leo shoved him lightly, pretending to be mad although he was still smiling. “Whatever, because of that you’re sharing the bed.”

“Fine.” Jason pretended it was an inconvenience. In reality he was desperate to be near Leo, to be by his side in any way possible. As close as possible. Leo emanated this warmth in a way Jason had become addicted to. It was a warmth that filled his bones and soul completely and fully.

So when Leo curled up next to him, it took all of Jason’s willpower not to wrap his arms around him and bask in the warmth. Just being beside him had to be enough, yet still he yearned for the full closeness.

Soon he heard the soft breathing from Leo next to him, the moonlight from the window filtering in and sparkling my across his face. His eyelashes look so delicate in the light and the splash of freckles across his face started to resemble a constellation. Jason almost hoped that the moment would last forever; that tomorrow wouldn’t come. He didn’t want to face the harsh truth that someone in camp had tried to hurt his friends. He didn’t want to leave Leo’s side. Not again. The fear of losing him was always so strong because he’d lost him before, they’d both lost each other. Now they were together again and Jason prayed that they could stay that way.

But he doubted anyone was listening to that prayer.

(Part Two)

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Interlude A

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Chapter Index

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, John goes to mandated therapy, Manipulation, domestic daydreams, abuse of CIA connections, hey Kate's here!

~3.3k - MDNI - Less of a darkfic at this point, but just be mindful

It’s strange to be back in London.

John still comes here once a week— A staunch refusal to switch to a new therapist, even if it would save him the short flight from Aberdeen Airport every Friday, his whole day eaten away by travel and the hour appointment with Dr. Clara.

He doesn’t like her. She thinks he’s stubborn and resistant.

She’s probably right.

For the first time, he thinks it might be a good idea to switch. Or stop coming in personally, conduct therapy online. Being away from Dalisay bothers him. He doesn’t like that she’s alone in the house. If something happened, he’d be so far away. She’d seen him off, kissed him at the door, said she’d make dinner for when he got back. She wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t want to. He had to trust her, even if it was a difficult thing to do.

It would probably kill him if he came home to an empty house.

“How have you been, John?” Kate’s voice on the phone sounds worried. He must have been in bad shape when he saw her last week. He hardly remembers. He feels like his old self again, centred, steady.

“Good. Better. Soap introduced me to someone.” Introduced being a generous term for what happened. “She’s been stayin’ with me.”

“You’re seeing someone?” The surprise in her voice is palpable. “John—”

“She’s somethin’ special, Kate. You’d like her.”

Kate hums in a way that implies that she doesn’t believe him. “What’s her name?” she asks, faux-casual. She wants to look Doll up.

“Dalisay Valmorida.” In truth, he wants to know more too. Without any resources, he couldn’t find much. Doll kept her social media private, and snooping through her email hadn’t revealed much of anything either, except lead him to a totally anonymized profile on a kink website that told him that she was interested in submission and ropes (could she be any more perfect?), and had a few pictures of the prettiest tits he’d ever seen. She has a tattoo on her ribs, apparently, floral and intricate, and he wants to drag his teeth over it. Hopes he gets a chance to. “But I’m not worried. She’s a sweetheart, Kate.”

“She’s staying with you?”

“Yeah.” He wracked his brain for something that wouldn’t sound both criminal and insane. "She was living in a bad neighbourhood, and lost her nanny job. Soap—”

Kate makes an amused sound. “Thought you needed looking after, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that. We were in a position to help each other, I s’pose.”

“How long has she been there? You didn’t mention her when I saw you last week.”

“She’s only been there since Friday night. Her place got broken into, we moved up the timeline.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Kate, there’s lots of things I’m not telling you.

“John, when you say you’re seeing her…”

“It’s new. It’s nice. I have a good feeling about Doll. I’m trying not to rush things, but you know me.”

“Well. Let’s grab lunch after your session. I’ll see what I can dig up before then. Usual place?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Alright. See you then.” She hangs up, brusque as ever.

He gets off the tube at the next stop and walks to the low-rise office building his therapist works out of. Greets Brenda that works the front desk, sits in the waiting room. He’s fifteen minutes early, just like always.

He sends Doll a text while he’s waiting, just asking how her morning’s going, and gets a response almost right away, a picture of the puppy they’d gone to see last week. The picture’s blurry, the pup too excited to hold still.

Doll: Mel came by after she dropped the kids off at school. We’re having tea at hers (:

John: Have fun, sweetheart.

His chest loosens a bit. She wasn’t planning on leaving him. She’s making friends with his friends, putting down tentative roots. He didn’t have to worry. He didn’t have to worry. He thinks about talking to Melissa about adopting the little thing. Seeing Doll coo and fuss over a puppy would probably make him act like a fool, but she’s been forgiving about the more honest things he’s said so far.

"John?" Dr. Clara calls him in. "Nice to see you. How was your trip down?"

"Fine. Same as always." John sits in the usual chair, and looks around the room like usual, clocking everything in it's usual space, except the tissue box on the table and a trashcan sitting closer to the chair than it’s usual position. Every other week the appointment just before his is a watery sort of woman, but he had been looking at his phone rather than at the door, letting himself relax enough to not notice the woman leave the room. "How are you?" Its a perfunctory question, going through the motions of politeness.

"Good." Dr. Clara settles into her own chair, notebook out. She's close to his age, beautiful in a cold, precise sort of way. Thin, a perfectly straight razor sharp bob framing her face. "Who were you texting?" she asks.

This throws off their rhythm. Usually she starts by asking if he'd done any of the journaling she asked him to do (he never did), and then if he'd gone down to the local legion to connect with other veterans (he hadn't).

"I— She's a friend. Of Soap's. Stayin' with me for a bit. String of bad luck, poor thing, lost her job and her apartment got broken into in the same week." The half truth comes more easily the second time. "She was really shook up."

"And you don't find the introduction of a new person into your routine disruptive?"

John frowns. "I think her comin’ along was disruptive in a good way. I needed to change some things around."

Dr. Clara raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Eatin' better. Couldn't be arsed to cook just for me, but I'm gettin' three squares a day now. Haven't had a drink since Saturday. She likes a cuppa around the same time I'd usually have a night cap. Sleepin' a bit better." He bites back a smile. "The other day, I was workin' outside while she painted-- She's an artist, and a bloody good one— and she reminded me to rest my ankle. Still gets sore when I push too hard."

"Tell me more about her."

"We're still getting to know each other, but she's sweet. Patient. Not afraid to tell me what she thinks."

"Why would she be afraid?"

"I can be… well, you know how I can be. And she's just a soft little thing. Wouldn't blame her if she was nervous." John shrugged. "She's beautiful too.. Brightens up the whole room when she smiles. And funny. Makes clever comments. And has this way of celebrating moments for no reason at all. Had me spinnin' around in the rain the other day. Thinkin' about gettin' her a puppy."

Dr. Clara taps the end of her pencil on her notepad, clearly conflicted. This is the most John's spoken in a session without her having to pull it out of him word by word, but… "A puppy? John don't you think that might not be an appropriate gift for a woman you've known for, um…" she looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the gap.

"Well. A week," John admits. "But we've got a real connection. Something special."

"Is she planning on staying with you long term?"

"She might. I'd like her to."

"So you have intense feelings for a woman you don't know, and all your short-lived progress is based on her presence, is that what you're saying?"

John's eyes narrow. Of course it sounds crazy to her. She doesn't know Dalisay. "I know her."

"Do you? You met her just a week ago, John." Dr. Clara sighs. "Do you think maybe you see winning her over as a mission? That you're returning to that rigid military mindset that brought you to me in the first place?"

John shakes his head. "It wasn't the military mindset that brought me here. It was those damn pills."

"John—"

"No, I know what you're going to say. Don't bother."

“John. If you know what I’m about to say, I’d like to hear you say it.”

He huffs, and looks away, drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s hard to meet her steely gaze for long. He doesn’t like being scrutinized, and that’s all these sessions are. "You'd usually say something like, almost losing Soap led me to take risks I shouldn't've, that I blame myself for his injury, that the stress of trying to make sure my team never got hurt in a field where getting hurt is inevitable put me under tremendous stress, and that my own injury left me with nothing but time to contemplate my guilt. The pain killers were a way to turn the feelings off."

Dr. Clara nods, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "So you do listen."

"I don't see what this has to do with Dalisay."

She gives him a pitying look over her reading glasses. "You don't give yourself room to make mistakes, John. That inflexibility is the problem. If you build good habits on someone else's foundations, what happens if they leave? You'll be right back where you started."

“You’re so sure she’ll leave?”

Dr. Clara sets her notebook down in her lap and leans forward, hands clasped together. “It’s not about her, John. It’s about you. You are worth doing this work for. You have to be able to stand on your own two feet. People are fallible. Things happen, we lose people we care about. It’s part of living. The only person you can’t live without is John Price.”

He crosses his arms. “You told me I needed to make connections with other people.”

“I did. And you still should. But this is not what I meant and you damn well know it. Jumping into a relationship when you’re still struggling like this is not going to be healthy. You’re headed for codependency at best. If you really care about this woman, you need to consider what she needs too. If she told you she was seeing a veteran that struggles with substance abuse, that turns any negative feelings into anger, that can’t compromise or be flexible, that needs to be in control—”

“I get it. I’d tell her she deserves better.”

“So be better, John. Start with the journal. Actually buy one before you go home. There’s a stationary shop down around the corner.”

He snorts. “You get a commission for sending your patients there?”

“Yes, John, you’ve unearthed my diabolical plot. I’m in cahoots with the stationary store,” she says dryly. “It doesn’t matter where you buy the damn journal from. Write your feelings on the back of a receipt for all I care. Just try. If all you write down every day is that you hate that I’m making you do it, that’s still progress.”

“Alright, alright.” He supposes he can cede a little ground. Dr. Clara has been going on about that since their first session, so maybe there’s something to it.

He finds himself walking into the stationary store and breathing in the scent of paper and ink and glue. It reminds him of Doll’s art store. He wonders if she’d like a place like this. Probably. She’d probably tell him to listen to Dr. Clara too.

Running his fingers over the spines of the shelf of journals, he stops at one with a soft leather cover. He pulls it down and thumbs through the pages. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly, but it has lines and a spot for the date at the top of each page, so that’s probably good enough. The man at the counter asks if he needs a pen too, and he glances at the one the man’s holding, a fountain pen with a shiny wood-grain finish, and swallows the no that nearly leaves his tongue.

“Sure. Yeah.”

He meets Kate at a pub not far from the London base. She’s still working, of course, just like he should be, but unlike him, she didn’t have a breakdown that cost him everything. When things happen that Kate can’t handle, she can beak down privately, and her wife puts her back together, better than new. He’s been envious of that for a long time, of that stability that Kate gets to come home to.

She’s working on something, tapping away at her phone when he settles across from her, but she glances up and gives him an apologetic smile. “Hey, John. Just give me a second, I have to finish replying to this email.”

He just nods, used to this. Kate’s always in the middle of something. He waits patiently while she works, and quietly orders a tea when the server comes around to ask.

He doesn't miss the questioning look from Kate. She sets her phone down and really studies him, eyes narrowed.

"What?" He asked.

"We've gotten together for lunch almost every week for the past year, and this is the first time you haven't ordered a beer."

"Don't feel like having one."

"You're sleeping better too. You look good, John."

He couldn't deny that he felt better. More like himself. Settled in his skin, engines rumbling, ready for anything. "I guess Doll's been a good influence. You looked her up?"

"I did. Not much of a presence online. Found an old art blog that she hasn't updated for years, has a couple of very sparse social media accounts. Was two years into a fine arts degree from Manchester university when she switched to english lit. Worked part time as an educational assistant in an elementary school, and then started working for Kevin and Isla Kinsey five years ago."

"That's it?" He's not sure if that's a relief or a disappointment. He knows most of that already.

"No. She's had some involvement in anti-war groups, nothing major, but I pulled that thread all the way to the terrorist attack on Piccadilly Circus back in 2019. Her parents were both killed."

"Huh." That explained a lot.

"Michelle actually knows her. She curated a show that Angela— her mother— was featured in. That's why they were in London in the first place."

"Christ. No wonder she dropped painting for so long."

"Has she picked it back up? She should call Michelle once she's put a few things together. She has what Michelle calls a compelling story."

"I'll let her know." He sighs. "Anything else?"

"She's an only child, but there’s lots of family in the Philippines, a grandmother in Aberdeen. A few cousins in Canada and the states. Pretty much all clean, keep out of trouble types. There's not much more I can tell you from my end, unless you want me digging through the filing cabinet at her old therapist's office. Old school, offline records." Kate shrugs. "I could. But I think you'd be better off just talking to her."

"Probably. Thanks, Kate. Kinda had it in my head that she was too good to be true." John flashes a smile at the server when she brings him his tea, and orders a salad, which really has Kate looking at him like he's mad.

"You keep this up, you could come back to work," she says. "You just need Clara to sign off on you. Which means consistency."

"Yeah. I'm tryin' her journal idea. Not sure that I'd go back anyway. Maybe it was just time." A few weeks ago, he would be chomping at the bit to go back. But now that there’s something else to give him some purpose, he’s not sure he wants to.

"Up to you. You're not there yet anyway. Now, I want to hear about this girl from your side." Kate picks up her soda (always diet, always something caffeinated) and gives him a pointed look.

He talks about Doll for a bit, gets a bit more work talk out of Kate, and when they part ways, they tentatively talk about Kate and Michelle coming up to meet her before long. It’s a nice thought. He'd like to get the lads back up too, but Kate’s a safer bet to start. Doll might forgive the boys if they grovel enough, and if things are looking promising between her and John. It's always easier to justify an overstep if the results are ultimately positive, so he has to make sure that Dalisay is happy and settled before he considers it.

It'll be a tough road if she doesn't want to reconcile with them. Not impossible, but he wants all of his people to get along. He wants his kids to know the men that have stood by him for all these years.

He sends a few texts to Dalisay, but there’s no response. He spends the short flight rationalizing why she might not have noticed her phone. Maybe she’d left it in her purse when she got back from Mel’s, or let the battery run out. She wouldn’t leave without telling him. She wouldn’t.

By the time he gets to his truck, he’s convinced that something’s happened.

He makes the hour drive back in forty minutes, parks erratically, and runs for the house, gravel sliding under his feet, his ankle twinging.

He tumbles through the door, half expecting a disaster, a crime scene, and instead sees something out of his most revisited domestic daydreams, set to some bouncy sort of pop music.

Dalisay is leaning over the stove, hips moving to the music, wearing a pretty floral skirt, socks pulled up over her thick calves to the knee, her feet sliding on the tiles as she moves. Her soft dark hair is up in a messy bun, a pencil and a paintbrush stuck through it. The whole house smells amazing, whatever she has cooking sure to be well worth the light lunch. There's a painting started on a canvas set up in the living room, just a soft gradient of blue and gold. And best of all, when she does a little spin and notices him at last, she beams at him. "John! You're home!"

"I am," he agrees, grinning back when she throws herself into his arms, squeezing him tight around the middle. He wraps his own arms around her shoulders, relishing the press of her soft little body against his. "How was your day, Doll?"

"It was really nice! I had a good time chatting with Mel, and I made dinner. And dessert even." She doesn't make any move to pull away, just looks up at him, pretty dark eyes fixed on his face. There’s an echo of relief in her eyes too, like she had been as worried about him, as he had been about her. "I'm glad you're home safe. You really go all the way down to London every week?"

He nodded. "I could change doctors, but I get lunch with a friend while I'm there— Kate. You'd like her. Maybe, once you're settled in a bit more, we could invite her and her wife up for dinner."

"Oh, that would be nice. So long as she's more sane than the friends I've met so far."

"Considerably. Can I kiss you hello?"

She hummed, as though she were considering it, although the laughing look in her eye said yes long before she gave a verbal affirmation.

He's the luckiest man in the world, he thinks as he leans down to kiss her soft lips.

Things are looking up. Things are good. And it's all thanks to to her.

He's going to make her the happiest woman in the entire world. She deserves nothing less. She deserves his best too, and he’s determined to be a better man than he has been in a long while.

She breaks the kiss by dropping her heels back to the floor. “Are you hungry? Dinner’s almost ready. We have time for a cup of tea first, if you’d like.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Image Credits: Banner - Banner Background - Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[bookshelf-in-progress]

No matter how many times it happens, I'm always shocked by how reliably all my problems with any given story are solved by making it shorter. If I go into a story with the idea that it'll be long, that I should use as much detail as I want to craft a full-length and fully-fleshed-out story instead of a short one, it always turns into this rambling, meandering, soulless thing that's no fun to read, and I get tangled up in so many flimsy, sprawling layers of character and worldbuilding that the plot becomes unworkable.

The minute I tell myself, "Let's make this as short as possible," the problems fall away, I find the heart of the story again, the pacing is brisk, scenes get multiple purposes, the world feels deeper because I'm implying things that spark the reader's imagination rather than trying to put every threadbare, boring detail on the page. Every time. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

[spotaus]

New Age AU (Obtaining Killer)

Hey guys! Through with a bot of stuff for the day and I have a sneaking suspicion that this stress headache will not leave me until I finish some projects for work, so I *may* be m.i.a. for a hot second until they stop.

In the meantime, I want to drop this! (Unedited, unrefined, raw off the slab style)

Andddd @ancha-aus and @papiliovolens ! Hello! (Mutzelputz if u see this, the tags weren't working for some reason, I apologize.)

Hope y'all enjoy!

Ccino had convinced him to leave the castle. After nearly a year had passed since his last true public appearance. Since he'd stolen the apple from his brother. Nine months had passed since he'd sent Dream away. He tried not to think about it.

Nightmare had been finding out a lot about his magic. How it made him jittery, and how he felt like he understood so much more. How it made him deeply paranoid, quick to react.

How it made people listen to him.

He figured it was because he was scary now. The negative magic condensed over every inch of his bone wasn't exactly appealing, and the extra limbs which had sprouted from his spine now acted like his own personal weapons. If someone didn't listen, didn't give him an answer he liked, the limbs moved without him even thinking.

It had taken time to learn to better control them. Even now, they writhed in his wake. His nerves expressed through their lashing and twitching as they hovered just above the ground.

The streets weren't exactly crowded.

Upon word of the King's arrival to this small providence, Nightmare had found that many people fled from his path. His travel party of several soldiers, and himself on horseback. He'd always wanted to ride horses. The traitor twin was someone that every citizen wished to avoid.

Ccino had coaxed him outside with promises of fresh air. Apparently there were promising young members of the city guard that Ccino swore would be wonderful future knights. Young warriors for him to bring up loyally under his name, no fear of betrayal.

It had made sense, at the time, but Nightmare hadn't chosen to recruit any of them.

It wasn't to say he didn't want to. Several of the humans and monsters were very talented, and he did his best to give them praise, but he could tell. None of them wanted to work under him. They didn't like him. Rejection and hatred that had pierced him immediately, he could practically taste it.

Ultimately, they would do better here in their hometown. A place they were passionate about protecting, and with people they cared for. Night would not try to mold promising soldiers into his perfect guard. No matter how smart of an idea it may have been.

And so he'd moved on.

Night had visited several smaller shops, onces which couldn't afford to refuse him, and he bought some fabrics, a trinket, some small thing from each place he stopped by. He payed exactly the price he needed for each thing. He wouldn't bribe his people, either. The best he could do would be to remain neutral.

He did discover, against all odds, that he was enjoying this day out. Ccino was, in fact, usually correct about this sort of thing.

The travel had been enriching. Almost exciting. He'd never gotten out of the castle much at all, this was all new and excitingly mundane.

Good things do not last forever.

It was almost sunset when he noticed it. Torches being set up, a platform prepared. A crowd gathering.

An execution, came the mutter from one of his soldiers. Though he recognized the set-up, Night had never been in attendance to an execution. He was morbidly curious. The crowd held such a contempt. A broiling hunger for blood.

He wished he'd wheeled his horse away when a few people were ushered out of a nearby building.

The prison, maybe?

There weren't many of them. Nightmare dismounted his steed, and much to the dismay of the soldiers at his side, he found himself sinking. Into the growing shadows cast by the dying sun.

He re-emerged beside the stage, where the few people were lined up. Ready for death by hanging.

That trick wasn't one that Nightmare quite understood yet, but he was always drawn to feelings of intense negativity. He knew that, now. Something about these prisoners were bothering him, even at a distance, and he found himself more curious as he stood before them.

His guards, at the back of the crowd, hadn't seemed to figure out where he had gone. He had the time, now, to loom over the small group of prisoners.

The city guards, the trained ones, had likely seen him earlier at their headquarters. They did not speak even a word against him as he stared.

Nightmare stared at these faces.

A dog monster, scrappy and scarred, black fur clashing against a few patches of white. One of her ears was missing.

A pair of humans, both men, one with long, curly red hair and another with short-cropped red hair and the beginnings of a beard. Maybe they were brothers?

A skeleton. His sockets dripped with black magic, and his soul was a piercing crimson, just infront of his chest.

A flame monster, small and stout. Their flames a flickering green and purple. One of their eyes had a patch over it.

Nightmare was not great at determining emotions yet. He was hardly versed in his own feelings, but there had been improvement recently. Understanding new emotions had been coming more naturally to him.

Sometimes it hurt, but he was learning.

Now, past the blossoms of a headache, he felt a bit baffled as he subconsciously picked through the negativity these monsters exuded. Their fear. Their pain. Their loss, and their anger.

Oh.

"Only one of you is guilty."

He'd said it without thinking, practically announcing it with a voice that still felt unnaturally deep. A voice which rattled his ribcage and seemed to force past the barrier of darkness around him.

The group before him seemed startled. Confused.

Well, all but the skeleton, who seemed to only raise his skull slightly. As though just noticing Nightmare was there.

"How could you have possibly been jailed in the first place?" He muttered a bit quieter to himself.

He knew, deep down, that there were many, many rules in place for situations like this. Laws which he could challenge. People he could speak to. He could appoint members of his court to each of these people and try to earn their innocence through the rites of the law.

Then again, he remembered the rage of the crowd. The frustration of the people waiting to see these killings take place.

He didn't know what to do.

Now the prisoners, especially the two humans, were staring at him hopefully. He'd managed to shatter the negativity a bit. He believed them. He knew this was wrong.

"I don't know..."

The mutter came again unprompted.

These people would not have the means to repay him for his help. He couldn't just waive fees, or risk his court turning against him. He couldn't afford enemies being made so close to his inner circle.

He couldn't just leave them, though. Not after he'd seen the injustice of it all.

Stuck in his own thoughts, he was drawn out of it by a snickering laugh.

"Just set them free." A voice followed, "You are our King, aren't you?"

Nightmare then found his eyes drawn to the skeleton.

The others had eased themselves away from him. He stood, now, almost alone. He seemed unbothered by speaking up, his sockets held in an almost lazy posture. Tension going completely un-held.

He grinned up as the King, and seemed to watch contentedly as the thought settled in Nightmare's skull.

He could do that. Simply waive their charges. Pardon them. He could do that, surely. Many royals had done it before him for less certain terms. His mother had plenty of times.

"And you are guilty. You'll still be hanged. You know this, don't you?" Nightmare asked.

That was when the Skeleton's lazy sockets seemed to tighten with a sort of glee. Some hidden joke Nightmare wasn't privy to.

"Hmm." This was a poor choice. This was a bad decision. "Tell me, quickly, how you came to be here. Before I proceed?"

Nightmare didn't know why he was asking. He was... curious. Just like he had always been.

Very few people would ever speak straight to his face. Ccino, that was the only one who'd done it since his change. Since the prophecy. This skeleton had done it. He'd spoken when no one else could muster even a plea.

The silence he seemed to bring to every room. Broken, just briefly.

The skeleton stared at him a moment.

"Name's Killer, your majesty." The tone was mocking. "A while back a buddy of mine got into hot water, and I decided to help them out. Now, plenty of bodies later, I'm the one stuck on death row."

Simple. An admission of guilt.

Nightmare stared at him some more.

Finally, it seemed his frantic guards had noticed him. Found him. They rushed to his side, though not as fast as he would've liked. He could feel the frustration seeping from each armored body around him.

"You don't have an aversion to it," Nightmare voiced, "Killing, I mean."

Killer nodded. Unashamed.

It felt strangely calm, still. Perhaps it was because the crowd was still chattering. They likely hadn't noticed Nightmare at all.

The king turned to the city guard, still stood on the steps. "Free these four people. My judgement decrees them as not-guilty."

And, before any time could pass in the slightest. "Killer, I would like you to accompany me, before you abscond."

He'd noticed it. Killer had undone his cuffs before their conversation. Completely freeing himself from his weak imprisonment.

Killer seemed amused at the concept of sticking around to chat.

"If you would, I would like to recruit your services at my castle. I need a man who is willing to kill. And kill swiftly." Ccino said to establish an image. It was obvious now that his reputation would remain in the gutter, no matter what choices he made. He was not Dream.

Killer's sockets narrowed.

"And what would I get for being your little hunting dog?" Again, it was bold. It was new.

Nightmare was sure his expression hadn't changed since he'd come before the group. That same angry glare that sat permanently along his skull. The magic had an image to project.

His tendrils flicked, slightly.

"Payment, room, Fresh meals, and any other amenities you may like, so long as it does not break our treasury." He replied, "All I ask is that you simply obey me. And Me alone."

Not true. He'd probably ask for him to listen to Ccino as well. Once he knew for certain he'd stay.

Killer seemed to be thinking. He eyed they king, up and down. He looked to each of the guard around the king. The ones who were back in position now, though Nightmare could feel their annoyance. Their confusion.

Then Killer turned.

Then he turned back.

"Mm. Can't be worse than the ol' noose." Killer replied. "Funny way to run a country, my king. Hiring the first murderer you spot?"

Nightmare didn't humor that with a response. He was honestly shocked the skeleton had even agreed.

Though, all of that negativity had been swapped out for a glee. Something deep in Killer had changed during their brief interaction. A hope. Night could barely grasp the edges of its existence with his subconscious. But it was there.

.

He ignored the crowds as they grew confused. He ignored the worry pouring from the criminals as he had them released and informed them of their pardon.

He did not ignore when his guards told someone to keep their distance. He glanced up. Killer was standing beyond the guards, looking bored.

Nightmare, trusting fool he was, didn't even ask a guard to watch him to ensure he stayed put.

"Stand down." He ordered the guard, who begrudgingly allowed the skeleton to smugly slip past.

His tendrils kept the monster at a distance Night preferred all on their own. He seemed to take the hint.

"They're all gonna be dead by morning, you know." Killer voiced easily.

Nightmare turned to him, confused. What did he mean by that? He'd pardoned them?

"Are you deaf? The crowd wanted us dead, especially me." He chuckled, "Leaving them here is definitely going to get them killed. If the crowd doesn't rip them apart the second you leave, then it'll happen at night. There will be no witnesses."

Oh... Night hadn't fathomed that these people could turn on the innocent once declared. It hadn't even crossed his mind. Did they have a home to return to? A family they put at risk?

The noose was a fast death, but being murdered? That would've been so much worse.

He could tell, by the way they evaded looking at Killer, that he was right. Nightmare would be sentencing them to a new sort of death if he did it like this.

But he didn't have time for a trial. Or several. The sun was going down, abd Ccino expected him back. The castle needed him present, or they might revolt.

Someone might hurt Ccino.

Oh, he was such a poor ruler. He did not know his people well enough. How he lamented the lessons Dream had taken about crowds and current issues abd how to be likeable.

Night didn't know how to handle this. He was still learning!

A trembled in his hand. He tucked the limb quickly away from where it had been lightly clutching his tunics thick fabric, now hiding it beneath his cloak.

"Killer is right. It won't be safe here, for any of you." He spoke. Thank the gods it didn't sound as shaken as he felt. "I extend an offer to you all. You may stay here, or you may come take up positions among my staff back at the castle. Unlike Killer, I do not expect any crime from you, but you will be paid and housed."

The offer was met with a roar of frustration from the crowd, Nightmare chose to allow his guards to handle it. He watched, carefully, as the four looked between eachother.

The brothers agreed first. (They introduced themselves as brothers as they knelt in thanks.) Then the Dog. She said she had no family left to watch over, starting a new life would be for the best.

The flame refused, saying they would leave town by morning, and try to stay safe.

And so, Nightmare left the town with four new party members. Each had been provided a horse, each tied to one of the guards. Aside from Killer, whose steed was held personally by Nightmare.

He figured Ccino would chew him out for this, for bringing criminals into the castle when he was sent to collect soldiers, but Nightmare had a good feeling about these ones.

They did not hate him. Or fear him. He was helping them. And it felt good.

[jamietwat]

Time loop fic set during season 2 when Jamie’s back around but Roy isn’t coaching yet where it takes Jamie and Roy an embarrassing amount of do-overs before they finally realize they’re both caught in it because for days Jamie goes over to Keeley’s place and antagonizes Roy in basically the exact same way because he thinks making the same stupid old man jokes all the time is funny anyway and any slight changes in conversation he just assumes is because he showed up at a different time or worded his own end of the conversation a little differently but Roy’s still basically saying the same grumpy old man shit anyway

And Roy makes basically the same retorts every time because he stands by it and he assumes Jamie shows up at slightly different times looking for Keeley as a butterfly effect of his morning with Keeley being different but that there’s no escaping him showing up to be a little bitch at some point

And like they both sometimes tell people but not the same people on the same version of the day so Keeley individually thinks that both of them are losing it on different versions of the day before eventually they both mention it

And then on like day 5 of the same day over and over Jamie doesn’t show up and Roy is irrationally angry about it but thinks it must be somehow connected to the fact that he was acting absolutely insane with Keeley trying to explain what’s happening while she thought he was fucking with her and somehow that made her brush off Jamie and him not show up or something?

And it takes Jamie showing up at 100 and just tearing Roy apart and going on about what a dick he is (which isn’t unusual but isn’t how this routine goes) and weirdly fixating on how he was excited to meet Roy but then he ended up just being an old washed up prick that never even gave him a chance because Jamie figures he can just show up, yell at Roy for all the reasons he’s so fixated on being a little asshole with a grudge against Roy in particular to get it out of his system, and then never have to deal with any consequences of Roy finding out about the whole embarrassing having been a big fan and expecting it to be so cool to play on a team with him just to immediately get offended that Roy didn’t give a shit about him and his bullshit and so Jamie ended up hating him thing

But instead Roy just scowls at him and is like “that’s not what you’re supposed to say” and Jamie’s like “…what.” And Roy’s like I’ve done this day like ten times already and either I make Keeley think I’m certifiable first thing in the morning and you don’t show up or else you show up looking for her and then make the same completely uncreative old man jokes at me and Jamie’s like what the fuck I’ve been doing this same day over and over and you’ve been making the same shitty jokes that weren’t funny the first time over and over again

And Keeley’s just sitting there watching this like “Are you two fucking with me? I can’t believe you two got along long enough to plan whatever the fuck this is.” And honestly, the fact that she couldn’t imagine them ever getting along to plan this stupid joke and agree on it is the main reason she actually starts to believe them that time in an okay either I’ve completely lost it or you two are stuck in a time loop kind of way and when she starts going on about how every time loop movie there’s like a moral the person has to learn and maybe they’re both caught in it because they’re supposed to learn how to get along and be friends and Roy’s supposed to take Ted’s offer and that’s how Jamie finds out about the Ted trying to convince Roy to coach thing

But they’re both like fuck no absolutely not, that’s not it and I’d rather be stuck in this stupid fucking loop forever than voluntarily spend time with him let alone get along (as if Jamie hasn’t shown up to annoy him practically every version of the day and Roy hasn’t just been sitting there waiting for him every time) and then they actively avoid each other for like a week’s worth of versions of the same day before they start considering that Keeley might have been on to something but it still takes three more days of pointedly not seeking the other out and waiting for the other to give in first before they run into each other at Ted’s place anyway and finally start actually swapping information they’ve picked up from their loops and what they’ve tried changing to try to get out and discussing ways to try to get out of it while Ted’s just sitting there cracking jokes and making annoyingly similar to what Keeley said comments about how in time loop and body switch things it’s always that you have to learn to see things from another perspective and be nicer to someone you don’t usually see eye to eye with before you can get out (Ted doesn’t actually believe they’re stuck in a time loop though, he’s just going well weird hypothetical but I’ll play along if this almost certainly made up scenario is what it takes for them to have an actual conversation with each other)

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAu Drabble - The Gang

Hello! I am back because I had an idea! And so I must WRITE! @spotaus Hope you ready friend :3

It is a feel good one! :D

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

No edit or beta we just having fun!

*------------------*

Horror carefully grabs the bowls and moves them to the sink as Killer and Cross go off to continue clearing their new area. Dust should still be in their nest as it is his rest day today.

Crop joins him in cleaning up the table. Horror shoots him a look "You are a guest." and he gives him a pointed look.

Crop just grins back "Oh you know! Small town politeness!" and he grabs the towel, clearing appointing himself drying duty.

Horror grins as he turns slightly "What do you say Nightmare?"

Nightmare stands wiht his arms crossed by the table. trying his best to look angry but Horror just thinks he is pouting.

Nightmare huffs as he looks down and mutters "I am perfe-ctle able to help dry." he glares harder as he tripped slightly over his words.

Horror chuckles and gently nudges him out of the room "Or. You could go outside with your book? Enjoy the sun as you read and keep an socket on Killer and Cross."

Nightmare frowns at him. Horror knows he isn't exactle being subtle but they don't need to be. Nightmare needs to relax and enjoy his second chance at a childhood.

Nightmare glances at the sink for a moment before nodding and leaving the kitchen. Horror listens for a moment and hears more shuffles before the frontdoor closes.

Horror nods and turns back to the sink and sees Crop's looking curiously.

Horror raises a brow but joins his side and the two start on the chore. Horror starts with soaping up the dishes "Still think that as guest you should relax."

Crop shrugs as he waits his turn to dry "I like helping."

Horror chuckles "And we are still very thankful... let us know how to repay you."

Crop waves it off as he leans back against the counter. Horror shoots him a glance and sees that Crop seems to debate something with himself. Horror just continiues washing the dishes.

"I did... wonder something..."

Horror hums and tilts his skull as he waits.

Crop seems to consider how to ask it before turning to Horror "Nightmare is... very helpful."

Horror chuckles "That is the right word alright. Wants to help with everything." the little perfectionist. Of course it isn't that surprising.

Crop rubs his cheek "Well... I mean... I was wondering... Was he... like that... before? When he was still... big?"

Horror blinks as he looks at Crop for a moment before nodding "Well, yeah." and he continues washing the dishes.

Crop blinks and stares "seriously? But everyone always spoke about well... you know..."

Horror raises a brow at his friend and grins "That he is someone who spreads negativity and only cares about that?"

Crop cringes and shrugs "I didn't mean it like that..."

horror nods "I know."

Crop glares at him and hfufs "How any of them can think you are the most mature is beyond me."

Horror chuckles "Has a lot to do with how i was introduced." the original meeting with Crop had after all been much more chaotic and Horror ahd been actively hostile back then. Let his own mischievous side shine more through. Horror still loves jokes and pranks he just knows when to pick his moments, unlike some people.

Crop finishes drying the next few dishes before shooting him a look "Like... introduced? How did you end up working together with them?"

Horror shrugs as he finishes washing the last few things "Same as everyone. Nightmare hired me."

Crop pauses before snorting and laughing "I am sorry. Now whenever i hear nightmare i immediantly see that tiny six year old and they idea of him just standing before you and hiring you like that is real funny."

Horror chuckles and nods "It is rather amusing. Trust me. We did not miss the fact that technically we all agreed to work for a six year old." even when that same six year old was parading around in the adult version of his body. It did explain some of Nightmare curious habbits. The way he would get grumpy if tired or when he was low on magic and negative energy. The way things had to happen in a very specific way or he would just stare at the problem. just a lot of tiny things.

Crop chcukles and looks over "So... what? He realised you were very strong and decided to hire you as muscle?"

Horror grins "Ironically. My role hardly changed between when i was first hired and now."

Crop blinks confused "Waht?"

Horror chuckles and shrugs "I was originally hired to keep an eye on Dust and Killer. So you could say that I was already hired as babysitter to begin with." he snorts at the look Crop sends him.

Crop just gapes at him "seriously?! But... like.. .you are you!" and he waves at him "mega strong and amazing with tracking and traps!"

Horrro shrugs "Nightmare didn't specifically need those things at the time. At the time he needed someone steady to keep the chaos of Killer and dust a bit more contained."

Crop finishes his own task and crosses his arms "really?"

horror nods "It is true. I was surprised myself. But... well... Even if Nightmare had always been a god and while he wasn't used to mortal things and habits..." especially not after being in a fake adult body for 500 years powered by godpowered apples "He isn't afraid to admit he doesn't know things. At least to himself."

Crop just stares at him and Hroror rubs his own neck "Killer was the first one to be recruited. I know that story but it isn't my place to tell. All I can say is that Killer took his role of first follower very seriously. But... well... it isn't an easy job that Killer and Nightmare did and Nightmare was very quickly aware Killer is a mortal."

Crop blinks and gives aslow nod "so he got help?"

Horror nods "exactly. We once asked Nightmare why he picked Dust and Nightmare had just told us that Dust fit the requirements and was willing."

Horror sometimes wonders if Nightmare had asked others before hand. If others had said no and he had just disappeared form their lives. Or if he asked Dust first but had been prepared to just leave if he said no. He never ended up asking him.

Crop gives a slow nod "Still doesn't explain your role."

Hroror grins "Dust and Killer hated one another."

Crop sputters "waht? No way! There is no way. Those two are like this!" he crosses his fingers "You all are!" and he waits.

Horror shrugs "took time. more important, took us all being honest and vulnerable." which none of them enjoyed being at the time. It had all felt too good to be true. Horror knew he sometimes worried that he would have woken up back in his universe, away from his new friends and his brother and world still slowly dying of starvation. Nightmare had offered him a solution in trade for his service, Horror had quickly accepted.

Crop frowns "Like... I know Killer annoys Dust a lot but i mean.. that is more like.. .you know... playground.... boys and girls..."

horror chuckles "you can call it flirting. THough Killer will die before admitting that, he will tell you he is teasing. big difference."

Crop groans as he rubs his face "but how did that came to be? If they hated one another?"

Horror shrugs "both of them reminded each other of themselves. They both hated that. Took a long time of me being there as supervisor and buffer before they started to interact without fighting." both a physical and a metaphorical buffer.

Crop seems to consider this before nodding "I guess that makes sense... And you had the same role when Cross joined?"

Horror shakes his skull "by that time I had already joined Nightmare's normal forces and took pretty much the same job as Dust and Killer had. but by that time we had all learned not to just judge a book by its cover and to respect some boundaries. It was easier when Cross joined because of that." Good to because Cross had been, and still was, a bundle of nerves and anxiety. self doubt if honestly the biggest thing holding him back. If only Cross could see that himself, then Horror doubts there is much in this multiverse that could stop Cross from doing what he wants.

Crop chuckles "All of you had to learn that? YOu seem perfectly fine with interactions."

horror raises a brow at him "First week i stayed in this universe."

Crop's winces and rubs his arm "Yeha okay fair."

horror shakes his skull "I made my own mistakes and am thankful that the others forgave me for. It was a learnign curve for all of us." to be coworkers. to rely on each other. to be friends. To be a team and unit. and now... a family...

Crop nods "well... I can say that you guys are doing great!" he grins "people in town were nervous but they all really like you!"

Horror chcukles "good to hear. and thank you for everything..."

Crop shrugs "don't worry about it." he checks the clock and grins "I will need to go back. need to milk the cows and Betty loves her schedule. If i am late she may come looking for me."

Horror sighs "please don't bring a cow to these grounds..." Hell knows that they all had been assholes enough to joke and prank Cross with those. Before they realised how bad the phobia was. Again, they can all be assholes.

Crop gives him an easy thumbs up "don't worry. I will make sure it doesn't happen." he glances around and whispers "there was... one thing i was wodnering... you guys are real close. Is it... you know?" and he grins widely.

Horror chuckles and shrugs "not specifically." he shoots a glance towards where he knows Dust is sleeping in the nest. Then he glances out of the window to see if he can spot either Killer or Cross "There is no hurry..."

Crop grins and nods "cool cool. just people asking me stuff."

Horror nudges him "don't gossip. It is a bad habit."

Crop sighs "come on. you guys wouldn't give me the details on yourr made backstory. can tell me this at least."

Horror shoots him an amused look "no." and he starts to lead Crop's out.

Crop huffs but joins his side. They walk towards the path that will lead Crop home before stopping and both saying their goodbyes.

Crop shoots hima look "You have a lot of patiences with this."

horror shrugs "there is no hurry" and if he learend one thing with his family is that sometimes things just took time. Especially things concerning emotions and feeling vulnerable. Which love is a part of.

Crop nods before smiling "I am sure you four will figure it out eventually."

horror shoots a tiny smile back "thanks. Have a safe trip."

Crop grins as he waves "you guys have a great day and thanks for breakfast!" he waves into the distance at the other skeletons before starting to make his track back home.

Just a matter of time and giving them time. Horror knows by now that it is better to let them come to their own conclusions and thoughts then trying to force them to see stuff they aren't ready to see.

Luckily they have their own home now and can actually take the time they need.

*-----------------*

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

[eelclaw]

stupid fucking bastard. i am not coping with the leaks

[hijackalx]

FORLORN +18

SUMMARY: Gortash attempts to fill the void you left with your changeling kin.

WORD COUNT: 3020

UNDER THE CUT: F!reader, dark urge reader, gortash fucks orin in your shape, lowkey angsty, dom!gortash, brat!orin, they dont like each other, stripping, blindfolding, cowgirl, choking, gortash keeps his clothes on, experimental with POVs lol

Enver swirls the scarce amount of liquor around in his glass, staring at his warped reflection inside.

His reach falters after glancing over at the bottle on his desk, realizing that it has just a few measly drops remaining. He huffs, slumping deeper into his seat. The hand resting in his disheveled hair falls down his face, tugging at his flushed cheeks.

You've been gone for a month now. Orin told him that she hurt you— that she did something terrible. The details of the event are lost on him, as she won't even spare as much as the exact time it happened.

He supposes that's for the best, otherwise he'd find ways to blame himself worse than he already does. He should've kept Orin away from you, he should've seen the signs.

But he didn't. And now you're gone.

In his grief, images of you in his mind satiate him temporarily; how you'd laugh at his jokes with blood lacing your teeth, how you'd dance for him in the viscera of your victims. His dearest remembrance may be the way you always clung to him, glued to his side like an attack dog awaiting its next order. You were so eager to please, just as he was eager to reward you.

As per usual, these images gradually spiral into something more risqué, a haunting reminder of how deeply your connection had evolved just before you disappeared. A memory of you responding coyly to his praise turns into you looking desperate and pliant beneath him. An accidental graze of your hand turns into you scratching and tearing at his skin while he has his way with you. He reaches over his shoulder to grace one of the affected areas, making note of how much it's healed, taking any traces of you with it in the process.

More importantly, he recalls the way his hands felt on your body. The rough, warmth of his palms knew every inch of your skin, though it seems nowadays their memory grows hazy. He can't forget, and he'll take whatever measures he has to in preventing that.

Even if those measures in-dignify him like no other, he'll do it— for you.

He stares at the button on his desk with reluctance. A pit opens up in his stomach as a hesitant finger hovers over it. Gods, has he drank too much? Or is he going to be sick with humiliation?

He clears his throat, preparing to maintain a steady impression of sobriety.

"... Somebody locate and escort Orin to my office."

He wonders if they've caught on to what that means by now. The thought is brief as he shoos it away like a burdensome fly, his chair creaking while he sinks into it once again.

It isn't long before the doors open. Orin enters the office accompanied by a Steel Watcher, the machine following her close behind.

She smugly approaches his desk, a conquering grin on her face that he'd like to wipe off with methods he shouldn't say aloud.

The Steel Watcher turns on its heels, taking a few heavy steps before leaving them in the quiet of the room.

Alone.

Enver downs the last of his drink in one, quick motion. His dark eyes follow Orin's figure, though they almost seem to look right through her.

She circles him like a vulture, her hand trailing over his arm. "Well," she starts, her voice as theatric and ear-piercing as always. "I do hope you have something different in mind for today, little lord."

His lips hold a tight line, his gaze fixing on the scattered papers atop his desk. "Change," he demands.

Orin huffs exasperatedly from behind his chair. "Agh! Again with the pouting and moping—!" her voice warps mid-sentence, carrying a familiar lilt that makes his heart skip a beat. "— you're no less of a sorry excuse for a tyrant than when I was around to see it."

His head turns quickly as she comes back into view, no longer herself, but you. He swallows harshly, his mouth parting as he gazes upon your dearly missed features.

It's like you're really there— as long as he avoids your eyes, that is. She can never get them quite right, and they pull him out of his fantasy like a sucker punch.

He reaches out for you, his plated grasp cooly caressing your wrist. Flipping your hand, he runs his thumb over your palm, admiring every line and crevice. How often he tended to the wounds gifted by your own fits of violence, how often he'd kissed your blood-stained fingertips.

Orin sneers and roughly jerks herself away. "Cease your bleeding heart," she hisses. "Lest I rip it out."

She laughs in his face cruelly, relishing in the idea of clawing through his chest and pulling the blood-pumping organ from its chamber.

He shakes off the surprise from being slung back into reality so coarsely. With grit teeth, he catches her by her forearm and yanks her face just inches from his. "Behave, or I will do away with you like any other useless object."

Stunned, her irises dart back and forth between his, her features contorting into a mixture of fear and submission. Through frowned lips, she utters with a shaky breath, "... you'd really do that to me?"

For a moment, her disguise is all too convincing, and he finds himself instantly regretting his loss of temper.

Orin's trickery becomes obvious as she bursts into another fit of maniacal laughter. "You're weak, little lord! Oh, how I wish to carve your expression into your face so you might carry it forever!"

Enver slouches, his fingers massaging his temple while she prattles on. How much of this is really worth it? He gets to see you again, but not without paying the price of mental torment.

"Every second they're gone, you soften like the flesh of a babe!"

A deep exhale leaves his nose. "I've changed my mind. Away with you." He waves her off dismissively. He supposes he'll just have to find you in the dark room of a brothel instead.

Her cackling ceases, the split corners of her mouth falling. She appears to contemplate for a moment before dropping to her knees. "No, no," she begs, crawling closer so she can lay her head in his lap. "I'll be good."

He stares down at her with little regard— at how she looks up at him with a hint of desperation. She's in character again, but for how long? He's had enough of her games.

Just as he's about to double down, she speaks once more, "You know I can be good—" her lips pull into a convincing smile, sly and quick. "—Enver."

The sound of you speaking his name again is so much sweeter than anything his imagination could ever conjure. It grabs him by the jaw, paralyzing him.

He becomes heavily fixated on how your fingers tease at his inner thigh, the digits so delicate and nimble; how they wander so endearingly with their faux innocence. His breaths heighten, the tendons in his hand becoming prominent as he flexes it to maintain composure.

She lifts her head as he cups her cheek. Her look of triumph is ripped away when his slithering hand burrows into her hair and yanks, angling her head upward. She responds with a glare and a scowl.

Slowly, he leans closer, anticipation looming in the air before he speaks. "Undress," he orders, the alcohol on his breath filling her flared nostrils.

After she's released, she takes stance just outside the parting of his knees. Holding the intensity of his gaze, she reaches for the buttons of your blouse. She knows the drill— strip for him, nice and slow. It's the same every time.

Once she undoes the final button, she lets the soft fabric slip down your shoulders, revealing your supple breasts. He stares from under his brow as she runs her hands over them, using her thumb to play with your nipple.

Letting the shirt fall to the floor, she moves on to your pants. They wriggle off of your hips, revealing silky, touchable skin.

He runs his tongue over his lip as she sneaks a finger under the hem of your panties, letting them snap back against your body teasingly.

A warning glance is sent her way as she takes double the time removing the final garment. She rolls her eyes, dropping them to the floor with the rest of your clothing.

His chest rises with a slow, deep breath, reveling in the sight of you; how badly he wishes it weren't a facade.

As she approaches him, his lustful gaze follows your figure from the bottom up. Once he reaches your eyes, he stops there, lingering. His expression becomes rigid, and he puts out a hand to stop her from climbing onto him.

She leers at him with an already-knowing stare, then scoffs before wandering off towards his bedroom.

"Such a demanding, scrutinizing little bastard," she can be heard mumbling in the distance, distaste on her tongue.

When she returns, she has a black piece of fabric in her palms. She offers it to him, and he raises it to her face. It covers her eyes, blinding her once he ties a knot at the back of her head.

He's almost taken aback as he looks her over again— now, without traces of Orin in your gaze, he sees you.

You're finally allowed access to his lap. Although, your face has tensed, a deepness to your brow. "I make no mistakes. Any imperfections you notice are merely a reflection of your own sickly, deteriorating mind." You cradle him, letting his hands run over your body. "Perhaps you'd like me to take a look inside and fix that for you."

He ignores the words spoken under the guise of your voice, instead focusing on how your skin feels in his grasp once again. It's so warm and soft, so impossibly smooth. His fingertips trace over your beauty marks and scars as if to ensure they're where he remembers.

One of his bare fingers runs through the folds of your cunt, reinforcing the memories of its wet, velvety touch. His cock twitches, recalling how you'd tighten while you came— how he'd pump you full of his own cum time and time again.

Impatient, you grind down on his hard-on, and he responds with a sharp inhale. You continue the motion, getting off on how he feels through his pants.

He rakes in his bottom lip as he watches your lower half stir. His burly hands find purchase on your hips, the golden points on his fingers threatening to draw blood.

Unable to put it off any longer, he frees his cock from his boxers, giving himself a few pumps with his hand while ogling your figure. He uses his thumb to bring precum to your lips, which you clean off with your tongue.

An anticipatory groan erupts deep in his throat as he adjusts himself so that you can take him in.

Since you can no longer see, you rely on him to guide you onto his length. He's so large and difficult to accommodate— that was something you always struggled with.

He lolls his head back as his tip breaches your entrance, your pillowy walls satiating the hunger in him that'd been brewing so deep.

A few moments pass and he's able to sink into you a bit further. He knows it aches as it forces your legs wider apart, but he loves that you try. You've always tried for him.

A shuddering exhale leaves his lips as you begin to move, gripping his forearms while he steadies you by your waist. His hold is secure, yet an underlying buzz of anxiousness hides within it.

You let out sounds of slight discomfort as he stretches you out. His hand lifts to comfort you, but it quickly retracts before making contact. He had almost forgotten that you are not you.

His face hardens at the realization, a sudden wave of hatred and anger rattling his bones. It's Orin's fault you're not here, why's he wasting his time being gentle with her?

With a curl to his lip, his gold fingertips latch onto her, and he forces her the rest of the way down. She yowls, a pained arch in her back.

In a quick act of retaliation, she smacks him across the face. The noise reverberates through the room's tall ceilings, followed by silence. He turns to look at her again, a red mark beginning to taint his cheek.

"I will hang you from the rafters by your own intestines!" She shrieks at him, her nails digging into his exposed chest. Leaning close to his ear, she hisses, "I may look like your spineless little whore, but I can assure you our similarities are few and far between—!"

Her sentence is cut off as a hand wraps around her throat, pushing on her esophagus with increasing pressure. She chokes, pulling at his decorated fingers to no avail.

"If I hear you utter such disrespect again, I'll see to it that you're rendered unrecognizable and scattered throughout the trenches of this city," he threatens lowly and quick, a snarl on his face while he watches her squirm.

He can practically see his threat playing out in her mind like some sick fantasy. The corners of her mouth twitch before spreading into an uncontrollable smile. "Quite... the Lothario... tyrant boy," she pushes a moan past his grip that evolves into excited laughter.

His hold loosens as she begins to move up and down his length once more. Her jaw— your jaw— falls slack as you take pleasure from him filling you up. He finds himself captivated by how your cunt strains around him, leaving a creamy residue behind.

"Fuck," he mutters defeatedly, feeling himself weaken by the second. For as long as she looks like you, she has the upper hand.

Once the strength of his chokehold wavers, he allows you to take his hand and touch yourself with it, guiding it over your breasts and waist. Your hands contrast heavily; he's quite fond of how dainty yours look in comparison.

His touch settles at your hips, fastening you in his grasp as he begins to fuck you from beneath. He stares up at your partially covered face as you bounce in his lap, watching how each sound you make leaves your mouth.

He starts to feel that familiar anxiousness once again— he needs more control, he needs to dominate. In one swift movement, he picks you up and lays you over the documents on his desk, scattering most of them to the floor.

He directs your thighs around his torso, spreading you open further. Your back arches as he bottoms out in one quick thrust, the hair at his base brushing against you.

With one hand he secures your wrists above your head, then balances himself with the other. The jewelry lacing his clothing clatters as he slams into you repeatedly, a throaty moan leaving his lips.

There's a sense of deprivation to him, so much so that it drips from his every movement, every touch, every sound. He starves like a lowly stray, and you've always been the only hand he won't bite.

You begin to glow with a sheen of sweat, though he refrains from tasting the salt on your skin. The harsh reality of your condition hangs in the back of his mind, and he worries that even a grain of intimacy will enable it to come forward. Despite how badly he wishes to kiss your lips and bruise your neck, he just can't.

He moans as his body grows tense, his pace losing its consistent rhythm. His cheeks are flushed, a haziness to his gaze as he grips your wrists tighter, leaving marks behind.

With bared teeth, his eyes screw shut. He reaches his climax, and you let out soft whimpers as he rams into you with a few final hard thrusts. In just seconds, hot, thick cum stains your walls and threatens to leak onto the desk.

His head hangs wearily as he catches his breath, allowing himself to come down from his high. He looks you over— how you lay, unmoving and quiet. Something that can only be described as remorse twists in his stomach, though it's not unfamiliar in this circumstance.

Then, there's silence. It infects the atmosphere of the office, bordering on unsettling.

He exhales, running his fingers through the hair sticking to his forehead. Pulling out of you, he begins the process of recomposing himself. While adjusting his pants, he notices your body writhing and twitching in his peripheral.

Every trace of your likeness slowly withers away, transforming you back into your true form— Orin.

She lifts the blindfold from her eyes, a terribly wide grin on her black lips. She sits up on the desk, taking delight in the slight horror on his features. "How could I ever tire of that look?" she hums.

With a thick swallow, his expression contorts into anger. He observes the mess they've made— the paperwork strung all over the floor, the spilled ink dripping from its canister. "Get out." A crease forms between his brows as he starts gathering documents.

She lingers a moment longer, swinging her crossed legs as they hang off the edge.

Her lack of urgency is enough to make the already-taut rage in him snap. "GET OUT!" he shouts in her face, the papers in his hand crinkling under his unforgiving grip.

She hops onto the floor, her hands folded behind her back as she stares up into his glower. The tension grows between them like an unsightly weed while neither shies away.

As if in thought, her mouth parts before she finally speaks, "... I'll see you again soon, lordling."

Shortly after that, she turns to leave, his eyes following.

Her words ring in his ears, causing his upright shoulders to sink. His hand pulls on the lower half of his face defeatedly, a loud sigh escaping his nose.

[nicxxx5]

i have a couple thoughts that maybe buck actually hasn't fully processed his bisexuality? and like that's why we haven't explicitly heard him call himself bi?

we remember the conversation he had with maddie about how he's "always loved women" and doesn't know how long he's been "leaning in the other direction". and he literally didn't know he was attracted to men until tommy, the first and only guy he's dated.

maybe he doesn't actually know yet what to consider himself. maybe he was just going with the vibes of "okay, i liked all these women and i like tommy" and just going along with his current (at the time) relationship.

i just feel like maybe buck hasn't fully processed what it means to him to be attracted to both women and men now. he's just seemed really unsure of himself in that regards in the last two episodes. for example, when he felt conflicted of noticing that those women at dinner were attractive, and when he says he doesn't know which pond to jump back in.

i'm just thinking that maybe he knows he's attracted to men but doesn't know what that means for him in the grand scheme of dating and his identity.

[astracora]

A Mandated Holiday Break - Chapter 10

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc (poly lads)

Warnings: Suggestive

Word Count: 1630

Written: 23rd December 2024

Notes: Post-relationship Sylus/MC-centric but poly LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Masterlist

Sylus isn't used to people touching him. If anyone does, it's often sharp, and jagged and with intent to harm or kill. No matter how far back he thinks, he's known very little contact that hasn't come at a price. It's normally paid in blood. It's not always his blood...

His first time re-meeting you, had been just as sharp... and drenched in regret.

If he could go the rest of his life never seeing disgust in your eyes, and never hurting you again like a callous fool, he'd be satisfied. Not happy, but it's a low bar for survival, he thinks.

He meets so many of his experiences with kindness and affection with you. You open doors he has kept closed for a long time. You pull him into light, and not the kind that burns or mutes his evol. Through you, Sylus experiences what life can be like. When he lives, and doesn't just survive.

It is... perfect, in the way that imperfections are. A sign of real living.

After slaking his thirst with you for the first time, though it had stayed a dull throb because truly there was no absolution for his need, he had been unsure what to do next. A part of him had wondered, worried, if you would leave, straight after, with no use for him. Or worse even, full of regret, that ended you in his arms.

He had reached for you, pulling you close, wavering on the edge of shattering, but you had curled into him, and gladly shared the glow with him.

Making no move to leave, no indication of disappointment, no feeling of regret. Simply tired and sated and clingy. In the best of ways.

Since then, he has mastered the art of caring for you. His role, he thinks, to tend to you after. He has to keep your joy and comfort, he has to be there to ease, so he never loses you.

It takes you time before you realise that he has placed it on himself, a self assigned repayment for sins he cannot explain to you, and a need to justify your love for him. Until the day it clicks, and you soothe the ache in his body with your hands. He fights for a moment, unsure how to accept, unused to it. How is he to repay it? But you are determined and you are full of love you give freely, and he cannot fight against a torrent.

He has eased since then, you share now. Who is more ready, who needs it more in the moment, whose edges require tending quickest.

Sylus has come face to face with the way he views your connection. He does not need to fulfil every desire, though he still wants to, and he does not need to give and give and never take. When he talks about being used and using, he means to be joined together, but you flinch at the wording and he has to reevaluate. He wants what you offer. Unconditional and precious. He offers you his heart, his soul, his body in return. There is no requirement or bar to clear.

Truly he would still wear your leash, but if your hand trembles to put it on him, he does not need it. If you would not gleefully devour his heart with your teeth, he will keep it in his chest to beat for you. If there is no weapon he can be that satisfies a need for vengeance you no longer seem to hold, then he will be your companion. Sylus will adapt and learn.

As long as you tell him that you love him and want him, he will learn true joy, and true living.

For the flower of his life blooms only in your arms, and he sees no other garden by your soul. It is a peaceful thing, and he knows so little of peace, that it is always a marvel.

You soothe the muscles in his arms, hand drifting patterns into his face, over his throat, down his chest, over his arm, and back. A cycle of drifting touches. You draw infinity, hearts, and flowers on his skin. He is purring happily without control.

Yet it is just you here, and if he would cut his chest open for you, then he can allow you to see him purr and keen for every touch you offer. Even if it does cause his cheeks to redden.

And you lay kisses there too.

The afterglow is his favourite. He thinks. Existence in a space between hunger and satisfaction. He can watch the highs come down slowly, and breathe in the relief and warmth of you steadying.

He holds you, and you touch him without reason, though maybe you don't need a reason. He certainly doesn't, captivated by every part of you. Tucking you closer against himself. It's never close enough, like he's chasing the sensation of his soul melded with yours forever.

He hopes when everything does end, you join once more, and disappear together.

You reach hands out to pull him closer, on top of you, and he does so gladly. Carefully pressing his weight down, grounding you with himself, his body, his heart, his arms around you. Protective and possessive and hoping to carve himself into you.

Your fingers trace patterns into his back now, soothing across his sides and over his hips, one follows a slow ascend into his hair, drifting short nails like you're fussing a cat.

He'd make a comment about insult, but his body jerks into you, hips rolling, and moaning into where he's buried his face into your neck. Taking long, pulling inhales of you. Sweaty and satisfied.

Your laugh earns a pinch at the side, but it's not harsh enough and you kiss the side of his head in 'apology', and return to your affections.

Sylus is used to sleeping light, or not sleeping at all. To be caught unawares would be a great insult, and he hasn't survived so long just on his ties to the sword in your soul. He does not relax easily, and even the first times spent with you, he barely slept. Or slept oddly.

Feeling like a guard more than a partner.

The longer he spent, being soothed, being loved, the easier it had gotten to drift off. To trust you as his watchman. To let his eyes close and body ease.

As he falls asleep, held and loved by you, he hears you whisper against his hair, "Goodnight Beloved." and he gladly eases into dreams he knows will be filled with you.

[vigilskeep]

oh i love rewriting canon scenes for sol and lucanis as much as i thought i would

[starry-bi-sky]

you can't choose what stays and what fades away

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes I never knew daylight could be so violent A revelation in the light of day You can't choose what stays and what fades away

(and I'd do anything to make you stay)

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

Shen Yuan wakes up in a woodshed.

He's in a body that's not quite his own.

(WIP also available on ao3!)

He wakes up in a woodshed.    

No, actually— let him correct himself. Shen Yuan does, indeed, wake up in a woodshed, but it’s not the first thing he realizes upon waking. No, in fact, consciousness comes quite slowly to him; sluggish, his mind attempting to slog through calf-high bogland without exhausting itself. It’s like he’s trying to drag himself to the surface of a river with a weight tied around his ankle, the weight trying desperately to drag him just as quickly down.    

His senses come to him just as slowly, his hearing and touch and smell and taste all trying to claw its way up back into existence till they’re thrumming beneath the thin skin of his body. Yes, it’s very much like trying to wake up from a long, deep sleep where he didn’t get quite enough rest, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he had collapsed again. His mouth is dry, his lips feel crusty, and his eyes are sealed shut by congealed-whatever-mixture of disgusting bodily fluids his eyes are capable of producing.    

Much like breaking free from sleep-paralysis, the moment he’s able to register that he’s actually sensing things again, the strange, spongy film that had been dampening them suddenly crumbles and collapses. Everything rushes forth like water spilling out of an open dam, or maybe like blood from an open scab, and Shen Yuan is abruptly accosted by the world and its sounds and sensations.   

The sun is hitting his eyes in just the right way that he can see the light burning behind his eyelids – which, that can’t be right, his curtains should be drawn, -- and there’s the distinct and gentle sound of wind rustling past, of birds singing softly, and the faint trill of music floating through. Shen Yuan is abruptly imposed with the mental image of a yellow autumn leaf falling delicately onto a still pond, that is how tranquil the world around him sounds.    

It is so, so, incredibly cliche, that he can’t help but open his eyes with a deep rooting incredulity planting itself firmly in the core of his chest. What he expects to see is the ceiling of his bedroom – the ground is hard enough that, for a moment, he thinks he may have fallen asleep on the floor again, or perhaps the hospital, because then that would at least explain better the tranquil sounds in his ears and the sunlight hitting his face.   

(Except he doesn’t smell the familiar sting of septic and cleaner, nor does he hear the beeping of the heart rate monitor beside him, the bustle and soft murmur of nurses outside that are always on the move. There’s no paper thin and slightly scratchy blanket laid over him. And never, not once, has he been subjected to the sounds of an eight-hour tranquil music ASMR while in the hospital.)  

(In fact, his nose feels rather stuffy. The same way it gets when he has a runny nose that just dried or a bloody nose that just finally stopped bleeding. He smells dirt and wood, and— and… is that blood?)    

There’s still crust clinging to his lashes and the corner of his eyes when he opens them, so his vision is immediately blurred in the way only recent consciousness can create. But even then, he can see the roof clearly enough to know that this is neither his bedroom nor the hospital. Shen Yuan sits up while his heart drops right out of his chest, regretting the action immediately as an ache shoots up his arms and staunchly reminds him of a terrible soreness spread throughout his body, one that he was not previously aware of.   

The hiss he makes is involuntary, and the sound rusted and weak, irritating his sore throat while his head pounds behind his eyes like a hammer against a nail. Get your bearings, Shen Yuan, he thinks, vision swimming, sucking in his dessert-dry bottom lip between his teeth and catching it on the incisors. The air does nothing for the inside of his mouth. Where the fuck am I?  

His eyes flick around the crust poking irritably at his corneas, as he tries to soak in where exactly he is. On instinct, his hands come up to flick away the crust obscuring his sight, and when he pulls his fingers away, there’s dark, brown-red buildup crumbling against his skin.   

Wh—? Shen Yuan rubs his eyes again, and realizes there’s a flaking trail coming from his eyes down his cheeks that, when he rubs at it, peels off into what can’t be anything but dried blood. It does nothing for his rapid-beating heart and the sinking shock and horror settling between his ribs. Why has he been bleeding from his eyes?    

He looks up from his hand. That shock and horror rising as he finally, finally takes in his surroundings, while also realizing, his dry tongue running against the back of his teeth and the corner of his mouth, that he was tasting blood too. Faint and stuck against his gums, but there.   

Shen Yuan is surrounded by cut wood, and beneath him he’s sitting on an old, tattered blanket. He’s wearing robes. Robes, worn and slightly dirty, made of a pleasant-to-the-eye green and white fabric, and straight out of every single Xanxia novel, drama, and poster he’s ever read and seen. There’s a simply, if slightly tattered, white fan tucked against his thigh.   

Oh, oh no. His hands fly up to his hair and— yep. Yeah, slightly tangled but undeniably soft and smooth, black hair slips against his fingers like silk and pours over his shoulders and down his back. It’s ten times longer than it should be, ten times longer than he’s used to, and he’s sitting on the ends of it. He releases his hair only so Shen Yuan can slap his hands against his face, automatically picking at the trail of dried blood on both corners of his mouth. His fingers are chilled against his skin, and he ignores it to trace his new (he thinks—the bow of his mouth and the curve of his cheekbones feels achingly familiar) facial features.   

Whose face am I wearing? What book have I entered? Because wasn’t this transmigration one-oh-one? The last thing he remembers was becoming incensed with the ending of Proud Immortal Demon Way and, in the middle of his scathing rant, dying of food poisoning. This was totally transmigration one-oh-one. Dying after reading a book, only to wake up in a place that was not the modern world, only to realize shortly after that they were now in the book they had just read?   

Wait— if he follows that trope, then... Shen Yuan’s heart decides it’s had enough time in his stomach, and leaps right into his throat. His eyes flitter around anxiously. There are bamboo stalks rising out the window, and the music he’s hearing, Shen Yuan realizes belatedly that it’s the sweet plucking of a guqin. Oh no. Don’t tell me--   

Like an activation phrase, a too-loud notification ‘ding!’ goes right off in his ear, resulting in Shen Yuan flinching violently as a too-bright and eye-stinging blue message box seals open into existence right before his eyes.   

[ SYSTEM Successfully Activated! Welcome to the world of Pride Immortal Demon Way! You are ‘Shen Jiu’ -- otherwise known as Shen Qingqiu, thirteen-year-old Disciple of Qing Jing Peak. Currently your actions are restricted due to a frozen OOC function that will eventually be unlocked after you familiarize yourself with the world. ]  

No! Of all the people he could have been transmigrated into, did it have to be the villain? Scum Disciple Shen Qingqiu? No— no, of course it was the villain; wasn’t that also transmigration one-oh-one as well? That the transmigrator was either the hero, the villain, or an NPC related to either one?   

Was this karma? Was the world enacting karmic justice on him for all those late nights spent arguing with internet randos online when he should have been doing something productive with his life? Of all those hours spent countlessly researching mythical beasts and animals and folklore all so he could tear the author a new one for his terrible plot and even worse papapa? Did Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky inflict some kind of curse on him that resulted in him being dragged into his shitty, shitty, stallion novel to act as the same guy who later gets his limbs torn off and pickled by the main protagonist?   

It had to be. That’s exactly what this was. This was karma.   

(Oh god, he’s never going to see his family again, is he? He’d died. He’d died in his world, he knows it. That’s how this always goes. At least he hadn’t been hit by a truck, at least he’d died somewhat originally. But he died. He’d been choking and everything went dark. The fluid filling his lungs, the lack of air, the steady crawl of blackening fuzz slowly encircling his vision--)  

(Who will find his body? How long will it take? It’d only been a week prior that he’d gotten into a fight with da-ge and the others, and they usually give him space for a while when they do. It’s not like Shen Yuan had any close friends left either--)  

(Will they find him rotting? Will they blame themselves? What will they think?)   

--(...Oh god, who was going to tell Hai-ge--?)--  

Shen Yuan drops his face into his hands, ignoring the throbbing of his skull and the influx of nausea that sloshes from his chest to his stomach as he does. He groans, low and painful, ignoring the sharp sting of his throat it causes. Does it have to be Shen Qingqiu? He asks, and wonders if the SYSTEM needs an audial vocal command or if it would just--   

[ You have been chosen to play Shen Qingqiu, the Scum Villain Disciple! ]   

Annoyance burrows into his throat. That’s... not what he asked. His teeth grind against each other, the stupid message box burning into his eyes. That at least answers that question, though. He won’t have to talk aloud to communicate with the SYSTEM, so at least he won’t look insane for talking to himself in public. Why does it have to be Shen Qingqiu?   

[ Shen Qingqiu plays a vital role in Pride Immortal Demon Way! You have been chosen to take on his role as the Scum Villain Disciple. ]   

What vital role!? Shen Qingqiu, sure, had a role in the beginning of the book as the disciple who did nothing but cause a ruckus and trouble on Qing Jing Peak when the protagonist’s back was turned; trying to drag Peak Lord Luo Binghe’s precious name through the mud while inciting what was basically tyranny by clawing his way up to a Head Disciple position through being a green tea bitch. He then went and used that power to abuse and bully the younger disciples when the adults weren’t looking.  

He only got away with it for so long because Luo Binghe was so busy with important missions and night hunts and the sweeping-of-peerless-beauties off their feet off the peak, that when he was on Qing Jing, it wasn’t long enough to realize just who was behind the disruption. And Shen Qingqiu was sneaky about it, so it took even longer. 

Only coming to a head at the Immortal Cultivation Conference when demons attacked and it all came to light like a hellish volcano, resulting in Shen Qingqiu not only finding out about Luo Binghe’s status as a half-heavenly demon, but also him being pushed into the Endless Abyss. He re-emerges half a decade later, brimming with demonic cultivation and a half-crazed lust for power and vengeance — revenge that ends up failing because he’s going up against the powerful protagonist.  

He causes a handful of actual problems before Luo Binghe finally has enough, and in the end, Shen Qingqiu ends up with his non-vital limbs cut off and stuffed inside a jar like a human pickle. A horrifying and befitting ending for any villain and antagonist of the main character.  

That is to say, nothing about him is actually vital. He was, for all intents and purposes, pretty much a low-tier cannon fodder villain meant to boost up and accentuate the protagonist’s abilities in the beginning of the book. A way to introduce the audience to the might and intelligence of the main character and their problem-solving skills when there is a ‘mysterious figure’ going around besmirching his name.  

Which... may just work in his favor, actually. Shen Qingqiu ended up with the fate he got because he went against the protagonist, a big no-no in practically every trashy novel. So, solution so Shen Yuan doesn’t end up a human stick? Don’t get in the protagonist’s way.  

That annoying ‘ding!’ rings in his ear, causing yet another flinch out of Shen Yuan as a notification unapologetically forms in front of him.  

[ WARNING: OOC! Host’s refusal to stay in character will result in automatic point deductions. If Host’s point score gets too low, SYSTEM will automatically mete out punishment. ] 

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Of course not, because why would it be easy? Of course there was a point system, this was a SYSTEM after all. Of course he couldn’t just avoid the villain’s fate, because that’d be too easy. His annoyance simmers out across the plane of his chest, and he decidedly ignores the faint tremor in his arms and the pulsing beat of his heart as he picks himself up off the ground and stands.  

His legs, much like his arms, tremble, and his head swims. He pushes through it, ignoring the ill-feeling of fear making itself home in the pit of his stomach. He should ask what those punishments are; what they’ll look like. He should ask about the point system, about how to increase his point score, about all the functions in the SYSTEM and what he has available, and what he does not.  

He should ask how old he is – because he’s much smaller than his old adult self had been; probably child-sized? -- and where he is in the book. What year is it, how long until the Immortal Cultivators Conference. Just when is he? 

Shen Yuan reaches out to grip onto a particularly towering stack of firewood, careful not to knock it or himself over. It feels like physical therapy all over again. Granted, a primitive, unsupervised, cobbled-together version of physical therapy, but physical therapy, nonetheless.  

His foot kicks against the fan, he’d frankly forgotten about that, and it slides off the blanket and across the dirt. His fingers twitch to grab it, something possessive and uncomfortably vulnerable rearing in his lungs – ah, an instinctive emotion from the original goods then? He’s heard of that in other transmigration stories he’s read, the novels failed to mention the full extent of how strange it felt.  

(It felt so eerily natural to want to pick it up. Of course he’d be upset about kicking it, and the unhappiness of dirtying it slots itself against him like second nature. How strange. How creepy.)  

Instead of asking any of that though, Shen Yuan turns his bitter mind inwards to the SYSTEM and asks, perhaps, the most important question of them all; Why did you bring me here if you were just going to kill me again?   

Isn’t that unnecessarily cruel?  

[ Host has been brought to Pride Immortal Demon Way because it is our sincere hope that Host can transform this stupid work into a magnificent, high-quality, first-rate classic! As part of the welcoming package, and to help ease the transition, a few things have been left in Host’s inventory! We hope you enjoy your time in Pride Immortal Demon Way! ]  

To change-- 

To change--?  

To CHANGE--?  

Indignancy surges itself from the tips of Shen Yuan’s fingers to the crown of his head, anger not unlike every single time Airplane threw away an interesting plot point for sex fuzzes out his vision and turns his pounding headache into a full-fledged migraine. His grip on the firewood tightens, and he can feel the rough and textured bark digging into his skin. 

His mouth curls inward, the cracked skin splitting down the middle of his bottom lip as Shen Yuan threatens to snarl at the SYSTEM. How the fuck am I supposed to change the plot if I can’t even change the way my character acts!  

[ Reminder to Host: The OOC Function is frozen, but not permanent. Once Host has become properly settled in and completed the tutorial will he be able to unlock it. ]  

Fine, fine! He has half a mind to unload a string of curses at the SYSTEM, because apparently its rules were as stupid as the author who made this world. Shen Yuan refrains; he doesn’t know how sentient the thing is, and upsetting it right now when he has no idea when he is – nor does he know a thing about the point system -- would only be detrimental for him in the long run. 

Instead, he lets loose a groan from his throat that could be more accurately compared to as a growl. With his one free hand, Shen Yuan drags his palm down his face, and then loops it back up to comb it through his hair. ...His hair that is much longer than it used to be, and which is snaggled with little knots and tangles that he’ll have to get out.  

He hits the first knot and immediately withdraws his fingers, freeing up a few strands of ink black hair while he’s at it. With a quick wrist shake, the strands fall to the floor and Shen Yuan leans the rest of his weight against the log pile. Some of his anger cools down until it’s nothing more than boiled water gone cold, and he sighs out through a clogged-up nose until there’s nothing more than a quiet pressure of unease curled around his shoulders.  

There’s really not much he does know about how Shen Qingqiu acts – after all, he put up a responsible and dutiful disciple front when he was in the presence of Luo Binghe, and was only then revealed to be a scumbag later down the line. Which only got backed up with secondhand accounts of the other Qing Jing Peak disciples.  

He didn’t show up often either, since most of the time Luo Binghe was off the peak. Nobody wants to read about a powerful peak lord being a teacher after all. Many more interesting things in the world around him than his students.  

SYSTEM, how old am I? He must be pretty young if he bases it off how small he is – although, Shen Qingqiu didn’t have much of a description in the first place. He was only described as having skin as white as jade, with glossy black hair and a noble air surrounding him. Height, eyes, and finer details like that were left unmentioned. Why did I wake up in a woodshed? What time is it? 

[ Host is currently thirteen years old! Last night Shen Qingqiu experienced a severe Qi Deviation after having an altercation with the Head Disciple. It is early morning; the other disciples will be getting breakfast. ] 

That doesn’t explain why he was in a woodshed. But at this point, Shen Yuan was starting to believe that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of every question he asks. That does explain the blood in his mouth and crusted on his face – and the soreness and exhaustion currently wrought through his body, though.  

In a rapid set of blinks and a little bit of mental fiddling, the message notifications disappear out of his sight and the rest of his senses begin to filter back in, the SYSTEM seeming content to disappear into the back of his mind – which, wow, feels just as weird as the original goods’ instincts from earlier. 

More of his own strength had returned, enough that Shen Yuan feels comfortable with pushing himself off the firewood stack and standing on his own. Making sure that his legs won’t collapse under the weight of his own body, he takes a tentative step forward and drops his gaze down to the little white fan sitting on the ground.  

...The idea of leaving without it returns that discomforting, vulnerable feeling from earlier, as if he had walked out without a shirt on. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up on its own with unease. Shen Qingqiu was mentioned to hide his face behind a fan in every appearance he made, it must be the original goods’ emotions he’s feeling then. Again.  

He leans down, his core trembling just a little, and plucks it right off the ground. The grooves of the wood fit against his fingers perfectly, hinting at weeks, if not years, of use and the oils of his hands wearing it down. He beats the side of the fan against his leg lightly, ignoring the bruising-aches it shoots up his thigh, and brushes off the dirt clinging to it.  

Without thinking, Shen Qingqiu flicks it open and flutters it about for a few quick beats. The unnerving, skin-crawling sensation marking across his spine settles down, and he snaps the fan shut before reaching for the door.  

[ OOC: Host should make himself look presentable before being seen in public. Failure to do so will result in immediate point deduction. ] 

Shen Qingqiu grits his teeth again, there’s nothing in here but dirt and wood, how am I supposed to do that? It’s not like he had the whole layout of Qing Jing Peak memorized; Luo Binghe was barely on so where everything was, wasn’t important. Is there some kind of bathhouse somewhere?  

Which, if there was, he wasn’t planning on using until it was entirely empty – the mere thought of it returned that gross, uncomfortable skin-crawling discomfort. He’ll shower at night, thank you, repressing a shudder at the horrifying idea of someone potentially walking in on him.  

[ OOC: Shen Qingqiu would never bathe with the threat of other disciples around. There is a nearby creek that Host can clean himself up at. ]  

That’s really not much better.  But, so long as he isn’t undressing in public, he can probably just... wash the dirt off and get his hair damp enough to detangle it. If Shen Qingqiu was sleeping in here, then he probably has a change of clothes somewhere around here, right? He should look around for any hidden bags before leaving.  

He finds a small qiankun pouch tucked safely between a set of wood logs near the blanket, and inside it is a clean set of robes for him to change into, which, perfect! The robes he was wearing right now weren’t terribly dirty, but there were a few dirt spots visible enough that Shen Qingqiu was sure that he’d probably get a point deduction out of it, or a scolding from senior disciples.  

(Does Shen Qingqiu sleep in the woodshed often? Shouldn’t he be in the dormitories?)  

He plucks the bag out of its little hidey-hole, giving it a place on his belt, along with his newly acquired fan, and turns towards the door. Shen Qingqiu crosses the room in the span of a few large steps, and just as he’s about to curl his hand around the handle, he... pauses.  

It’s only for a split second, a moment of hesitation, of personal confirmation that, once he opens this door, there will be no going back. Not that there was since he opened his eyes, but, it would cement it.  

Shen Qingqiu breathes in a shaky breath, and then opens the door to the rising sun.