#probs post this on ao3 too

[24-05txt]

In regards to the whole soul mate thing, Soap's been through all the phases.

He'd started curious, then confused, then mournful, then resentful. For now he's settled somewhere in the vicinity of apathy—maybe spite.

He doesn't have a soul-mark. Never has, never will, and that's... fine. He's far from the only one lacking that kind of connection, and that's enough for him to feel understood. Not alone. He's got plenty of good friends besides—with and without soulmates of their own—and he's happy that way. Really, he is; it took him a fair amount of work to get to a place where he could say that and it not be wishful thinking. He's got friends, family, dalliances, motion and company and light in his life despite the lack of a mark that tells him where his place is.

And then he meets Ghost.

The Lieutenant is huge in the sense that his presence alone takes up what space his height and muscle can't. He's quiet, too, at least before Soap makes the effort to worm his way under all that tacgear. (The man is intriguing, what can he say? Who else walks around with a honest-to-fuck skull mask day in and out.)

Ghost seems to tolerate him at first, then inexplicably starts to prickle and grouch whenever Soap comes within six feet of him. He could make up a few reasons for why that is, but instead contents himself with pretending he doesn't notice—pushing the implied boundary until Ghost mans up and tells him off.

He never does, though. And it's not long at all until Soap's found that the boundary has given way and Ghost is—well he's actually pretty pleasant to be around. He's funny, and patient, and gives way too much of a shit to be in a career that pretty much ensures the death of everyone he works with. (He likes to pretend he doesn't, but there's no other reason he would have been waiting up in that church for Soap—in fact he shouldn't have still been there at all, since he'd already scoped an escape route. The bastard's soft, is what he's saying.)

And that's when things start to backslide just a little.

They're sitting in the mess—only three of them, the Captain unable to grace them with his presence—and Gaz is talking about his sister's husband's new boyfriend being the result of a late-discovery soulmatch.

"Could you imagine," he says, pausing to chew his mouthful before he continues. "Going thirty years knowing there's someone out there for you, and not seeing them until after you're already married?"

"Could be platonic," Soap pointed out, not bothering with the same courtesy of chewing his food. Ghost kicks him under the table for it, but he honestly can't be asked to care for only three words worth.

"Could be, but still—could you imagine?"

"Nope." Soap pops the 'P' and grins. Ghost doesn't kick him this time since he hasn't taken another bite yet. "I'm a wee bit hopeless in that department."

"Ah, brother." Gaz reaches out and they clasp hands for a moment, then he nudges his shoulder. "You and me both. Never much got the fuss about it, but that does seem like some sort of cosmic irony yeah?"

"Issat irony?" Soap asks. "Don't think that's right."

Obviously, that incites a short argument that ends when Gaz pulls out his phone to look up the actual dictionary definition of 'irony', and Soap grasps to change the topic to literally anything else to avoid Gaz gloating on the off chance that he's right.

"Lt, what about you?"

Ghost blinks at him as if he hasn't been staring at the both of them through the whole conversation.

"I know what irony is, Johnny."

"No—" he can't help the scowl, and talks over Gaz's sudden jeering as he shoves his phone under his nose. Soap lifts his chin to avoid it. "You got a soul mark?"

"Read it and weep, Soap!" Gaz cheers, only slightly subdued in respect for every else in the room.

"I do." Ghost says at the same time, dipping his head in a tiny little nod, and Soap's world ends just a little bit, right there in the mess hall. Curls up, withers, and dies without so much as a squeal.

He's not able to ask if Ghost knows who it is, or if he's met them, or if they're still alive, or if it's romantic or platonic; he's not sure if it even matters, because Johhny knows right then that he will never be as close to Ghost as they are.

And it hurts.

It hurts in a way he wasn't entirely expecting.

He must hold it together well enough through the rest of dinner, and then through walking with Gaz back to their rooms, but once he's got the door locked behind him he feels the smile fall off his face. He sits down on the edge of his bed.

Ghost has a soulmate.

Ghost has a soulmate and Soap is pissed about it. Because that soulmate isn't him—it can't be, since he doesn't have a mark of his own.

It's just—it's unfair. They work so well together, on the field and off. He knows for a fact no one else can read Ghost as well as he can, no one else talks to him like he does, he doesn't hang around anyone else like he seems to hang around Soap. If anyone should be Ghost's soulmate, it should be him.

But he's not. Which means there's someone else out there that can watch his six better, understand him more, have more satisfying conversations—and it seems fucking impossible, because he doesn't even know how it could get better given the time they've known eachother... and yet.

And yet Ghost has a mark, and Soap doesn't.

It takes him days to get over it—at least enough to act himself when he's in company. Ghost tries to get him to talk about it three separate times before he can manage to get his shit together. He won't *lie* to Simon, nor is he about to admit to what's eating at him, and it leaves him snappish. Leaves the vitriol closer to the surface than it ever has been around Ghost and he hates to see how he reacts to it; he doesn't cower, doesn't flinch, doesn't avoid him, just stares—in a different way than before. John's temper will flare and Ghost will freeze a little, tilt his head, furrow his brow, and fucking stare at him until the moment passes. It might be better if he raised his voice in return, let it escalate into a proper fight—or even if he shut Soap down hard and told him to cool off. Instead Ghost looks at him like he's gone and become a stranger; like he's confused where he doesn't expect to be, and that hurts almost as much as finding out his place isn't next to Simon—or at least, he doesn't have any rightful claim to it.

[dirksawesomesprites]

WHY IS WRITING SO HARD

why cant i just stick to sprites why do i torture myself in 2 creative ways

damn me

falls to my knees

i wanna post sprite edits of my fanfics so bad hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back

[nythtak]

Thought it'd be fun to do a little drabble soooo-

Cattonquick Oxford Days - the first cigarette

(This is based in the Maneater AU - unless I change my mind on details later - but can be read as in canon universe)

The lighter fails to catch the first couple of times Felix tries it. But after a final, despairing shake of the crappy thing, the flame sputters to life.

“Thank fuck,” he mumbles around the ciggie, and hurriedly brings the lighter up. April’s swung in with far too much chill, because fuck England, right? No spring for them, nooope. Just horrible grey rainy days, where even brief lulls like this evening are tarnished by cold winds.

He’s regretting not grabbing a jacket when he had chance to, and he eyes Oliver’s long-sleeves jealously. They’re on their way back from the pub, and it’s still early enough that most streetlights feel unnecessary. After a of couple hours there Felix realised he just wasn’t feeling it tonight, that stickiness of going through the motions and not enjoying himself like usual, where even a few pints couldn’t soften it up.

So when Oliver gave him a nudge, mentioned he has an essay he really needs to work on, Felix leapt at the chance to head out. He has his own pile of coursework to dive into before the Easter holidays start. Maybe speed through a chunk of it tonight, get that late night focus on, and then he can decide how much is usable tomorrow.

He’s glad he decided to stick it out at Oxford over the coming break. Originally it was more about keeping his word on staying at university all year, rather than nipping home every holiday - or even every other weekend, like some silly sods do. He went as far as to swear off a trip abroad this school year, fully committed to the uni life, which means no fluttering off to sunnier skies.

He aims a glower up at the dark clouds far above them. Curse thy existence.

“Felix?”

Felix’s head snaps down, and down, and he has to grin. Oliver is so short. Like, okay, so he’s not actually super-duper short. A bit below average, perhaps, and around the height of most girls. But he’s a lot shorter than Felix, which is what really matters.

It means he’s the perfect height - practically made for it - for Felix to sling an arm around his shoulders and drag him into his side. Oliver runs a bit cool, but he’s still a damn sight warmer than the nippy evening air.

“Yeah, mate?” Felix takes a pull from the ciggie, careful not to blow it all in Oliver’s face. Would be awfully rude. But that does get him thinking about how Oliver doesn’t smoke, and he frowns at him. “You know, I don’t think you ever said why you don’t smoke.”

Could it be something to do with his family? Cigarettes are a huge leap from heroin and meth and whatever else, but traumas can be multi-layered, can’t they? A full-on aversion to anything even related. But Oliver is clearly battling through it, going to the pub and clubs where alcohol abounds, not even flinching at all the casual drug use their group gets up to.

“Just not keen.” Oliver shrugs slightly, and it’s interesting to feel the motion of it under his arm. Makes him want to squeeze Oliver a bit. His hand slides down to cup Oliver’s bicep rather than hanging loosely, but he holds off on the full grabby. For now.

“So you’ve tried one before?”

Oliver hesitates, but shakes his head. He’s looking ahead rather than at Felix, and while he does have lovely thick hair, that isn’t quite the view Felix wants currently.

So he brings them to a stop, Oliver stumbling into him a bit and looking up questioningly. There it is. Christ, Oliver’s eyes seem to get bluer every time Felix catches a glimpse. Like, with each additional second he knows Oliver, he’s able to see more of him. Another droplet of paint on the colour palette, swirled in with patient brush strokes.

“If you’ve never tried it…” Felix puts the ciggie between his lips, just so he can flip his hand and pluck it out again. Holding it filter-first toward Oliver with an inviting smile. “How can you know you won’t like it?”

Now, Felix would never pressure anyone into doing something they don’t want to. That would be terrible manners. All he’s doing here is giving Oliver the chance to expand his horizons. Indulge in a little fun, like he’s clearly not had chance to- well, probably in his whole life.

Felix has been making up for that. He’s fully embraced showing Oliver the highlights of uni life, and it’s been an absolute blast so far. Letting Oliver have a go at smoking is just another part of that.

“I dunno, mate.” The corner of Oliver’s mouth ticks up as he looks from the ciggie to Felix. “They’re not great for your health, right?”

The little right? at the end softens what might’ve been an annoying admonishment, to something that makes Felix smirk. “All part of the appeal. If we only did what was healthy, we’d be a proper dull lot.” He raises his eyebrows and tips the cigarette closer to Oliver’s lips, his pinky finger grazing Oliver’s chin. “You’re not dull, are you, Ollie?”

He knows most of his friends think Oliver is boring. That he outlived any novelty within the first week; Felix’s unlikely saviour from a tutorial scolding, the scholarship boy with the funny accent. Farleigh has certainly made his opinion clear, his pissy attitude the real bore around here.

They just don’t get Oliver. None of them.

Nah, Felix is the only one who gets the real Ollie, the one Oliver trusts and opens up to. They’re already best mates, fitting together like two puzzle pieces. And the way Oliver looks at him - yeah, it can get a bit much at times, but it’s all part of Oliver’s charm, really. He’s completely genuine and clearly thinks the world of Felix, so obviously he can’t filter that intensity down. Felix would never ask him to. He accepts Oliver exactly as he is.

Oliver takes the cigarette, pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he eyes it like it might bite him. Or give him lung cancer.

Felix would give him a drumroll if he could. He settles for an encouraging shake and cheering, “Go oooooon, Oll-aaaaay!”

And Oliver does.

Not that there was ever any doubt. But it’s still satisfying in a warm, buzzy way to watch Oliver take a drag, lips pursed and the shadows on his cheeks deepening a little. Takes it like a pro, his Ollie, and it’s only once Oliver’s eyes close that Felix realises they’ve been locked in a staredown.

Then Oliver breathes out, and Felix is hit by a faceful of smoke.

The moment his coughing fit is done, he grabs a hastily apologising Oliver by the shoulder, snatches the ciggie back, and gets revenge.

[mangojou]

ok… y’all remember that one gojo multi fic where in the first part it’s like reader is a virgin n they get horny listening to neighbors have sex n it’s like a heavy make out scene n gojo is just being a tease ⁉️ then pt 2 is like he fingers reader at the beach bc reader was eyefucking some dude ⁉️

i’ve been thinking abt tht fic lately n if there’s a pt 3 i need to read it. i need closure!

[smp-live]

"Hey, Wil."

The few candles scattered around the shrine flickered in the breeze, their unsteady light sending shadows dancing across the lapis and gold. Moonlight from the near-full moon almost drowned them out, bright enough to read by and casting the potion bottles resting upon their stands in a silvery sheen.

Tommy stood, head bowed, with his hands stuffed in his jeans' pockets. They'd been shaking, earlier. Now they held still.

"Day, what, fifty-two, now? Something like that. Not like it fucking matters, does it." He kicked at a stray pebble. It scattered away, towards L'Manberg. "I won't be coming back here, anymore. Sorry. For leaving you alone."

"But I guess this was more for me than for you. 'S not like you can hear me, huh? Because you fuckin' left. That was smart of you. To get out while you still could."

"Don't worry. I don't blame you. Not anymore. We'll call it even, 'kay? You left me, and now I'm leaving you." He shuffled closer to the shrine with a weak smile that was quick to die, a light shrouded by a veil.

"I'm dying tomorrow, Wil," he said, and his voice cracked even though he'd already grown used to the thought. "I'm not- Fuck." And he let himself slide down to sit with his back resting against the lapis. It was cool, in the autumn evening air. Soon there would be snow on the ground.

And he wouldn't get to see it.

"It's not fucking fair," Tommy said, suddenly angry. He was still so, so angry. "It's not fucking fair! Why did it have to be us? Why couldn't we have just been normal? Been happy?"

"I just wanted to live, man. To not, I dunno, feel like this all of the time. I was so scared, Wil. I don't- And I'm not, anymore. And I thought that was a good thing, but I don't- I don't know anymore."

He tipped his head up to the sky, trying to soak in all the moonlight he could. This was the last time he would ever see it. The last time he would ever see the stars. Yesterday had been his last sunset, and in a few hours, his last sunrise, and he didn't know if it was worse when you knew it was coming or when it was horribly unexpected.

"At least it'll be over. It'll finally be over."

A pause. Silence, punctuated by soft breaths.

"I'm gonna be dying in the prison again. Not even somewhere new." He huffed out a dry laugh. "That fucking prison."

"And then... I'll be dead. Forever. Tubbo said it'll be like static, dying, so at least it won't hurt like last time, but... The after, Wil, that's what I'm- I'm dreading."

"But Tubbo can't know that. I'm the one who dragged him into this mess, and I... I feel so guilty. He could just be living like normal, taking care of Michael, and instead... he's wrapped up in all this." He buried his head in his arms.

"How did you do it?" It came out as barely a rasp. "How did you not- I think I understand, now, how you felt. In Pogtopia. This would drive me insane too, living with this."

"At least I won't have to. Think on the bright side, right?" A hoarse laugh. "That's what Tubbo wants to do. And it was so... frustrating, Wil, yeah? Because we're fucked. We're absolutely fucked, and he keeps insisting there's another way but I can't think about that, I just can't."

"I don't want to die. And... I know I've been in Limbo before, but fuck, man, I-"

"I miss you."

A sob tore its way out, tears running down his cheeks, and for the second time that day, he let himself cry.

"I miss you so much. It hurts. It was so bad in Limbo the first time and you just fucking- made it worse but I don't wanna be alone there-"

"And I know if you were here you'd tell me it was for the best or some bullshit like that but fuck, man, you'd know what to do. Or at least, you'd be a bossy little bitch and tell us what to do and I wouldn't have to fucking argue with Tubbo about the plan."

"It's the only way. You get that, right? I'm not being- being stupid, or short-sighted, or anything? Because I really wish this was one of those times."

Of course, there was no answer.

"Yeah, no. You're right. I have to do this."

He wiped at his tears with the palms of his hands. "Gods. They're fucking Gods, Wil. TommyInnit, God-killer, that's what they'll call me." He chuckled wetly.

"I lost your book, by the way. And the Discs. I'm sorry about that. I know you got them for me and I really do appreciate it, and I tried to keep them, but..." An inhale. "I couldn't do it."

"At least the Discs saved our lives, though. And- and you got them! You got them for me! So I guess that means you saved us one last time, huh? Thanks for that. Bitch."

"You probably wanna hear how they helped, but I- I shouldn't say that. I shouldn't be here at all, actually." He glanced warily around. "Someone could be listening."

But the only sound was grass in the wind, and howling stone from the caverns deep in the crater below. Even the creatures of the night were quiet, silenced by the oncoming winter and, perhaps, a sense of anticipation for the day to come. Or, if the universe had any sense of justice, in mourning.

"After all, I'm supposed to be in the prison right now. Or that's what they need to think." He picked at the frayed threads of his jeans. "And people talk. You know how it is - you're the one who taught me that."

A sigh. "I just wanted one last night."

He sat in silence for a while. Time enough for the moon to disappear behind a cliff and the constellations to turn their paths in the sky. Just a boy, eighteen in age but feeling much older, and a monument to his long-gone brother.

Eventually, he tapped his knees. "Well, I should get going. Long day tomorrow, and all." And he got to his feet.

He turned to face the shrine but all words died in his throat, so he simply rested his forehead against the cool gemstone the way he'd seen Wilbur do in a small stone room with a button in this very same location, what felt like an eternity ago.

"I- Goodbye, Wil. We said this already, but... I guess I didn't really move on. I kinda have to now, though, I guess." A laugh.

"Thank you for everything. I really, really wish it could've been different." A deep breath. "For what it's worth, it was fun while it lasted."

"I love you."

And then he turned away and stepped into the shadows, not letting himself glance back.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Do you write fh (jy) fan fiction? If so is there a way I can read it? Thanks :>

I'll say I am writing fh fanfics! but its currently in my computer and nowhere else. maybe one day I'll get what I'm writing done and somewhere not my computer and I'll let folks know!

[spirkbitch]

any good recommendations for where to read fanfic while ao3 is down?

[waylibee-analysis-firm]

mustang theory (ch09)

guys im being so serious rn. im so scared to post this. but bee is being wonderfully supportive (as usual <3) and i am going to be. so very Brave. this may not be coherent, but...i hope it makes some sort of sense ok. anyways here is the theory for ch09:

mike and will leave the camp dance early bc of Bad Memories and/or they would rather just be making out (which is. fair) 

(fearless lore is referenced throughout but also will be theorized/posted about separately) 

this would be proven by the references to wish you were sober by conan gray (yes ik it’s not in relation to ch09 but. this part Could Happen at the end of ch08…just saying). 

this specific theory is fueled by the weird eureka moment i had regarding this post. is this a reach? yes. do i fucking care? no.

they take mike’s car, despite will’s grumblings abt his stupid fucking mustang.

ch01 im staring. Directly at you. shut up. shut up. i hear what you’re saying and i just can’t listen right now okay. ch01 we’ll get back to you i prommy

“Also, God forbid I have to leave the grounds in Mike Wheeler’s stupid fucking Mustang more than once this summer," he adds, nearly spitting. (ch01)

need i say more.

also this would totally be building more on their trust....plus probably some references from follow the sparks that i don't know off the top of my head

also could have been foreshadowed by ch02…when will refused to get into mike’s stupid. fucking. mustang. just saying….

ch02 is also biggest fearless lore references we have that i can think of but that is for another time

“Don’t tell me you’re driving that thing,” Will scoffs, eyeing Mike’s car in trepidation, eyes sweeping along the length of the racing stripes. (ch02)

...forcing Will to declare a lesser of two evils: throwing dignity to the wind and accepting a ride in the Mustang — the undeserving bane of Will’s existence...(ch02)

CAR EMOJI !!!!

this chapter is “thea’s baby”. well thea is also the resident car expert.

im literally so funny for this sorry not sorry im cracking myself up ->

either something happens between them and they end up pulled over OR something happens to the stupid fucking mustang

THIS could be that one post thea made…which could have been totally innocent OR it could have been COMPLETELY SINISTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OUT TO GET US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! putting on my tinfoil hat

smth happens between them...backseat driver will (mentioned in ch02) as well as the stupid. FUCKING how to drive manual that's been driving me INSANE the past couple of days (found here.)

side note: thea i love you but you are driving me Bonkers (mwah <3)

alternative to the above point is that mike pulls over to 1) make out with will (again. which is again. fair.) 2) chat with will about what they Are

option 2) would require some sort of shift in their relationship/situationship beforehand…im thinking this could mean you know that i caught it could take place BEFORE or DURING ch9… this could be the They Know motif coming to a head (meaning everybody. they Know for real this time. and now mike’s confused about it. “what are we?” talk from ch05 but times a million)

“save me ‘till the party’s over/kiss me in the seat of your rover”

^^ regarding this. i wrote all of this before i rediscovered that wish u were sober has nothing to do with ch09 (supposedly). im just too lazy to change it bear with me please.

will gets mad at mike for some reason?

if the original point made (something happens to the stupid fucking mustang) ends up happening, this could be will’s breaking point bc he’s overwhelmed and panicked and stuff is happening too fast for him

ch09 is a will pov chapter.

also frustrated crier (some ask about ch04 that i need to find to link before this gets posted)…just saying.

will gets mad at mike continued and reverts back to his I Need to Hurt You phase bc it’s safe and he doesn’t know how to handle the UNDOUBTEDLY romantic feelings n thoughts he’s having about mike…

he’s scared of getting hurt again like he was with derek and he’s scared of the unfamiliar territory that comes with being nice to mike/having mike be nice in return

This type of gentleness is certainly a facet of Will that Mike has known, having seen it more than a handful of times over the years, but it’s not quite one he’s accustomed to. (ch06)

this ^^ goes both ways i assume...there's gotta be evidence abt it in a will pov chapter but i am. exhausted.

he lashes out at mike that they aren’t anything, they’re just a casual fwb situationship, etc. 

wow would you look at that…this is paralleling the fearless lore theory…

cue "straight up" by paula abdul for mike pov (i've been a fool before/wouldn't like to get my love caught in the slammin' door/how about some information, please? // straight up now tell me/do you really want to love me forever oh, oh, oh/or am I caught in a hit-and-run?/straight up now tell me/is it gonna be you and me together oh, oh, oh/or are you just having fun?)

“Hit-and-run” CAR IMAGERY ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME

"straight up" by paula abdul is on mike's driving playlist and i've been going insane about it since i saw it. btw. i love this song.

mike's unsure abt what they Are/what will is thinking so he reverts to the childish fighting thing too...pushing will's buttons is second nature for him by this point...evidence for this in a mike pov i will find later prommy

this is also wish you were sober coded “trip down the road, walking you home/you kiss me at your door/pullin’ me close, beg me ‘stay over’/but im over this roller coaster/imma crawl out of the window now/gotten good at saying ‘gotta bounce’/honestly you always let me down/and i know we’re not just hanging out”

first half here. could be about how mike is begging will for a relationship. but will is “over the rollercoaster” and the push and pull of their friendship to rivalry to fwb situation. 

second half here. will’s metaphorically leaving mike (crawling out the window). he’s “gotten good at saying ‘gotta bounce’” bc he’s done this to mike Before when they kissed when they were thirteen…i Think (fearless lore theory). “honestly you always let me down” could be a reference to. will being angry with mike for not just being happy with their fwb, even though he wants more too? “i know we’re not just hanging out” come ON this is will saying he KNOWS THEY CANT JUST BE CASUAL. HE LITERALLY SAYS THIS IN CH05 I BELIEVE. OR MIKE DOES IN CH06. THEY CAN’T BE ANYTHING BUT EACH OTHERS EVERYTHING. 

^^ literally kill me now i can't believe none of this is related. curling up into a little ball and sobbing.

this would be the beginning of the Angst that’s a 3-4 on a scale of 10 bc we know they're both idiots just miscommunicating But. hey.

so that's uh. that's the outline of the Theory we currently have...it's our most fleshed out one rn fs but there are a few Others that were referenced here that we need some more information on...

anyways. thanks for being insane with us. <3

[fistfuloflightning]

Curufin doesn’t think much, there at the end. She can feel the floor, unpleasantly warm and sticky against her cheek. There’s the sideways shuffle of feet and fighting, all greyed-out smudges as her vision fades.

There is someone calling her name, she thinks, but she’s too tired to raise her head. The Oath has weighed heavily on her and it has drained her until she is little more than a wraith herself. Footsteps close by and more voices. A golden head falls to the floor next to her and her stuttering heart falters within her. But no, it is more silver than gold. He’s long dead anyway.

Does regret mean anything when one is at Mandos’ doorstep? Curufin finds she doesn’t care. She’s lived with it long enough. And if the Valar wish curses upon her for her loyalty and dedication to her father’s pledge, she will take it as a proud daughter of Fëanor.

She dies there, on Menegroth’s blood-caked floor.

 Yet her dreams are still those of one with regrets. They follow her in the shadowed Halls, lurking at the edges of her sight. And slowly she feels herself yielding. The armor cracks, the festering wounds split open and painfully knit back together.

 And when she wakes, she wakes in water.

She’s floating on her back, hair rippling about her head and naked as the day of her birth. There is something tapping against her side, her arms. Lily pads, Curufin thinks with all the disinterest of one who has spent the majority of her life in the semi-darkness of a forge. Lilies or perhaps even lotissë. But she’s too weary to open her eyes to check. The flowers’ perfume is everywhere, accompanied by the bright fresh smell of green growing things. The sun is warm on her skin, broken occasionally by the shadows of leaves.

She has no desire to think.

Memories lurk about the edges of her mind but they are as fleeting as fish beneath a lake’s surface. A flicker of hands guiding hers over shaped steel, golden hair warm on her skin, a small dark head cradled against her breast. They wash through her and Curufin no longer knows what are dreams and what are not.

Gentle hands draw her up out of the water and down into a boat and Curufin at last opens her eyes. The eyes looking down into hers are bird-like, bright and unlike any of the Eldar. A maia, then. “Curufinwë Atarinkë, daughter of Fëanor.” Scaled hands curl around hers, so much larger yet infinitely gentle.

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She knows her own name. The meaning behind it eludes her. Unable to answer, she looks away. Willow trees are draped around them, leafy curtains trailing gracefully in the water, shadowing the blanket of white-petaled lotissë.

The maia guides the boat to a stone dock and helps her off. “Wait here,” the maia says in its soft chirping voice after it clothes her in a simple robe and sits her in a pavilion overlooking the Gardens.

Wait for what? She sits in silence, memories slowly knitting back together. And when another elf approaches, the rich gold of his hair sparks a mess of grief and yearning. When he sits beside her, Curufin meets his eyes. But they are proper Noldorin grey, not the warm sea blue she knows. “… Lókë?”

“Ammë.”

And that’s… that’s all wrong.

But she knows. Knows this stranger with her eyes.

“Gwinig nin,” she murmurs, fingers touching his chin. She hasn’t seen him since he was no more than a babe in arms, scarce three winters old when she had been exiled from Nargothrond.

“Celebrimbor took you,” Curufin says suddenly. And now she remembers with painstaking clarity the way her eldest son had turned his back to her, shielding his younger brother’s eyes from the hatred and disgust thrown their way. Kinslayer. And worse.

“He did. He watched over me,” Gildor explains patiently.

Her lips twist bitterly. “He did a much better job of it than I did.”

His hands curl around hers. He has Nerdanel’s hands, strong but gentle. “You never had the opportunity.” Gildor’s words are sad.

What is past is past. Curufin breathes deeply and lets her eyes fall shut. “I never did. But that was my mistake.”

She hears light footsteps behind her but she does not release her grip on her youngest son. They stop behind her and the warmth she feels almost makes her weep. She had grown cold, her petals frozen in the winter of the Oath.

But there is a sigh bearing three Ages of the world and a hand against her cheek, warm as sunlight and just as gentle. And this time, she knows exactly who it is. Eyes still closed, she leans into the hand. “Lókë,” she murmurs.

And Finrod’s voice is as shattered as she feels. “Lotissë.”

[tinycatstars]

if you could doooo maybe some Equius or even Eridan agere that’d be great!!, maybe for Equius, Big Sis Nepeta as the caregiver?? and for Eridan, 100% Feferi as his cg!! Perhaps both like younger regressors? (1-2) (I’m projecting) (also i know I’m giving two ideas so choose whatever one you like more!) (ps ps ps your other agere fanfics are soooo cute, I’ve read the most recent Dave one like 4 times now!) thank you for reading this and have a fantastic day :DD

HIIII firstly, you are so sweet omg!! i'm so glad you enjoy my fics so much :,) it makes me so happy!!!

secondly, here you go!! some little equius and big sister nep for you. i hope you like it + have a great day!!! <3 <3

Sometimes Equius feels small.

Despite his usual need to be and feel big and strong, sometimes his mind would become clouded over with a fog that couldn’t be blown away. Whenever he was in this headspace, he’d feel so weak, so vulnerable, so worthless. If he couldn’t protect the others, then who was he?

What made it worse for Equius is that he couldn’t help that he was like this. It would just happen, and then eventually, it would go away. Time was the only thing that could pull the man back to reality.

So, sometimes Equius feels small, small like his body is too big for him. No one else knew of his secret except his moirail. He had confided in her one night during a panic attack. Something had triggered him to fall deep into that headspace, and once he had stopped bawling his eyes out, he messaged the cat-hybrid for help.

Nepeta had been more understanding than he thought she would. She informed Equius about something called “age regression”, the act of mentally regressing back to a young grub. Things had started to make sense to the man after their initial conversation about the topic. He learned that sometimes Nepeta felt smaller too, just like him. Maybe not as small as Equius did, but she would definitely feel little.

Learning about the girl’s regression made Equius feel so much better about his own. Also having a name for the foggy headspace felt better, too. The man found comfort in knowing that other trolls were similar to him, and that he wasn’t alone anymore. Nepeta had suggested the two become each others’ caregivers when one of them regressed. Equius was extremely in favor of this, considering how lonely he felt when his mind felt cloudy.

Sometimes Equius would feel small, and sometimes, Nepeta would too. On rare occasions, the regressors would both be little. Today was one of those days.

Nepeta burst into Equius’s hive, excited to see her moirail and caregiver. She had already started to feel tiny just by walking up to his door, and once she made it inside, the headspace had fully washed over her brain. The cat-hybrid was about six or seven today, just like usual. She felt very giddy to see her best friend, deciding to skip instead of walk to Equius’s closed bedroom door.

Not waiting for an answer to her three knocks to the door, she barged into the other troll’s room. Nepeta didn’t expect to see what she found on the other side of the door; Equius curled up on his bed, dark blue pacifier in his mouth, and horse plushie firmly in his grasp. She could hear an episode of My Little Pony play as she looked at the younger. He moved his gaze from the screen to look at the girl. A grin appeared on his face, behind his pacifier.

“Equius!” she squeals, running over and jumping on his bed. The boy giggles, dropping his horse plush to clap his hands.

“Aren’t you pawsatively adorable!” Nepeta exclaims, giving Equius a tight hug. The younger squeezes back, taking in the girl’s scent. He felt so comforted, so loved, so welcomed by the other troll.

Nepeta pulls back from the hug, and begins to question the little. “Feeling small?”

Equius bobs his head up and down, and the girl grins.

“Wanna have a playdate?” she asks, and the other troll nods even more enthusiastically than before. The kitten squeals again in excitement.

“Yay! What are we gonna do first? Hm?”

Equius takes a minute to think, he really didn’t have any other plans for today other than to watch his show and nap. He couldn’t think of anything for a while, but then it hit him! He grabs Nepeta’s hand and urges her to follow him off the bed. They venture to his desk, where Nepeta finds a number of coloring books and some boxes of crayons.

“Great idea!” Nepeta says, squeezing the younger’s hand.

The girl grabs the coloring books while Equius takes two boxes of crayons, and the two regressors head back to the bed to get comfortable. Nepeta lays on her stomach, sprawling out over the comforter. Equius decides to sit up and color, letting the kitten take up as much room as she pleased. 

Nepeta hands the younger one of the coloring books she had grabbed, and he begins to flip through it to find the right picture. Equius chooses a coloring page of Rarity, his favorite pony! He smiles as he selects the perfect crayons to color her in with. Beside him, Nepeta chooses a wildlife scene depicting lions on a savanna. She grins, her sharp teeth poking out from her bottom lip.

For a while, the two sit in silence as they work on their respective pictures. The only noise filling the large bedroom was the T.V. quietly playing. A nice, peaceful night was what both the regressors needed. 

As they finish up their coloring pages, Nepeta gets an idea. “Equius! Follow me!” she declares. The younger trails behind the cat-hybrid as they make their way into Equius’s kitchen, specifically to the fridge. The older grabs two magnets and begins to hang up their finished coloring pages. She beams at Equius, she’s so proud of what they’ve made!

“We did great!” she exclaims, rocking on the heels of her feet. Equius claps again, giggling at his older sister. ‘Cute baby’, Nepeta thinks.

“What do you wanna do now?” the kitten asks. Equius isn’t sure, but his thoughts are interrupted by a yawn that escapes his mouth, his pacifier falling out as he does so. Thankfully, it’s caught by his paci clip.

“Ohhh”, Nepeta says, a realization coming to her mind. “It’s naptime for babies!”

The younger one nods and moves to grab his baby bottle. It was plain black, something extremely simple, yet very effective when it comes to making him feel tiny. Nepeta is already there, though, and grabs her own spare sippy cup. They each had their own little gear at each others’ hives, just in case. The kitten grabs some milk, sugar, and vanilla extract to prepare them both some angel milk. She knew this would put Equius right to sleep, if he hadn’t already passed out before she got done.

She turns to look at where the other little had gone; he’s sitting at his kitchen island, eyes shut as his head rested against the cold marble. His eyelids felt so heavy, the familiar fog of sleep and being small making it hard for him to stay awake. Nepeta just grins, turning back to what she was doing.

The older regressor finishes up their drinks, with only having spilled a little milk this time! She was getting better at making certain food and drinks while regressed. The microwave goes off, indicating it was time for the pair to head back to the bedroom for a nap.

Nepeta wakes Equius at the counter, explaining that he had to sleep in an actual bed and not at the kitchen counter. He mumbles something before getting up, stumbling behind the other troll until they reach his room.

They quickly moved all of the coloring supplies off the bed so they could nap comfortably. The two littles crawl underneath the covers, Equius clutching his horse stuffie again. The kitten quickly helps the younger with his bottle, and soon the two are curled up holding each other. Equius can feel Nepeta’s purrs against his head as it rests on her chest.

“Nighty night!” she whisper-yells at him, kissing Equius’s forehead gently. He smiles, finally letting sleep overtake him.

So, yes, sometimes Equius feels small, and with the help of his moirail, he’s starting to learn that it’s okay.

[sunshine-1nc]

Traverses of Velvet Birds pt.1

A navigator of the great seas, worker for The Cream Republic, demoted to a simple seafarer working for the Cookies of Darkness. Dove Cookie sat at the meeting table, dozing off as his mind went to other places. “Navigator.” A feminine voice spoke dark and harsh, dragging Dove out of his daydreaming of being anywhere but here. Lifting his head up, he was met with a stare of daggers from Pomegranate Cookie. “Yes-?” Dove responded before yawning, “If you doze off at this table one more time, I shall report that to our master.” “Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes, the next words she said flying over his head as Dove crossed his arms and attempted to look like he was paying attention. 

Inevitably, the meeting ended, Dove taking a moment to realize before he stood up abruptly, looking around to see no one there except the general, Red Velvet Cookie. The two had never talked, after all why would they? The two looked at each other for a moment, Red Velvet holding his ever trusty sword in one hand as his claw hand laid by his side. 

“So, Red Velvet, correct?” Dove crossed his arms .

“That's ‘Commander’ to you.” The man glared at the shorter, his sky blue eyes narrowing at him. 

“Well ‘Commander’ names Dove Cookie.” The dark haired man held his hand out for the other, smiling tauntingly. Red Velvet’s face remained deadpanned, his hand putting his sword to the side as he took Dove’s hand in his own, shaking it slightly.

[daisies-on-a-cup]

sacrificial son

I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters,

that I have greatly sinned,

in my thoughts and in my words,

in what I have failed to do,

through my fault, through my fault,

through my most grievous fault.

-Penitential Act

When his daddy leaves him with the Benoits for four days, Will hears the Penitential Act for the first time.

It is during Sunday mass at noon, sharp, at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church, an hour away from the Benoit’s home. Mrs.Benoit had done something with his hair, oiled and greased it up into a crumpled slick back that his curls barely tolerated. It itched along his scalp, but he didn’t dare touch it. Beside him, the Benoit’s young son, Richard, sits with a similar hair arrangement, though much more suited for his thin, dark blond hair.

The air in the church is stuffy and warm, and there’s more rain to come after the morning shower, but it’s only been half an hour and there’s yet another to go. Mr.Benoit is reading up on the altar, his slow, mumbling scripture a lulling thing that makes Will want to fall asleep. Though kind enough to take the poor son of Louis Graham whenever a job came calling, they were strict and unwilling to compromise on the subject of saving lost souls and keeping theirs from the deepest pits of Hell.

Will reminds himself of that as he feels his eyes slipping, shying from the sharp pinch Mrs.Benoit gives him when she notices his slumped posture. Around him, he can feel the similar strictness kept by the righteous parents of sleepy, bored children, a split line of rapturous attention and drooling ignorance. Those most devoted are sat closest to the front, where Will, the Benoits, and a mix of elderly widows and ever-grievers sit with heads bowed low and eyes following through every passage. 

When Father John stands, everyone else does too. When Father John sits, everyone kneels. It is a kind of submission that makes Will want to get to his knees in earnest compliance. Beyond the bored, misunderstanding attention of the various children in attendance, there are the true believers that raise their hands to the church ceiling and speak to the Lord with holy tongues and confessions. It is a kind of honest begging that confuses Will in his own stance of to-believe-or-not-to-believe.

His daddy doesn’t believe in God. Louis Graham says God doesn’t give enough of a damn to exist, and even if He did, God wouldn’t want to involve Himself in their mess. God was too busy.

Mr.Benoit says God is always watching and knows everything you do and say, and that when the day of Judgement comes, He will know exactly where to send you. The Non-Believers will be sent to Hell, and the Believers will be seated at the right hand of the Father in perfection for all eternity.

To Will, 11 years old and only just beginning middle school, the choice to believe-or-not seems obvious. If all you have to do is say you believe in God to get to Heaven, then it was no small task. William Graham believes in God like he believes his daddy will come back for him after his latest job finishes. Louis Graham will come to the Benoits with thanks but no money to pay them for their time and trouble, and they’ll celebrate with self-caught catfish and some red beans and rice for dinner.

It was easy to believe in God, in this way. Surrounded by faithful believers with their heads bowed, kneeled before Jesus Christ, bloodied and awesome and looming over the congregation. It was easy to believe in God and his sacrificial Son. It was easy to bow his head and fold his hands, mimicking the True Believers in body and word.

“Dear God,” he mouths, shutting his eyes tightly so he doesn’t have to watch the way Mrs.Benoit says affair, “I’m sorry I sinned. I believe in you. Even though my daddy doesn’t, I’ll believe in you enough for the both of us. Sorry again, God. Amen.”

He stays kneeling for an extra minute, knowing that getting up too soon is a sin to those that notice, and when he sits back in his chair, Richard is already seated and picking at his nose. Will looks away when the boy wipes his finger on the pages of his Bible, and waits for everyone else to finish.

When it finally comes time for everyone to get in line, a long, anxious procession for the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, Mrs.Benoit gently holds Will’s shoulders and tells him to cross his arms. The grandmotherly figure that holds out the bowl of what looks like, to Will, wafers, smiles at him and waves her hand over his body in the sign of the Cross. 

“Peace be with you.”

“Amen,” says Will.

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen,” says Mrs.Benoit.

Will watches as Mrs.Benoit sticks out her tongue, patient as the old grandmother carefully places a wafer on it. Mrs.Benoit is secretly displeased. She doesn’t like receiving it this way. She doesn’t like having to chaperone Will, an outsider, during her holy hour. She wishes Mr.Benoit didn’t constantly leave her alone with Richard. She wishes she could really, truly worship like she wants to. She wishes God would save her.

They shuffle back to their pew, where they kneel in prayer and submission again, and Will thinks about the Penitential Act. His fault, his fault, what he has failed to do. 

To Will, true worship seems like one endless apology for existing. Or, at least, failing to exist in the right way.

“Dear God,” he mouths again, resting his head on the pew in front of him, “Please let Mrs.Benoit know I’m sorry. She would be happier alone, so please help her be alone. She loves you. Also, please tell my daddy to come get me soon. I am sorry for sinning. Sorry, God. Amen.”

When they leave mass, Mr.Benoit turns on the radio and Gospel music sings like static in their cramped car. Mrs.Benoit’s arms and legs are crossed and Richard is still picking his nose. The clouds above them are dense and heavy with foretold rain, and Will lays his head against the passenger window.

Will’s belief in God strengthens when he sees his daddy’s old truck sitting in the Benoit’s front yard, a skinny man smoking a cigarette in a way Will has only ever known Louis Graham to do leaning against it. As soon as the car is parked, Will launches himself out and directly into his daddy’s hard arms, big hand digging into his hair and mussing up the tacky grease.

“Thanks ‘fer takin’ my boy,” says Louis, stubbing out his cigarette beneath his shoe. “‘M very grateful for it.”

Mr.Benoit reaches out a hand to shake. “He was a joy to have. You can leave him with us anytime.”

Will looks at Mrs.Benoit and watches the way her demure pink lipstick seems to ripple on her lips like a living thing. Richard clutches at his mother’s dress, hiding from the man that smells like rotted fish and tobacco. He is afraid. Will waves once at the boy and climbs into his daddy’s truck.

The Benoit family stands in their driveway to wave off the Grahams, Richard still tucked away in his mother’s arms, and Will watches their figures drift into the background in the rearview mirror. He can already smell the downpour on its way, and when he turns to his daddy, there’s another cigarette in his mouth. 

“The fishin’ was good?” asks Will, seatbelt digging into the flesh under his chin. He’s too small to be in the front seat but his daddy lets him anyway.

“Redfish, catfish, snappas’, bass,” his daddy lists off, mouth crooked in the best smile he can manage with his stained teeth and busted lips from too many fights. “We gonna eat good tonight, boy.”

God is good, Will thinks as he fiddles happily in his seat. He answered my prayers.

They eat catfish and red beans and rice for dinner that night, and his daddy even lets him try a sip of his beer. Will doesn’t even mind when his daddy laughs in his face after he spits it out. 

He goes to bed full and warm and happy to be home, and the next morning during breakfast, Louis Graham sighs and says, with little ceremony, something bad happened last night.

“‘M sorry, boy,” says his daddy, skin tight around the eyes. “The Benoits… the boy and his daddy. They died last night in a… in a car accident. The roads, y’know, they just get so damn slick after a rain. ‘M sorry, boy. Sorry ‘bout your friend.”

Will doesn’t say anything immediately. All he can think about is what Mr.Benoit said about God. What God said about Himself. How he killed His one and only Son for the good of the world. Will wonders if Mrs.Benoit is happier now. He doesn’t think so.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Will, his daddy stilling like a storm. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t mean for God to listen so good.”

“What ‘chu mean, boy? What’re you on about?”

“I’m sorry, daddy, I really am. She was so sad and she was tired and I thought God would help her. I thought I could help her.”

“No, none of dat nonsense, ya’ hear me? Hush up and eat your food.” 

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault, daddy. I prayed that Mrs.Benoit would be alone and God heard me and killed them. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean nothing by it, I was just trying to help–”

Louis slams a fist against their rickety table and Will’s fork falls to the ground like thunder.

“I said enough! Tweren’t nobody’s fault but the roads. God didn’t listen to no little boy like you and kill ‘em, ya’ hear? It’s a damn shame what happen’, but it ain’t no one’s fault. ‘Specially not yours.” His daddy sighs and leans over to scoop more red beans onto his poor son’s plate. “Now eat. Tears never helped nobody ‘cept the Devil. You ain’t doin’ no one any good like dat, so stop your crying. You can feel sad later. Now eat, boy.”

Too busy trying to stop crying, Will doesn’t move to pick up his fork. He watches as his daddy bends his bony back to pick it up, and Will counts four ridges through his thin shirt before Louis straightens and places the utensil gently by his son’s plate. His daddy goes quiet, timidly chewing on his leftover rice, ever and always regretful of a temper written marrow-deep, and Will wishes he knew how to be a good son. One good enough for God to listen to and hear right. Maybe even one good enough for him to have been named Issac instead of William.

Louis Graham deserved that at least after God took his Mary.

They are not invited to the funeral. From a street corner, they watch the funeral procession drive by and Will sees Ms.Benoit sitting in the passenger seat of the hearse. Will had been told before that only the dead rode in that car. He grips his daddy’s hand hard as he accepts that truth. When his daddy asks him if he wants to visit his friend’s grave, Will shakes his head and stops himself from saying it would only scare the boy. 

After that, Louis Graham is careful to choose neighbors that don’t go to church. This becomes an impossible task and after two weeks of trying to beg a job for a few more days of wiggle room, Louis Graham sits his son down and shows him how to hold a gun.

“You don’t touch it unless you’re in danger,” says his daddy, a cold light in his eyes as he looks at the portrait of his one and only son holding a thing that could kill him as much as save him. “An’ you don’t open dat door for no one. Not the neighbors, not the police, not God– no one. Ya’ hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’d I say?”

“Don’t touch the gun and don’t open the door.”

Louis Graham stares at his son hard for a moment, sucking in his hollow cheeks, before squeezing his small son’s shoulders. He looks too much like his mother, and Louis Graham is familiar with how jealous God can be. He hopes his blood has been enough to dilute the goodness within his son. He hopes it’s enough to keep him here. He hopes his son will stay.

“You know how ta’ work the stove. There’s lots of food in the fridge ‘n pantry. Go to bed at 8 o’clock sharp, ya’ hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

His daddy nods to himself once, then twice, before clearing his throat and standing. “I’ll be back on Wednesday.” That is three days from now. His daddy wants to say more but can’t. Will understands anyway. “Be good.” 

“Yes, sir.”

When his daddy leaves, Will hides the gun in a kitchen drawer and tries not to think about it. He turns on the TV and flips through channels and doesn’t think about the knife his daddy showed him how to use when he was 9, resting in a drawer next to the gun. It’s a gutting knife. For fish. Will tries not to think about using it for anything else.

On one of the channels, a priest is reading. His robes are red and Will thinks they look like the color of his daddy’s working shirt. His daddy’s shirts start out white. 

The priest’s voice wavers through the TV, and his grave eyes seem to sink into the pixels. “Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires.” 

A car backfires outside and Will jumps in his seat. For the last couple of weeks, he’s dreamt about Richard. He can’t remember the details of his face, but Richard is always crying and his skull is shaped the wrong way. Mr.Benoit is there, too, on his knees and praying. Loudly.

“The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law, nor can it do so.” The TV priest pauses for a moment, grainy red robes fluttering around his hands as he scrutinizes a congregation beyond Will’s sight. “Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God. Amen.”

Will turns off the TV before the imaginary people can answer. He feels queasy. Something inside of him itches and wants to go to the kitchen. He remains where he is. Later, like always, it will rain and his daddy will probably be out on his boat catching fresh fish for the local diners. Will wishes he could go with him, but his daddy says he’s not big enough to haul in the type of fish he catches. Says that a gator would eat him up quick, a tasty snack for its hungry teeth.

The day passes into the night, and like the good son he wants to be, Will goes to bed at 8 o’clock, and in the morning when he wakes, he heats up more leftovers on the stove like his daddy taught him, and spends another day like the one before. There is no priest on TV this time, but there is Tom & Jerry, and Will fills his head with funny cats and conniving mice and does his best to not think about the mangled boy in his dreams and the gun in the kitchen drawer.

When Wednesday finally comes, and Will hears his daddy’s keys jingle in the lock, Will waits anxiously by the door like a lost puppy and rushes to hold his daddy when he steps in. He smells like nicotine and the bayou, and Will begins to cry when his daddy says hello to him. He realizes he has not said a single word in three long days, and, left alone with nothing but his thoughts, he had begun to fear going to bed at night– fearful of little Richard and his wailing father that cursed God and begged loudly to be let into Heaven.

“Miss me, did ya’?” his daddy jokes, hobbling forward with his son clinging to his legs. “Didn’ get inta any trouble, right?”

“No, sir,” says Will, hiding his tears. He’s gotten better at it since his daddy last told him. “I was good.”

“An’ no one came to the door?”

“No one, no one at all.”

His daddy reaches down to ruffle Will’s hair. “Good boy. I brought some hush puppies from Mama Jones, if you’re hungry.”

They sit down together at their little table and when his daddy passes him a greasy bag, Will asks, “The fishin’ was good?”

His daddy smiles and lists off the wanted fish this time around (“Bass, trout, catfish, more snappas’.”), mentions a 10-foot gator he saw and was tempted to catch, and Will basks in the direct light of it. Three days was a long time to be alone. He had stopped going into the kitchen altogether on the second day and had spent the rest of his time hungry and frightened. He doesn’t want to confess that he stopped going to bed at 8 o’clock. He knows his daddy can tell he hasn’t been sleeping, but his daddy doesn’t mention it and keeps telling him he was a good boy for “holdin’ down the fort” and that he’s sorry he had to leave him alone for so long. 

Will tells him he didn’t mind. He knows it was what his daddy had to do. 

That night when they go to bed, Will lays awake and prays. He’s not sure he’s doing it right and he’s afraid that he is, that God is listening too closely to what he says, but Will feels as if he has no other choice. Mr.Benoit couldn’t get into Heaven, even with all his belief and faith. More and more dirt falls out from his mouth every time Will sees him. He is screaming in his grave and no one hears him. No one at all.

“Dear God,” whispers Will, glass words in the still air, “My daddy is good. Please let him go to Heaven if he dies one day. I believe in you enough for the both of us. Please let my daddy into Heaven. I know he’s sorry for… for things. He’s sorry. He’s so sorry all the time, I know he is. God, please let my daddy into Heaven.” 

He closes his eyes, about to sleep, but the horror of his prayer settles over him and Will folds his hands together in fervent terror. “God,” says Will, worried he’s not been quick enough, “Don’t kill my daddy to send him to Heaven. Please don’t kill my daddy. He’s all I got and I’m all he’s got. Don’t kill him yet, God. Please. Thank you. A-Amen.”

It is thankful, then, that Will thought to add that clause to his prayer. Mr.Benoit once said that each word is said to God, no matter the context, so it is best to be careful and mindful of your words. Such a warning reminds Will of the fables an old babysitter used to tell him, of other-worldly and wild creatures that would soon as give you a gift as curse you for your absent-minded, ill-thought requests. Midas’ Touch. An exchange of names. A wealth of absence.

Will is thankful, in the end, for his addition as his daddy lives through the night. He lives through the next day and night as well, and the days and nights after that. Weeks go by and his daddy keeps on living, stubbornly breathing in and exhaling tar through his yellowed and gray teeth. As Will grows older, his daddy lives so much at times Will regrets his adamant prayer. He gets a job just to pay for his daddy’s bail. He suffers the stares of his neighbors, the weight of his daddy’s drink, the cleaning of his mother’s grave behind their forgotten church.

It must be sacrilegious to think of God as like a fae creature, clever and wicked and jealous and vain. Will never goes back to church after the Benoits, listening to the bells ring far off in the distance with that same itch in his belly that originates from guns and gutting knives and a mother and sad father eaten whole. He thinks of penance, of forgiveness, for his thoughts. His failures. He acts with good intent and repents the ghastly dreams in his mind– horrors that don’t churn his stomach the way they should. 

Somebody jumps in front of a train on a Sunday. A kid down the street ODs. Someone’s Paw-paw puts a rifle in his mouth and sprays his porch red. A couple a few blocks away have a murder-suicide anniversary. A mass killer makes the news. Mr.Benoit’s screams are muffled underneath his mountain of dirt.

Will sees them in his dreams, all of them, and sometimes even when he’s awake and blinking, he sees their haunted faces, their purposes, and intents. 

She wanted to be noticed, for someone to finally take some time to look at her, even if it meant cleaning up her braids from the tracks. He thought things would get better, that nothing could possibly get worse, and that there was no harm in testing that theory. His son just got diagnosed with leukemia and he had life insurance to dole out. They were always going to end this way, unsatisfied but wholly starved for connection, someone to live with, someone to hold, and it didn’t matter what anyone else said because they would always be together. He got it in his head that he could start a movement, for their poor parish to finally be brought to the attention of the rest of this damn stupid state.

Mr.Benoit had climbed a ladder and ignored the loose screws. The hole was filling back up and he had lost the will to dig again.

Will doesn’t know how he knows these things but he just does and it terrifies him. He shies away from the news, shies away from the stories on people’s faces that latch onto him so tightly like a parasite on his person, and when his daddy asks him why he won’t look him in the eyes anymore, Will just shakes his head over and over again.

I know, he thinks. I know. God is punishing me because I know.

Biblical in proportion, this wild gift, this wretched curse, afflicted on him in the worst ways to be able to look evil in the eye and stare back. To know its gaze, to understand its meaning, to feel that itch, that same understanding that compels him forward and say I know. I know what you are, and you look like me.

The guilt that shakes him, these relentless thoughts that plague his brain so much it feels like a thousand second skins inside his own, is immeasurable. He doesn’t want to pray and ask God to make him better, to offer him a cure. He knows what praying does. 

But he also understands what evil does. And what happens to evil as a result. Will feels on the verge of spilling over, overflowing with these faults, untold and screaming in his head, and so he prepares. Preparation is key, his daddy used to say. Prepare for the worst. Don’t expect the best. To Will, the only kind of preparation for abominations like him were jails and prisons, officers in blue with guns on their hips and trigger fingers sworn on their badges.

To be born and labeled abomination, however, one must come from something. In the Bible, God gave birth to a universe. In that universe, Mary gave birth to Jesus Christ– a child created for the purpose of sacrifice. What must she have felt?

Will never met his mama. She died pushing him into the world, a birth and baptism drenched in viscera and lifeblood that Will choked on with his first breath. His daddy never says much about her, a secret he keeps locked so deeply in his heart that recognition of even her name comes slowly when it rains, and Will knows better than to ask. But he knows. Knows and recognizes the same in a dead woman he never met. 

Sarah was 90 when she birthed Issac. She named him after laughter. 

His mama was only 20 when she died. The French said William meant resolute protector. 

It is no secret he has failed. His fault, his fault, what he has failed to protect. He scrubs her stone with dollar store toothbrushes and tears he’s never cried. He hopes that she is in Heaven. He hopes that God does not exist. He no longer knows what to believe. 

It is no wonder, then, that God has always been so vengeful and jealous, liable to give a blessing as He is to take it away.

He never wanted to harm anyone. Preparation is key and Will prepares himself to be arrested and punished for the crimes he fears he’ll one day enact on behalf of the faith in his veins. That reckless, hopeful faith that drives people to pray and kill and beg and slaughter and maim and gut and drain. Like fish. 

The fishin’ was good? Tamika, James, Lawson, Paul, Ruth and Carson, Gabriel Benoit. 

Will Graham knows all about faith and fish. Knows all about Heaven and Hell. What God does to the people he has recklessly created. The Father and His Son and their Holy Spirit. A trinity that relies on sacrifice. Sacrificial sons. Sacrificial lambs bled on the altar. A birth and baptism and a fall from grace, down dug holes and shallow graves. Will knows.

He knows because he went to church.

[fallen-flier]

Where There's A Will...

Snippet #1 here!

Here's snippet #2 of my time-traveling Will AU. It's also posted on my Ao3!

Will breathes shallowly, hand clenched around his recurve bow. The halls are practically empty, eerily silent. His footsteps don't echo, but Horace's definitely does, and Will grimaces, picking him up. Horace protests for a few seconds, only pausing when he sees Will's face. He internally cringes, running what he hopes is a comforting hand over his younger friend's back.

"I'm not angry," he reassures, and Horace rolls his eyes, staring at him unimpressed. There should be servants running around, diplomats murmuring in halls, scribes with their nose buried in books. Or at least, that was how it was in Araluen back at home. Here, in Clonmel, the palace is quiet and haunting. Will has never reveled in silence- it was always his wardmates running amok and talking, then Halt and his comforting, albeit at the time imposing presence, and then cold and well. He hadn't enjoyed it.

"You always do this weird thing where you freeze up when you hear Clonmel or something. And you accepted their offer to meet, even though you always turn down everybody's requests, even King Morgarath's."

Will internally cringes once again. Ah yes, that is because I suspect he knows you killed him in one-on-one combat at the mere age of fifteen and that man was the main reason I was sold into slavery. Telling Horace that would go over wonderfully.

At the very least, he was meeting Halt. Who he really didn't want to see, because it wouldn't be his mentor, his father. It would be yet another unattached, blank face and Will doesn't know if his heart can take anymore, especially after Gilan—

Nope. Bad thoughts. He makes a turn and meets two guards, standing vigil at ornate doors. Will squeezes Horace in an admittedly self-soothing gesture, heart pounding at the prospect of seeing Halt. The guards scan him, and he makes an effort to not disappear where he's standing; everything about the open palace and beauty makes him feel oddly vulnerable, especially with the guards checking his weapons.

"Please show proof of your documents."

Will already had them checked at the gates, but he doesn't protest. He hands his weapons over without protest too, although his throwing knife stays carefully hidden on his body. It was unfortunate that he would be without his saxe knife, but it was far too big to hide. Horace squirms next to him, ever the impatient swordsman- while his friend was brilliant at practically any form of combat, Will didn't even know how he would handle all the paperwork that would come with being king.

"The child has to stay behind."

Will pauses. "I can't. He's my charge, and I promised to take care of him."

The guard somehow exudes the air of being unimpressed with him behind the helmet.

"If I can't go in without Horace, I will turn and leave right now. He's but a child, what can he do to the king anyways?"

Right. He and his big mouth. Will resists the urge to facepalm, lest he give the guards even more.

One of the guards sighs, then calls over another.

"Your charge will stand at the edge of the room with another knight to oversee him. He will not move, nor will he interrupt the proceedings."

Will nods, turning to impress the rules to Horace once again. Once he's done, the guards open the door, leading him to the throne room.

He breathes, and holds his head high.

The king of Clonmel stands before him; the prince sprawled across another throne. Will cannot tear his eyes away. Surely, the earth must be shaking, for it cannot be him. The king's eyes reveal his disdain. Ferris expects Will to kneel, and Will thinks of whispers and rumors, of Halt being restrained and without sarcasm or a mottled green-brown cloak.

Will kneels in front of the disgraced prince.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

the next few days i'm reblogging the edited and updated Take Me Home chapters, following with the lore posts that have collected dust in my drafts for far too long~ so bear with me pls lol

[caruliaa]

screaming bc theres a song (no i wont tell u what one but its by an artisit i dont listen to rly to much except for the last two days but i do like what of her music iv heard) that like. i rly feel like fits a ship (I WILL DEFF NOT TELL U WHICH ONE !!!!! but its like. not one i rly ship tht much but i do think its cute and im slowly getting more into it) in like. a weird way bc like. im not like omg this song is so this ship its so cute i mean the first time i listened to the song which was a while back when it first came out i was like this feels like ppl r gonna talk abt it w tht ship or like the song feels very like. like a fanfiction to me like generally and to me i feel like its like a modern au fanfic for the ship nd i listened to the song again today nd iv been thinking abt tht but the thing is i looked to see if anyone in any context has put that ship with that song before expecting to find lots of stuff but i literally found NOTHING its ubsurddd !!!

[killuaisaprincess]

IVE LOST MY DANG MIND BUT FUCK IT IDC WE GKIES DESERVE EVENTS TOO