#so thank you very much for this prompt!

[erwinsvow]

an idea… rafe and shy reader having sex for the first time

everything's overwhelming with rafe, but this is particularly so. you thought you were completely ready for it, from the way you had handled everything else so well. in fact, rafe was the one taking things at the slowest pace possible, trying to make sure he didn’t pressure you into something you weren’t ready for.

you didn’t like it—thought he was trying to be something he’s not. he’s gentle with you but never like this, never to this extent. it must be a big deal then, sleeping with rafe, giving him your virginity, you finally decide, if he’s acting so differently about it.

in fact, you think you’ve been ready to give it up since you first started dating him. rafe brings it out of you, coaxes a different side of you out with gentle words and soft touches. you’re going mad over it. you can’t count the amount of times you’ve crawled into his lap at any given opportunity, anywhere the two of you are alone—his truck, the couch in your living room and at tannyhill, the hidden booth at the country club. you’re begging for it, not sure how much more obvious you can get.

you finally decide tonight’s the night—following a nice dinner with the two of you. you had spent extra long getting dressed up, a pretty white lingerie set on underneath your blue dress, all done up for rafe. finally back at tannyhill, entire body vibrating and tingling with excitement, you don’t wait another moment, crawling into rafe’s lap and kissing him hard. you take off your dress and rafe stops just for a second to take in how forward you’re being.

“hey,” he finally breathes against your lips, pulling away. “c’mon, you’re not ready for this.” 

“yes i am!” you whine, impatient and horny, feeling rafe get hard underneath you. you want him to be able to do all the things you know he wants to do, want them done to you. “i am, i am-” and you lean back to kiss him, ending up pinned underneath him before long.

he knows you’re not, but he plays along. you’re so wet already he doesn’t have to do much, but he makes you cum all over his fingers anyways, hoping it’ll satiate you.

“please, rafe,” you moan against his mouth, pushing in for another needy kiss. “wan’ it inside. please.” and he does know you, knows everything about you, but even he can’t resist when you say things like that.

you watch with big eyes while he lines himself up with your wet hole, hovering over you. you think you’re so ready, that three of rafe’s fingers inside you should be comparable to what you’re about to feel, that you’re more than prepared. your eyes squeeze shut when rafe pushes inside, all the air leaving your lungs. you try to moan out but it’s more of a gasp than anything else, one that rafe swallows into a kiss. 

your eyes get watery—it’s just habit. it hurts, too, because rafe is so much bigger than you expected. you bite your cheek, looking up at rafe through teary eyes and clasping a hand over your mouth—you don’t want to admit that he was right. 

“c’mon kid, give it up. y’not ready for this, i know you,” rafe says, leaning in close to your ear to whisper it quietly. he’s not even half-way inside you.

“i-i can take it,” you hiccup. you hate disappointing rafe.

and it’s not that he doesn’t want to—he does, desperately so, wants to fuck you within an inch of your sanity every time you walk into a room and look at him with your shy eyes and sweet smile. he wants to break you, wants you cumming on his dick until there’s nothing left in your head, no shyness left in your heart. but he wants it when you’re ready for it, not like this.

it only takes another minute, you finally admit you’re not ready, and rafe pulls out of you. you feel like crying, terribly sad and dejected, wishing you could just be normal for rafe for once, be what he wants. 

“stop,” he says, wiping away a stray tear. his arm rests over your stomach, trying to get you to lighten up. “when you’re ready for it, i’ll fuck you until you can’t think. s’just not today, kid.”

you finally agree when he says that, getting over it because you know without a doubt in your mind—rafe knows you better than you know yourself.

[saessenach]

on my knees. and only if u want to. jb with 18 or whatever the number is for the laughing kiss please…thank u….

HI HELLO HERE THEY ARE 🥹

Brienne and Jaime for #18 - a kiss while laughing laughing from this list

[benevolenterrancy]

@hereticcryptid I appear to be slowly but surely developing an entire series about how Hensheng and Baxia apparently get fed up with their owners' inability to express their feelings and take matters into their own hands...

[corviiids]

fic prompt: light in a final day of the yotsuba arc timeloop where he loses and regains his kira memories every day (but retains awareness of the loop).

It's not until the fifth time around that Light slips up and answers the question before L's asked it.

L is staring at him.

Light clears his throat. "Sugars," he says. "Right? You were just picking up the bowl."

"Right," says L after a short pause, though his hand is nowhere near the sugar bowl. He plucks two cubes out with his fingers and plops them into Light's coffee, just like he'd asked. "I always forget how intuitive Light-kun is."

Those cold black eyes don't leave him for some time. Light stares at his hands, trying not to think about the yawning hole in his memory. Over the past five Thursday the 28th of Octobers, it's only grown deeper.

--

The traffic officer dies every time. Light's tried to stop it, but there's little he can do. He doesn't know the fellow's name to call ahead on the radio. He's never stuck around long enough for the investigation to complete, so he's never seen the man's ID. The day always resets before then.

He does, at least, manage to prevent his father from being shot. It's Wedy instead. The next time around, Light closes his eyes to his father's pained shout.

On one occasion, Higuchi dies before they can arrest him. L takes up his--

--something. Something. Something, and. They reclaim something from Higuchi every time they get him. It's small enough to fit in L's hands and every time someone touches it they scream. Something. Each time they reach the helicopter, Light reaches across L and plucks the thing out of L's limp hands, and then his memory goes white and the fourth day of the week begins again. It's the thing Kira uses to kill, it's the only important thing he's learned. Why can't Light remember what it is?

On that one Thursday, Light shouts a new instruction and Higuchi shoots himself in the head before anyone can comply. L takes up the something as Higuchi's body bleeds out. Light tugs it from his hands and his memory whites. With the white comes something else: panic, the likes of which Light had never felt, sickness somewhere deep and coiling. He wakes up on Thursday the 28th of October with the heavy weight of a damning failure resting in his gut.

But it's morning again. The sun warms L's pale, sleeping face and lights up the dark blood vessels under his eyes. Light swallows down a gag.

--

"You've been agitated today," L comments.

It's lonely not having a confidant. It's isolating. Light has thought about telling his father, but their relationship isn't confessional like that. He's thought about telling Ryuk, or even Misa, or Aizawa. But then, anyone he told, L would hear it too.

Light isn't sure why he's keeping the loop from L. He has nothing to hide from L. No reason to hide from L. The two of them, after all, are going to catch Kira.

"Did Light-kun--"

"I slept fine," says Light.

L's expression doesn't change. "I was going to ask if you had any questions for me," he says.

That isn't true. "Oh, sorry," says Light. "No, I'm good."

Each time the white fades and he wakes, L is the first thing he sees. Some remnant of the night before draws back hissing from his sleeping face like grease from soap. Light will watch him sleep until the revulsion eases, until it fades, and L's eyes open wide again. The man never blinks. The skin on his eyelids is thin. Light will not get to see them again until they sleep, so while L sleeps, Light watches him and tries to forget everything L had asked of him the day before, and fails.

--

Higuchi enters the office and takes out Matsui's CV. He pulls out a pen and writes the name down, then he leaves. Light is forgetting something.

"It has something to do with the name," he says desperately, casting about. "Something to do with the way he wrote down that name."

L looks at him strangely. "We know that, Light-kun," he says almost gently.

"No," Light says, frustrated. There's something. Something. Deep in the recesses of his memory, there's something he can't find, something that will lead them to Kira. Higuchi wrote Matsui's name and all the tension left his body.

In the helicopter, he snatches at the something like a vulture at dead flesh and the world goes white again.

--

What if, wonders a small voice. What if he didn't pick it up? What if, whatever the something is, Light left it in L's hands? Perhaps the dark would stay dark and Light might be permitted to see his next Friday. It's worth a try, at least. It's worth a shot. The cuffs slap onto Higuchi's wrists and Light lunges for the thing in L's hands once more.

[kinardgo]

Jee having fun with her uncles Buck & Tommy!

Maybe Buck feeling a little 🥰😍 watching Tommy being in 'competent dad mode', even though he's not ready for their own 😂

okay this is everything actually if season 8 doesn't give us tommy playing with jee and buck noticably ovulating across the room i will riot

bucktommy / rated g / mild warning for non serious accidental injury to a child

-

"-and take a nice, deep breath for me. This is going to sting a little, okay?"

It takes a few seconds for Buck's brain to come back online as he re-enters his apartment. It's been a quiet day so far, as quiet as any day off looking after his curious, hyperactive niece can be. They'd watched some TV, leaving some irritating cartoon pop song ingrained in his head, probably for the next week at least. Had some lunch. Afterwards, Jee-Yun had proclaimed her desire for ice cream with all the certainty of a biblical saint. Buck, a little soft hearted from an easy day surrounded by people he loves, agreed to go to the shop in search of some.

Maybe it's lulled him into a false sense of security, because he stares at the scene in his kitchen with a blank expression for a full three seconds before he galvanizes into action.

Jee's up on the kitchen counter, a little teary eyed, her bottom lip wobbling, blood trickling down her skinny calf.

"Woah, woah, hey," he says, rushing to Tommy's side, where he's crouched in front of the counter, "What happened?"

"Someone," he says, eyeing the slightly sheepish looking girl, "decided to ignore me when I said running full pelt around the place would end in tears."

"I'm sorry, Tommy," Jee says, her voice shaking.

"It's okay, chica. You're not in trouble. Tripped over the rug," he adds lowly to Buck, "Limbs everywhere, slid five feet, the whole ten yards."

Now he's a little closer up, he can see that. Her knee is all scraped up, a messy graze, but nothing deep. There's a little mark on her elbow, but no blood. Kids bounce, Hen once told him. Buck kinda wishes Jee would stop trying to test that theory out on him though.

"Now, stay nice and still while I get this cleaned up, okay sweetheart?" Tommy eases, turning his attention back to Jee, the full effect of his Cool And Unphased Firefighter Pilot shtick aimed at a tiny little person who doesn't even have a fully developed concept of consequence yet. It feels unfair. Buck's a whole ass adult and it's enough to make him spacy, "Do you know what this is?"

Jee looks from the antibacterial wipe in his hand, to Buck, and back to Tommy nervously, "No."

"This is a special kind of cloth that can get all the yucky stuff out of your cut, get it nice and clean."

"Like soap?"

"Kinda like soap, yeah," he nods, smiling, "It's gonna hurt a little bit, but that's how you know it's working. Ready?"

She nods, hands fisting in the skirt of her pink dress anxiously. Tommy swipes over the graze of her cut quickly and gently, efficient but effective.

"Brave girl, Jee," Buck murmers, rubbing a hand soothingly up her arm.

"Yes, she is," Tommy agrees, "Now, I'm going to put a plaster on this. Hold still for me-" She holds herself dutifully, solid like a rock, as Tommy smooths the dressing over the knee. It's probably overkill, but Buck knows that the power of belief in healing is almost as important as the actual healing bit.

"You did so good, Jee," Buck says, straightening up to plant a kiss in her hair. She giggles, grasping at him with her pudgy hands, "And so did you," he says, kissing him on the cheek. Jee shrieks with laughter the way she always does when Buck dares to show any kind of affection to anyone but her.

"Now, you," Tommy says, sweeping Jee off the counter, "Get settled on the couch, because it looks like your Uncle Evan got some cookie dough vanilla that's got your name all over it, kid."

Jee's face splits with a grin so wide it looks like it might hurt, then throws her arms around Tommy's neck, burrowing her face in his shoulder with a happy little sound, "Thank you, Uncle Tommy," The words are muffled into the collar of his shirt, but Tommy clearly hears loud and clear if the way his face scrunches up in delight is any indication.

Something heavy and dense swoops straight through the middle of Buck's core, through his chest and out through his stomach. Too much, too fast, too soon. Tommy gives Jee a final squeeze, swaying her a little so her tiny legs flop around, giggling happily until he puts her back down.

Jee cuddles up with a pillow on the couch, something that looks like elves on an acid trip playing on the TV while Tommy washes his hands and puts the first aid kit back in the cupboard and Buck gets three bowls of cookie dough ready for a good ol' fashioned sugar binge.

"She adores you."

Tommy looks up, even as Buck keeps his eyes resolutely on the ice cream.

"She's got a big heart," he says fondly, before adding, "Must be a Buckley family trait."

"She's a good kid," Buck grins, turning to look over at Jee, hugging one of the sofa cusions to her chest, so big against her that she can rest her chin on it.

"Yeah. Do you want kids?"

The ice cream scoop skids across the counter out of Buck's hand when he jerks in surprise.

Tommy laughs quietly, ducking his head to kiss his shoulder, "Not right now, Evan. Just... curious. You're good with her."

"So are you," he fires back. He knows he's being stupid, that he's acting defensive, and he doesn't even know what about. Jesus, he sucks when someone catches him off guard, "Do you want kids?"

It doesn't look like it bothers Tommy, who just grins like he knows better than to take Buck's knee-jerk panic personally. Probably because he does.

"Yeah. One day."

Buck can't help smiling back, "Yeah. One day."

They all squeeze onto the couch, Jee tucked in between them with enough sugar shovelling into her mouth for Maddie to have reasonable justification to murder him later. It's probably not how he would have described his ideal afternoon, but he can't find fault in it.

[ariadne-mouse]

for the quick drawing prompts: the haunted folding chair duo ira wendagoth and moc weepe meet up

Morally questionable folding lawn chairs of the world, unite!

[arom-antix]

Smash your competition, baby

Open for higher resolution Credit to @neon-garbage-angel for the idea Close-ups, explanation, design, and extras below the break

So there I was, innocently scrolling Tumblr on a Monday when someone reblogs a post of mine. I go to look and find tags on my Judas piece that immediately katapult me into this piece and, as is tradition for me, listening to the song that inspired this piece on repeat until I was done. Due to stuff, that took three whole days. I want to extend a formal thanks and a formal please I will never get this song out of my head, thank you for that but I also hate you a little bit /j to @neon-garbage-angel for introducing me to Gladiator by Jann. This is canon to me now.

And because I couldn't decide while I was drawing, I did a version where Viktor still has his long hair. However, when I was doing the design sheet and really thought hard about my decisions, the short-haired version makes more sense so that one got the top spot. But have the other version anyway!

Here are some promised close-ups because this thing got intricate. I should've known. I was surprised anyway.

And then last but certainly not least: Me being back on my bullshit! Here, have an extremely cramped design sheet! (I apologise to anyone using a screen reader in advance, I'll try my best with the ALT YuY)

[thedeadthree]

-ˋˏ .·:·. ⊱ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐛𝐲 @pavus — day one: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

— 𝐈𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑 . 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀 . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐒. 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒.

— 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (mutuals can opt in/out via 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 <3):

@loriane-elmuerto, @carrionsflower, @auricfog, @girliefailure, @sunsofdawn

@risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @lilywatt, @full---ofstarlight, @grapecaseschoices

@tommyarashikage, @shadowsofrose, @shadowglens, @weisshaupts, @queennymeria

@deadrlngers, @d-esmond, @courtana, @gothimp, @wlwaerith

@unholymilf, @aezyrraeshh, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @shellibisshe, @florbelles

@celticwoman, @neonshrike, @cloudofbutterflies92, @adelaidedrubman, @carlosoliveiraa

@pinkfey, @spookyrares, @yharnams, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood

@theelderhazelnut, @leviiackrman, @ellierenae, @anoras, @lavampira

@dialdrunk, @full---ofstarlight, @imogenkol

[spielzeugkaiser]

For your prompt, how about the og ot3 from El Dorado: Chel, Miguel, and Tulio? The childhood gateway drug to Geraskefer.

4/12. Ohh OHH, I love them!! It's a kids movie but honestly. They fuck.

[lexiluxray]

your rendition of sycamore is scrumptious, I eat it up every time

Fhfhfhf thaaaanksss I hope I'll keep feeding you well 🧡🧡🧡

As I'm not immune to compliment on my artstyle on a character I adore, I feel the absolute need to draw said character MORE each time I'll receive an ask about it u_u

[ir-dr]

Day 3496 - 5 May 2023

🎂

A commission! 

.//projectTiGER

[babychosen]

amangela meetcute for your prompts

word count: 1025

After finishing a Moon Goon performance, Angela and a few of the group members stayed back in the audience and chatted with a few friends that came to support them. By the time they finished talking, it was nearly time for the next scheduled show to start, so she rushed backstage to gather her things and get the hell out of the theater.

Angela hated getting in the way of the next performers because she knew how cramped the dressing room at UCB could get in between shows. 

She scurried backstage and paused in the doorway of the dressing room, trying to recall where she left her jacket and bag. She scanned the room while she weaved around the new performers, casually exchanging greetings with a few familiar faces. Her eyes landed on the couch near the back of the room, and she saw the faintest shine of her leather jacket draped across the back of the couch.

Angela made a mental note to remind herself to wear her glasses more often because it took way too long, and way too much squinting just to find her belongings in the small room.

After Angela was done talking to a few performers in the room, someone sat down on the couch right in front of her jacket. She froze in her spot. Great, Angela thought. Now she had to go through the awkward confrontation of telling this person they were sitting on her jacket.

She looked a little harder, just to see if she recognized the person. Angela gulped after taking in their appearance; now she had to ask the most gorgeous stranger she’s ever seen to move so she could get her jacket.

Angela fidgeted in place and thought about it. Surely she didn’t need her jacket, right? She could just go home and then get it the next time she’s there… right? Her jacket had her car keys in it, and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the bus home from downtown Hollywood… so her options were very limited.

Like ripping off a band-aid, Angela crossed the room and stood in front of the woman. “Hey, so,” Angela started, pausing for a little too long.

“Hey! Angela, right?” The woman asked, a wide smile on her face. She gestured for Angela to take a seat beside her. “I’m Amanda.”

“Uh-” Angela cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s me. How’d you know?” Angela sat down, feeling herself being pulled in by Amanda.

“Dude, you’re practically famous around here. You’re like, UCB royalty,” Amanda scoffed, chuckling at Angela’s modesty.

Angela knew she had made a name for herself in the LA comedy scene, but it felt surreal hearing it from someone she was so immediately drawn to.

“I’m kinda new to LA, just moved here from Boston last year,” Amanda explained. Angela hadn’t asked about who this woman was, but she was definitely curious. “I’ve been trying my luck down here with auditions, but it’s a tough crowd.”

The same pull that brought her to sit down beside Amanda, led her to want to offer Amanda support. “If you ever need help with making connections, let me know. I know my way around these parts pretty well,” Angela offered genuinely.

Amanda raised her eyebrows and shyly smiled. “I-I wouldn’t mind being shown around.” 

Amanda looked Angela up and down, and Angela couldn’t tell if she was imagining it being suggestive or if it actually was suggestive—either way, she wasn’t mad about it.

They were taken out of their bubble when people started clearing out of the room, and it was obvious that their conversation had to come to an end.

“I’ll see you later?” Amanda questioned, standing up from the couch.

Angela nodded excitedly with a tight-lipped smile, and then watched Amanda walk away from her. Amanda paused in the doorway to turn around and wave goodbye to the woman still glued to the couch.

She stared at the door for longer than she needed to, going over the conversation in her head. Angela was flattered and awestruck, and she had butterflies in her stomach.

Finally, she stood up from the couch, grabbed her jacket and bag and made her way towards the stage exit door. Once outside in the cool night air, Amanda’s words dawned on her—see you later. Later… when? After the show? At another encounter determined by fate? The instructions were unclear and Angela’s critical thinking skills weren’t kicking in.

In her panic, she spent the next hour walking around the neighbourhood, stopping by an ice cream shop, and hanging out around the stage door, waiting for Amanda to be done with her show. 

Near the one hour mark she began pacing outside of the stage door. Just ask her. Ask for her number. It’s fucking easy, Angela thought to herself.

In a blur, the stage door bursted open and Amanda came storming out—or at least it felt like it all happened that dramatically to Angela.

“Yeah-uh, yeah. I'm still here. Yep. Sure am,” Angela stuttered, cutting herself off before she could make a complete fool of herself.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t think you would still be here,” Amanda beamed, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets and walking up to Angela. She looked even more stunning than she did an hour earlier, Angela noted.

“There’s a bar around the corner. You free?” Amanda raised an eyebrow and the corner of her lips curled up into a smile. Angela knew exactly which bar Amanda was referring to.

First she got out of having to ask Amanda to move so she could get her jacket, and now she just got out of having to ask for her number—and she’s going out for drinks with her? Yeah, okay, Angela wasn’t going to say no. She smirked and started taking steps backwards from Amanda in the direction of the bar.

“Shall we?” Angela asked confidently, waiting for Amanda to follow.

“We shall,” Amanda drawled, jokingly holding out her hand for Angela to take. Angela graciously took her hand and led Amanda towards the bar, beginning what she had a feeling was going to be an amazing night.

[mimikusu]

Will you?? 🥺🥺🥺

[hailsatanacab]

"give me a fandom and a prompt and i'll give you at least five sentences"

Ok then.

Jazz, Danny and Bruce are in the same age range, and Bruce has been harboring a massive crush on 7'foot tall Jazz since just after he began his training journey.

His kids know about and are mercyless. Danny thinks he's a bit of a fruit loop and 100% knows Bruce has a crush on his sister.

Into the future his coworkers find out that batman has been quietly pining after the Ghost Kings sister for years.

Chaos.

love that this reads as a challenge. Ok then. Write it. i will, let's goooo!

(sorry i kinda took it so that Jazz, Danny, and Bruce were all old friends but in that horrible adult way where you can only hang out with each other once in a blue moon when your work schedules miraculously align)

——

"Respectfully, Batman, you can take your "it's not necessary" and you can shove it up your arse. There's a demon the size of a skyscraper heading towards Metropolis and we need reinforcements."

"Superman can—"

"Superman can't. You do remember the part of the report I made telling you this, right? Or did your stubborn little bat brain just shut down when I mentioned magic?"

"Actually," Nightwing interrupts from the side, a shit-eating grin on his face, "I think his brain shut down when you mentioned the Ghost King."

"Nightwing." Batman growls in warning, his jaw clenching so hard Constantine can swear he hears the bones creaking.

Nightwing just snickers, and turns away to press a finger to his ear, no doubt letting the rest of the bat brood in on what's happening here... Whatever that is. All Constantine knows is that Batman is standing between him and fixing this mess for no God-forsaken reason.

Luckily, some of the more reasonable members of the League step in to try and talk some sense into Batman. It gives him some time to calm down.

"Batman. We need him. I know you dislike working with unknowns, but he's our best shot."

It actually looks like Wonder Woman might be getting through to him, Batman even opens his mouth to actually explain some things—a huge step forward for this incredibly emotionally constipated man.

Instead, Nightwing snorts and beats him to it. "Unknowns? More like—"

"Nightwing, please."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get your head out of your arse and let me do this. The Ghost King is our only hope. I'm summoning him, no matter what you say."

For a long second, Constantine thinks that he'll refuse and he might have to resort to more violent methods of persuasion—which, honestly, Constantine has fantasised about many times during the more boring JL meetings—but eventually, Batman relents and steps out of the way.

"Fine. Nightwing, go check in with Red Robin."

Nightwing has the kind of devious smile that makes John glad he doesn't have kids.

"Oh, don't worry about it, B. Red Robin's coming here. So's Red Hood, I don't need to go anywhere."

"Nightwing—"

"Sh, it's starting." So saying, Nightwing then very obviously ignores Batman's protests with a poker face that even Constantine envies. What he wouldn't give to be able to shut the bat out like that.

The summoning goes quickly, thankfully. The lights flicker, the temperature drops, and the chalk circle erupts in green flames. Standard summoning practices, sure. Even the impromptu appearance of Red Hood and Red Robin—"Did we miss him?", "No, not yet! I got 2:37, what about you guys?"—doesn't throw him off.

It does pique his interest, though. Just what the hell is going on with them? Constantine's weighing up the pros and cons of asking them once all of this is over when the ground splits open and the clawed hand of the Ghost King begins to pull himself out of the ground.

John's a seasoned summoner. It's practically his job, he's done it countless times.

The icey fear that grips his heart, that freezes his breath in his chest, is new.

Pure, unadulterated power floods the area and he feels small, so, so small, like a child playing with things he doesn't understand. When he finally tears his eyes away from the portal, he catches a glimpse of the other magic users in the room, the same horror he feels clear in their faces. Even Captain Marvel stares slackjawed.

The pressure rises, death magic screaming in his ears, almost forcing him to his knees, and suddenly he's not so sure this is a good idea.

Too late to back out now, though.

Sickly green light pours from the crack in the ground, growing brighter and brighter as the giant figure rises, until Constantine has to close his eyes and look away. The last thing he sees are eyes, teeth, horns, a crown so bright that it burns an afterimage into his retinas.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes again, a humanoid man floats in the centre of the circle. The ground is whole, nothing is burning, the man doesn't even have a crown. Instead, other than the wispy white hair, slightly green skin, and the—you know—floating, the Ghost King appears pretty normal. Huh.

Constantine blinks, rubbing his bleary eyes, and checks around to make sure everyone's okay. Most of the League are doing the same as him, taking fortifying breaths and trying to appear as if they've not just been completely blinded.

Most of them, that is, aside from the Gotham vigilantes.

Batman himself stands upright, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the whole thing and John's got to admit, he wishes he could do that, too. That was... a hell of a show.

The others, however, are waving frantically with huge smiles on their faces.

What?

There's a brief, taut silence, as everyone else tries to catch their breath.

As much as he would rather take a bit of a breather, John should probably start making introductions. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as opening his mouth before the Ghost King beats him to it.

"Oh, Ancients, hey guys! It's been forever, how are you? Look at you all, so grown up, wow—Nightwing, buddy, do a flip!"

It doesn't take much to get Nightwing going, and he certainly doesn't leave it at one flip. The whole of the Justice League and Justice League Dark watch with open mouths as Nightwing performs for the Ghost King.

What, and John can't stress this enough, the fuck?

As soon as Nightwing rights himself, Red Hood swats him across the back of the head and calls him a show off.

The Ghost King just laughs as he claps. "There's my little monkey, look at you go! And I'm loving that leather jacket, Hood, is that new? Looks good on you, really your colour. Brings out the red in your helmet."

"Thanks, Uncle D. At least someone around here appreciates fashion."

"Are you kidding me, you know I breathe fashion, need I remind—"

"Need I remind you of the Discowing incident?"

"That was era-appropriate and you know it! Uncle D, tell him it was era-appropriate!"

"It was era-appropriate, but so are crocs and it doesn't make them fashionable." The Ghost King—and holy shit, is this actually the Ghost King? Or did Constantine just accidentally summon a deceased family member, what the fuck is happening here?—turns to look at Red Robin with a smile, resolutely ignorning the argument he created. "How you doing, Double R? You get that tablet Tucker made for you?"

"Yes, thank you! It's so cool, how did he—"

"How's Tucker doing?" Batman interrupts, his hands now hidden underneath his cape.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, everyone groans. Red Robin makes a show of lifting up his wrist and staring at it intently.

"Incredible," Red Hood mutters with a shake of his head.

Even the Ghost King seems put out, rolling his eyes and answering in a flat tone as if he knows Batman isn't interested in what he has to say.

Not for the first time, Constantine feels like he's missing something.

"Tucker's doing very well, thank you for asking."

What follows is the most awkward silence Constantine has ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

All three of the Gotham vigilantes, including the Ghost King, are staring at Batman, waiting for something. Batman's cloak shifts as if he's moving his hands, fidgeting. If Constantine didn't know any better, he'd say he was nervous.

"Good. That's good, I'm glad to hear it."

Instead of saying anything else, the Ghost King just raises his eyebrows and continues to stare at Batman. Has he offended him in some way? Are they all going to die because of this?

After what seems like an agonising few minutes but could only really be a few seconds, Batman's shoulders dip and he takes a breath. "And Jazz?"

They all erupt into shouts, the Ghost King being the loudest. The only thing John can make out is when the Ghost King throws his hand in the air to point at Red Robin with a shout of "Time!"

"1:30.91, we got 1:30.91 on the clock, who's closest?"

"Did you even try to hold it in at all, old man? I'm so disappointed in you. People think you're cool. People think you're suave, I don't understand how they could be so wrong."

"Thank you for that, Hood."

"No, thank you, I won. Again. Because you're so predictable. Actually, I had one minute seventeen, so you held out longer than I thought you would."

Batman pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs loudly.

Constantine feels like doing the same thing.

Whatever. He's going to have to interrupt... whatever this is. There's still a rampaging demon heading their way that they've got to bargain for. He can untangle Batman's personal connection to the Ghost King later. Or he could leave it alone and forget everything about it.

Yeah, he'll do that one.

But before he can actually open his mouth to say anything, the Ghost King, again, beats him to it.

"So, B-Man, did you summon me here for a particular reason, or was it really just so you could ask about Jazz?"

There's a beat of silence before Batman mutters, "I asked about Tucker, too. We've not seen each other in so long, it's only polite."

"And I'm sure you meant it, you're the paragon of manners." The Ghost King nods slow and wide-eyed as if he doesn't believe him at all.

At this point, even Constantine doesn't believe him.

"It has been forever, though." The Ghost King muses, bringing his hand to his chin and folding his legs underneath him. "We should all get together sometime! If you get Alfie to make some of his cookies again, I'll get Clockwork to lend us a pocket dimension where we can spend as much time as we want, deal?"

"It's a deal."

No hesitation at all, incredible.

Hold on. Wait. John has to fight the urge to pinch himself, because this has to be a dream, right? Is Batman actually smiling? He didn't even know he could do that.

An itch niggles at the back of John's mind. He's starting to get an inkling of what's going on here and it's... weird, to say the least.

"Oooh," Nightwing singsongs, like a child in a playground tickled by the very idea of romance.

But then, who's he to judge? John's no stranger to strange bedfellows, that's for sure. Whoever this Jazz is, she must be something incredible—she'd have to be, if Batman can't even go two minutes without asking about her.

"Batman and Jasmine sitting in a tree," Nightwing continues, with both Red Hood and Red Robin joining in for the rest. "K—I—S—S—I—"

"Stop," Batman growls, completely drowned out by the Ghost King's laughter, but...

But.

It all suddenly clicks for John.

The Ghost King Phantom.

Her Royal Highness, Princess Jasmine Phantom.

Jazz.

"Holy shit, mate," John breathes, unable to stop himself as everyone looks his way. "You have the hots for the Princess of the Infinite Realms?"

The Justice League meeting room has never descended into chaos quicker.

[tennessoui]

Kit! I'm obsessed with your writing!

For the prompt list: 25!

(prompt list)

i don't think i've ever done this prompt/this combination!

25. librarian/avid reader au (sort of)

(2.6k)

As a Jedi who rarely goes undercover, Obi-Wan is used to the occasional stare. Citizens of the Republic are all too often fascinated by the Jedi, and Obi-Wan knows he looks like a holo-perfect one. His choice of wardrobe rarely deviates from Jedi standard, and he’s been told he radiates the sort of complete inner peace that people associate with Jedi. It’s all very flattering and it mostly means that it is impossible for him not to be made as a Jedi the moment he steps out of the Temple.

So he’s rather used to the occasional stare from civilians. It’s almost to be expected.

He is much less used to that sort of attention within the Temple. 

Especially within the Archives, where general practice and observation of decorum demands that all who are present must keep their noses out of everyone else’s business. Jedi do not come to the Archives to chat. They come to research, to learn, to study.

They certainly do not come to the Archives to gawp at other more respectable Jedi.

Obi-Wan tries to convey this in the glare he sends across the cavernous reading room to the padawan currently watching him from between the stacks of datapads.

It must work because the padawan’s eyes widen and then he ducks out of sight, disappearing in a flash of lilac robes, the color of fabric denoting an Archival padawan.

Huh.

He’s never drawn the ire of the Archival Jedi before, and he doesn’t quite understand what he could have done now. After all, he is waist-deep in a research project for Grandmaster Yoda—he is in the Archives almost every day of the week and makes a point to abide all of the Archive’s customs and rules.

When Obi-Wan leaves a few hours later, daily notes carefully tucked away in a bag and two datapads on loan, he checks with the droid that scans the serials on the ‘pads, but the droid has no record of Obi-Wan Kenobi possessing an overdue ‘pad or flimsi-book. 

It’s strange.

But then, padawans are strange creatures. Probably why Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever have one himself.

—-------------

Three days later, he returns to the Archives, one datapad in his bag for return.

It’d looked promising on the shelf, a database containing different accounts of the oral history of Jedha, but upon further perusal, it had been useless to his needs. What Obi-Wan was researching—what he needed to find were descriptions of the earliest Jedi on Jedha. The growth of two factions inside that temple, told from an outsider’s point of view. 

What he needed to find was a description of the beginning of the Sith, and that was proving difficult.

He deposits the datapad at the droid’s counter, tapping his fingers along the surface for a moment in thought before he turns to stride deeper into the Archives. He supposes—there are planets outside of Jedha with histories heavy in Sith ideology. He does not have to start with Jedha, even if that’s where the Sith Order began.

He can pull a list of the most notorious Sith lords; he can note down their homeworlds, perhaps request Council permission to travel to those planets. To understand the past, one must understand the present too—or the nearer decades of history at the very least. 

It’s a place to start, anyway.

Two hours later, he has neatly copied down the names, titles, and homeworlds of six different Sith lords.

And then he runs into a problem. His search of the Sith Lord Plagueius results in a short missive from the database:

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks around himself, half wondering if anyone else is experiencing the same sort of problem.

But the group of Initiates closeby seem to be carrying along fine, giggling quietly to themselves as they pick at the keyboards in front of them.

Obi-Wan frowns and turns back to his own keyboard, deleting the name of the Sith lord and typing in another’s. Darth Feindan, a ruthless Sith who had lived close to five hundred years ago, known as the ghost of the Outer Rim and known for—

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

Alright. Fine. Darth Derritus. He had risen to power a thousand years before, because of—

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

“What?” Obi-Wan murmurs to himself, putting down his stylus finally to stare at the locked screen.

When he drags the cursor across the screen, a new message pops up.

User: OWKenobi, your account has been LOCKED. Please see SYSTEM ADMIN for SUPPORT.

He blows out a shocked, annoyed breath, standing from his desk. Alright. Obviously there’s been some sort of mistake, and Obi-Wan can sort of understand what’s happened. The Sith are not much of a threat to the Jedi Order in this day and age, but they’re still considered rather…taboo.

Obviously, his purely academic interest was flagged as suspicious because of the nature of some Jedi attitudes towards the remnants of the Sith. 

All he’ll have to do is talk with the Archival staff and get his access back. Perhaps Jocasta Nu is present today. He will tell her of the error, that he has been assigned a research project by the Grandmaster Yoda, and she will straighten things out.

Yes, she’ll handle it completely.

Only it’s not Master Nu behind the Archival desk when Obi-Wan approaches the front entrance.

It’s the same lilac-clad padawan that Obi-Wan had caught glaring at him all those days ago.

And to make matters worse, the boy is glaring at him again, watching him approach with his arms crossed over his chest.

Obi-Wan fights the urge to glare back. He is an accomplished Jedi Knight, and this is a youngling.

Well, not a youngling. He is obviously a senior padawan, braid long enough to reach past his shoulder and rest over his heart. Obi-Wan would put him at perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty. There’s something still rather boyish about his features, despite the overall pleasantness of his dark eyes, soft lips, apparent cheekbones.

Though that just may be the childish scowl he’s wearing as Obi-Wan approaches. As soon as he gets to the counter, however, the boy drops his eyes to the book in front of him as if it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Hello,” Obi-Wan says, because he is an accomplished Jedi Knight who is capable of keeping annoyance out of his tone. “I seem to have run into a problem with my research.”

“Oh?” The senior padawan says, sounding somehow both insouciant and insolent. Obi-Wan bites on his tongue so he cannot say any of the first five things that pop into his mind. “Yes,” he says instead. “The problem being that a system administrator seems to have locked me out of my account.”

The system administrator in question turns another page in his book. “What were you researching?” 

“Information that I as a Jedi Knight have the right to access,” Obi-Wan snaps, irritation seeping into his tone despite his best abilities. “Now can you please give me back my account permissions, padawan—” he breaks off and cranes his head to look at the nameplate on the desk.  “—Skywalker so that I can get back to work?”

Padawan Skywalker shuts his book with much more force than is required as he turns his face up to glare at Obi-Wan. “You’re researching the Dark Side.”

“I’m certainly trying my best to,” Obi-Wan replies drily. “It would go a lot faster if you would unlock my account.”

“Why are you researching the Dark side?” 

“Because I’m deliberating the benefits of Falling and would like to understand their position on universal healthcare for Dark side users before committing, padawan. Now, could—” “You’re not funny,” Padawan Skywalker says furiously, lips suddenly pinched white, taking his book and his bag and turning away.

Obi-Wan watches him go with his mouth open.

Well, he supposes that means he must put a pin in researching the Dark side for the moment.

Good thing he has just stumbled upon another subject worth investigating.

—--------------------

He feels rather sheepish the next day when he returns to the Archives with a cup of take-away caf in one hand and folded piece of flimsi in the other.

Thank the Force Padawan Skywalker is behind the front desk once more. 

Damn the Force that Padawan Skywalker is behind the front desk once more.

He’s leaning with his head on the palm of his hand, pushing his stylus around on a blank sheet of paper with the Force as his other fingers drum restlessly over the protective covers of the datapads near him.

“Does your master allow you to use the Force in such a needless way, padawan?” Obi-Wan is saying automatically before he can bite his own tongue off which really would have been preferable. Anakin Skywalker lets the stylus drop and glares up at him as if he thinks so as well. “What are you doing back here?” He says, an accusation.

Obi-Wan, because he may be more of a youngling than he gives himself credit for, says, “This is a public place.”

And Anakin Skywalker, who is every inch a nineteen year old child, sneers and replies, “Maybe for people with account access,” which really just makes Obi-Wan want to close his eyes and take several deep breaths and then pinch at the bridge of his nose.

But he cannot do that, because he’s holding a piece of flimsi paper in one hand and a cup of apology caf in the other one.

So instead he places the caf on the counter and pushes it closer to Anakin. “I didn’t recognize you,” he says before Anakin can decide to throw it at him or push it away or point out the sign at the entrance to the Archives that says, in very bold letters, NO FOOD OR DRINK PLEASE.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan’s words throw him off guard. “What?”

“Yesterday,” Obi-Wan says patiently. “I didn’t recognize you nor your name. I’m sorry, Anakin.”

Anakin blinks. For the first time in ten years, Obi-Wan is treated with the sight of the boy’s face without a glare or sneer or unpleasant expression. He’s all wide-eyed disbelief, slightly parted lips, dark eyelashes, darker brows, creased in confusion.

Obi-Wan suddenly and very intently misses the sneer. At least then the boy was too annoying to be considered attractive.

He’s much too young to be considered attractive now, Obi-Wan reminds himself rather pointedly. 

And he’s still annoying.

“It’s been ten years,” Anakin points out. His presence in the Force has turned rather…shy, akin to a blush as he reaches out and takes the caf from the counter, curling both hands around the cup. “And we never met.” “No,” Obi-Wan agrees. “But we should have. We would have shared the same master, if the Force were kinder.”

And they really should have—Obi-Wan had been Knighted at the age of twenty-three. Two years later, his old master went on a mission with his old master to Naboo. When they’d ended up on Tatooine instead, Qui-Gon Jinn had found a stray he’d wanted to adopt, a little boy from the desert. And when he’d been murdered only a few days later, Yan Dooku had stepped in and taken the boy as his padawan.

Up until he left the Order four years ago.

“Yeah, well,” Anakin mutters, shoulders falling down and in slightly. “It is what it is.”

The rumors are impossible to escape, and Obi-Wan admits that they’re…intriguing. That Dooku didn’t just leave the Order four years ago, but that he Fell. That he succumbed to the Dark Side after years of fighting against it. That studying the Dark had become a fevered pastime of his in the last few months before he Fell. Before he left.

Before he left his padawan behind.

“Lilac suits you,” Obi-Wan blurts out, wholly without meaning to. The boy had just looked so despondent for a moment, so pinned and small. 

He has not had an easy lot of it, one master dead at the hands of a Sith after only a few days in his company and the other giving him up after several years to become one.

No wonder he’d been so suspicious of Obi-Wan’s research. The poor boy probably sees the potential for Sith in everyone’s shadows. Obi-Wan knows he would, if it were his master who Fell.

“Um,” Anakin says, and his cheeks flame red. Obi-Wan’s own darken in response. “Thank you.” He darts his eyes from Obi-Wan’s face and then back, as if he doesn’t want to look away for long. “Master Nu took me on after my master—left. She says I could become an Archival Knight within a few years.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and he finds that he means it. Despite the boy’s terrible customer service. “And speaking of the Archives, padawan, I thought you might like to see this.”

He unfolds the piece of flimsi with a flourish and places it down on the counter between them. Anakin glances down at it and then back up, as if checking to make sure Obi-Wan would like him to read it. 

Obi-Wan gives him an encouraging nod. Padawan Skywalker seems like the sort of padawan to thrive under encouragement.

“Please reinstate Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Archival account access, as I as Grandmaster of the Jedi Order have given him leave to research a topic of great importance to me: the nature and nurture of Dark side use on Jedha, coordinates….” Anakin trails off, and then looks up at Obi-Wan again, eyebrows furrowed. “Yoda doesn’t talk like this, everyone knows that. Put more effort in your counterfeiting, you should have, Knight Kenobi.”

“Grandmaster Yoda did not write that,” Obi-Wan corrects. “I did. However, he did sign it,” he gestures to the edge of the flimsi.

But Anakin does not look impressed. He also does not look like a boy who is about to give Obi-Wan access to his accounts. “How do I know you didn’t just forge his signature?” “Because that’s the imprint of his hand,” Obi-Wan says incredulously. “And I do not have claws.”

“It looks like a pigeon’s foot,” Anakin studies the flimsi for another second before pushing it away. “I’m sorry, I can’t accept this. It’s obviously a fake.”

Obi-Wan had watched Yoda dip his claws into the ink for the signature himself. His irritation comes rushing back in a tidal wave of rage. “What.” Padawan Skywalker shrugs and sips his caf. “Sorry, Knight Kenobi. Thank you for the caf though.” 

There’s a fucking smirk at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are fucking twinkling.

Obi-Wan has never wanted to strangle someone more. “You don’t deserve that caf,” he tells him lowly, grabbing up the flimsi and crinkling it in his fist.

“Oh?” Padawan Skywalker says. “Was it a bribe? I thought it was an apology for being a dick yesterday.”

It was both actually. 

“Padawan Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose, reaching for calm. “I need access to those texts on the Dark side for important research.” “Knight Kenobi,” Anakin says in the same tone. “I cannot give you access to those texts while your account is under investigation for suspicious activity. However there are other titles you may find useful that you can access while you wait for the Archival staff to conclude their investigation, and I would be happy to point you towards them, should you like.” Obi-Wan’s teeth ache from clenching his jaw so tightly. “Fine,” he snaps. “What do you have?” “Methods for Mindful Meditation by Master Muinollie comes to mind,” Anakin blinks up at him with a beatific smile. “It’s currently on loan to the crechèmaster, but I can put you on the waitlist. Think of it like an exercise in patience.”

Obi-Wan lets out an audible growl and turns away before he can do something stupid like throttle his grandmaster’s old padawan.

It's almost as tempting as the boy looks when he smiles.

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hello! Can I request a number 22 "Do you trust me?" "I don't know." from the angst prompt list if this appeals to you at all?

Best of luck with getting back into the grove, I look forward to reading anything new <3

hi! thank you very very much for this prompt - it's delicious. might even reuse it for another idea I have rolling around. i hope you enjoy how this one turned out; it was a great warm-up piece and i got to play around with second person (very sorry if that's not your thing). and on a personal note - I'm a huge fan of yours, so this was a wild ask to wake up to!

cw: mild gore, self-doubt

length: ~1250 words

~~~

You watch as Imogen steps forward. Once. Twice. Her head tilts, and her eyes narrow. Another step. You back away. Your chest is heaving. Why are you shaking? The cold calculation in Imogen’s gaze is unfamiliar. You have been reduced to an object—a threat to be sized up before you are dispatched by those capable hands. And, in a way, you are, aren’t you? A threat. An object. A strung-out puppet without a home.

She is-was-could-be your home, you think. Maybe. She has been. At least, you want to believe that is the truth of it. But how can you be sure? Home has always been an abstraction to you, a thing kept just out of sight, dangled like a lure bobbing just beneath the surface, tempting you up from the depths. It remains just out of reach, it seems. You feel yourself sinking, sinking back into the places the sun cannot reach. It’s safe there, you have learned. The shadows protect you. They are just as much a part of you as the scars that litter paper-thin skin, reminders of rising a little too close to the warm-bright world above.   

Imogen’s stare is piercing, the faint purple glow radiating faintly, only detectable in the darkness. Two pinpricks of violet that bore into you from a safe fifteen paces away. 

Jagged rocks loom, emerge from the ceiling, the walls, like fingers crooking accusingly in your direction. The heel of your shoe catches on a massive hooked chain, snaking and coiling and disappearing in and out of the shadows. Mist curls around your ankles. Hands clutch at a corseted chest as if fabric and boning could freeze the magic leaking from taloned fingertips. 

“This isn’t me,” you swear, and the words sound hollow, distant, echoing, like the air is swallowing them up before they leave your lips.

“It isn’t,” Imogen replies sardonically, but her hands remain pinched at her hips, a faint crimson flickering at her fingertips. “Did you do this?”

Your brow furrows. Three crackling purple spheres appear overhead, and the mist thins. Shriveled corpses sprawl across the stone floor between you. Their skin is ashy and gray, lips dried and drawn back in wild grins that reveal stained, rotting teeth. Bulging eyes too wide for their sockets, bloodshot and unseeing, stare vacantly at the ceiling. Stiff fingers curl into claws, digging into bodies contorted and frozen in expressions of agony. 

“No,” you say, “no, of course not.” You shift back, away, away, and stumble over a red-robed thigh. “I wouldn’t,” you insist. 

“No?”

You repeat, “I wouldn’t. I–”

“How would you know?” Imogen’s tone is cool, “If you did.” She steps over one mangled body, tutting, thunderously calm. A spark flashes in her fist.

“I–”

“You wouldn’t know, would you? If it was you.” She pauses, stares. Her words are biting. “You told me yourself. Maybe it was Delilah.” You shrink back, away, away, until your back hits the jagged wall, and you relish in the pain because it means that something is solid. The fog in your head is thick, clouding, as Imogen stalks toward you. “Is there a difference anymore?” 

A chill runs through you, and the beautiful new corset you wear seems to constrict around your chest, squeezing, strangling. Imogen doesn’t believe you. She doesn’t believe you, and if she doesn’t believe in you, can you believe yourself? She was your home, once, (right?) but the foundation is cracked, leaking ichor and electricity that fries your toes. You need to know. Suddenly, it is the most important thing in the world. Imogen’s confidence in your goodness. That something in you is worth saving. Worth something. (There must be something.)  

“Do you trust me?” Your voice is thick, rattling, when you whisper through dusty cords. 

Imogen is five paces away, now, and moving closer as you press all you can into the wall. Perhaps you could become a fossil for the next generation of adventurers to find. Compressed and hardened between shale and mineral and away, away from piercing violet. Imogen studies you, unmoving, untouching. 

“I don’t know,” she says at last. She brings a hand up to grasp your chin, and you flinch. You have never flinched from her before. (You haven’t.) Her grip is firm. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you say, desperate. “Yes. Please.” Because you need her to understand so badly you could tear your heart from your chest and lay it at her feet if only so she would know it’s there. 

“You hurt us. You hurt your friends, Laudna. Look at them.” She releases your chin and spreads her arms.

Bathed in dim purple light, the corpses wear the clothes of your companions. (Have they always looked like this?) Fearne in FCG’s tattered coat, seafoam hair limp and stringy. Bor’dor, his green shawl stained dark with ichor. Chetney, his throat torn out. Orym, bruised, with Seedling and the Summit Blade fallen at his side. Ashton, arm in pieces.

“I didn’t.” You sound uncertain even to yourself. 

Imogen scoffs. “Running away again?” (Again?)

Always running. You always run. It has always been easier to run. It would be easier to run. (Why can’t you run?) You want to run away. You cannot go far from Imogen. (Can’t you?) The wall is moving. (The wall shouldn’t be moving. Walls can’t move. Why is the wall moving? Are you moving? Are you? A r e  y o u) 

“This is your fault.”

Your tongue refuses to move. It sits limp in your mouth like rotting meat. Sour. Disgusting. Useless, useless. Imogen doesn’t believe you. Doesn’t believe in you. Did you do this? This is your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault

You shudder and gasp, and suddenly, Imogen is holding you, but that cannot be right because she doesn’t trust you and why should she because who are you if you are not yourself and maybe you are just Delilah but how can you be sure and and and 

“Hey, woah,” Imogen croons near your ear. “Hey, you’re all right; you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Stale cavern air that tastes of death and decay floods your lungs, and you heave. Your hands and knees scrape against the floor. You need to get away, away. Away from her. You need to run. Before you hurt anyone. Before you hurt her. 

“Okay, hey, you’re okay, honey. Dominox got you good, huh?” 

Your vision darkens, and your ears ring, and your teeth lengthen.

“What’d you see?” Chetney crows. 

Imogen’s arms tighten around you, and you stiffen.  

“Give her a minute.” 

You shake your head against Imogen’s chest. Bits of debris lodge in your palm, and you savor the sting. Dark hair hangs in a curtain where it has been torn loose. 

“Take your time,” Imogen murmurs. Her eyes are not glowing; her hands do not spark. They trace small circles along your back where you can still feel the imprint of sharp stone, and you shiver at the dissonance. “It wasn’t real, Laudna. Whatever it was, it was the demon messin’ with your head.” 

A shaky exhale escapes your lips. “Do you trust me?” 

“What?” Imogen pulls away slightly to meet your wide eyes. She hesitates. Her mind presses against yours. You can feel her skimming, paging through your surface thoughts like a stone over water before she settles, bobbing, tempting. 

“Is it her?” Orym asks warily. 

“I think so,” Imogen says, but she remains intently focused, searching.

You repeat yourself through the weight that has settled low in your stomach. “Do you trust me?” 

“I… Why are you askin’ me that?”