#sordid soil

[kingkatsuki]

Hihihi hello! More Dragon King Bakugou thoughts

Dragon King Bakugou drags you kicking and screaming. A brute display of strength as he wraps a bloodied, muscular arm around your waist and hauls you towards his dragon.

It’s the only way he can remove you from the devastation and destruction that he caused, your village— your home, now nothing more than charred ash and embers. You’ll die if you stay here, and maybe it’s a warped sense of morality that has him bringing you with him. A spared pardon that will allow the gods above to judge him less when it comes to judgement day; if there even is a god when all this life seems to give is destruction.

His castle is dank and cold, nothing like the warm grass that settled beneath your feet in your village. The saccharine of wildflowers that blessed your senses each morning as you made your way to collect fresh water from the flowing river. You have nothing inside these four walls but time, aimlessly wandering through the bleak halls as though it’s some kind of reward for being alive. For being pitied.

The first night he brought you here you tell him that he should’ve killed you. Of all the people that night, you wondered why he’d chosen to pity you.

It’s the better part of a week before he forces you to bathe. The cinders and blood from that fateful night are still seared into your skin, a constant reminder of the anguish of watching everything you’d ever known burn. You had nothing else— and this was yet another thing the Dragon King was trying to take from you.

This was the first time you’d left your village since you were a child— your first look at the big wide world outside and all you wanted was to go back home.

And yet here you were standing in front of the man that stole everything from you. The ruthless King that had seemingly taken everything was still trying to take more. The numerous attempts from Mina to help you bathe had been in vain as you refused to remove the tattered cloth that you wore that fateful day, the stench of death and decay was even starting to bother you as you tried to fight the desire to purge yourself of the toxins. But the desire to disobey Bakugou was stronger—

“Get in,” He snarled pure venom, “Or I’m throwing you in the lake.”

You fought the urge to spit back ‘make me’ knowing that he most definitely would. His crimson eyes focused on you, challenging you to disobey him now.

“You’re stinkin’ out the castle,” He sneered, “Even my dragon smells better than you.”

“Let me get in then.” You challenged, hoping he’d leave the room so you could lock the door again.

“You can try that shit with Mina, but it won’t work on me, fuckin’ brat.”

It felt like stalemate, as you both bore into each other. The intensity of his gaze made you want to look away, but you had to hold what little fight you had left— before you broke yourself completely.

“Lake it is.” Bakugou took a step towards you, booted feet clomping against the cold stone floor as your hands balled into fists in the fabric of your dress. Holding the cloth in your hands as you begun to bunch it up your body, focusing on the way Bakugou seemed to stumble— catching himself before he paused.

You lifted the dress up and over your head as you let the soiled, bloodied cloth fall to the floor beside your bare feet. Leaving you completely exposed to him as he tried to stop his hungry eyes from feasting over your bare skin, left eye twitching as he fought the hardest war he was yet to face to maintain eye contact.

The air silent as you stepped forward, raising a leg to dip your toes into the forged metal tub. Exhailing when you felt the warmth engulf you as you stepped in, trying to ignore your heart hammering against your ribcage at how exposed and vulnerable you were right now as Bakugou allowed himself a moment to admire your round breasts and plush hips as you dipped into the bath.

Bakugou could feel his pants tighten at the sight, a multitude of sordid thoughts racing through his mind as his cock pulsed in response. Making no attempt to leave the room as you sunk lower into the bath, letting the dirt and grime mingle with the water as you breathed a sigh of relief. The warmth helping to soothe the aching muscles that you hadn’t allowed a proper chance to relax since that day— maybe you had needed this.

You hid your smirk beneath the murky water as you noticed the way the tips of his ears tinged vibrant red at the sight of you, successful enough to rile him up or piss him off you weren’t sure. But it was enough to be called a small victory as you let the warm water calm you, the first time you’d felt at ease since that night.

“That wasn’t so hard was it, brat?” Bakugou growled before turning to leave the room. Thankful his cloak was long enough to hide the bulging tent between his thighs as he took swift, long strides down the hall towards his quarters. Pressing a palm to his crotch to try and elliviate the tension as he tried to commit the sight of your naked body to memory. The door barely closing before he had a large palm fisting his cock—

[blouisparadise]

Today we have the second part to our long fic rec list! These fics are all 100k words or more. If you missed the first part to this rec list, you can check it out here. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word.

1) The Rose of Whitechapel | Mature | 100,181 words

Jack the Ripper AU - Detective Constable Harry Styles and his partner, DC Liam Payne, lead the case on the Whitechapel murders. Louis Tomlinson, the Rose of Whitechapel, is harbouring secrets of his own, along with a dark and sordid past. When their paths cross, truths are revealed, and perhaps hearts are mended… A darkness is brewing, and it’s finally come to collect on the promise it was made.

2) The Maddest Obsession | Explicit | 100,974 words

One fears the dark. One rules it. Harry Styles, the dangerous mob enforcer, finds himself entangled with Louis, the strong-willed mafia-princess. As they navigate the treacherous underworld of New York, their forbidden love sparks a deadly game of loyalty, betrayal, and passion. Will their devotion to each other overcome the chaos surrounding them, or will their love be their downfall?

3) Shadow Dances | Mature | 101,591 words

Louis Tomlinson has a begrudging gift, he’s able to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Often against his will, and almost always at the most inconvenient of times. He and his partner, Zayn Malik, work for a covert division of the New Haven Federal Bureau of Investigations. They aid in all kinds of cases, though their talents lie in the obscure and unsolvable. It’s when a strange new case falls onto their desks that they’re left questioning the extent of their abilities, and whether they were ever truly alone. Harry Styles was brought into the FBI for not only his skills, but his ability to mitigate the influx of spirits surrounding the elusive and obnoxiously infuriating sharp-tongued medium he’d been assigned to. Louis gets under his skin, he’s impulsive and a risk to the team according to Harry. They do however have to find a way to set aside their sordid history, and their reluctant attraction, to track down the murderer plaguing their coastal city.

4) Billow And Breeze (Islands And Seas) | Explicit | 102,506 words

It was bright; that was the first thing Louis could recall. With a groan, he winced at the throbbing behind the sockets of his eyes and rubbed his temples in an effort to soothe the pain. Maybe he really did hit his head when he took his tumble. The omega squinted as he looked at the surrounding rolling hills and fog hanging over the countryside. As strange as it was, the world felt different, though it looked practically the same. Disoriented and confused, Louis padded through the moss and listened for his husband. “Liam?” he croaked shakily. Nothing but a symphony of woodland creatures met his ears. His footsteps were muted by mossy green grass beneath his feet and soil fragrant as he neared the crest of the hill. At the top, he froze, lips parted in horror and eyes widening at the expanse of empty farmland—not a soul in sight. It had only been less than ten minutes prior that he could see Inverness from the crest, but now there was nothing. “Impossible,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief—his mind not quite able to make sense of it.

5) Praise the Mutilated World | Explicit | 106,668 words 

An enemies to lovers dystopian au where Harry is an elite alpha and Louis is a rebel omega with too much to fight for. Every move made is monitored, and a fertile omega’s purpose in life is one thing: to give children to their alpha.

6) My Kind Of Love | General Audiences | 108,178 words

Harry marries Louis for one year. Louis has no choice other than marry Harry fucking styles. There is a reason behind Harry’s sudden marriage with Louis and Louis has no idea about that. Maybe Harry married Louis for revenge.

7) Only You And Me | Not Rated | 109,836 words

Note: This is the sequel to this fic.

Louis goes on with his life after Harry, he hopes Harry comes back to him but is also on the search for something new. Will Harry reach out to Louis, or will Louis get over him and find something better?

8) You’ve Got A Higher Power, You’re Once In Any Lifetime | Explicit | 113,444 words

Giving up and letting them think they’re right were never valid options in Louis Tomlinson’s mind. In a society full of prejudices, finding a family and being accepted, also seemed like an unrealistic utopia. Louis sets out to do what no other of his kind ever has before and in doing so, he finds love, friendship and more about himself than he thought he would.

9) Like Water Over Fire (Like Water On Fire) | Mature | 119,264 words

Prince Harry has 46 men and 13 weeks to find the husband of his dreams, Louis has a limited amount to time to live out a royal fantasy. They might just be exactly what the other needs.

10) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices | Mature | 126,057 words

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they’re forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

11) Chandeliers And Fake Smiles | Mature | 145,010 words

On the brink of winning their first Grammy; up-and-coming rock band One Direction find themselves in the midst of the biggest scandal of their career - right before tickets for their world tour go on sale. in order to save their reputation, Louis Tomlinson must find it in his heart to forgive pop singer and heartthrob Harry Styles after his first impression rubbed him entirely the wrong way. after all, they cannot sell a relationship if it looks like they hate each other.

12) Buy Me Purple Flowers First | Teen & Up | 157,728 words

Louis Tomlinson is a 24-year-old rock star who tends to be rebellious and known as a “brat” in the extended media. The Omega has yet to find a mate and has no interests in being in a committed relationship. Harry Styles is a 22-year-old Alpha Bodyguard known for his past of protecting some of the most important politicians and musicians of their time. He has settled on a temporary job as a favour of a friend to look after the famous Louis Tomlinson to finish the leg of his European tour.

13) How Many Times Will It Take (To Get This Right) | Explicit | 157,805 words

Harry was watching her go, unable to meet Louis’ eyes again now that they were alone, and that’s how he saw him when the young boy leaned around Jay to peer at his mum and Harry. Harry’s jaw went slack, his mouth falling open in disbelief when two green orbs identical to his own found him and stared unwaveringly calm into Harry’s sunglasses-covered face. His small features were undeniably close to Louis’. Their noses, their lips, even their brow line was the same, but the pup’s eyes were an eerily familiar shade of emerald, and much rounder than Louis’. His hair fell in dark ringlets around his small face, which was also much too round to really say the child looked like Louis, despite the similar features. Harry sputtered when his alpha roared in his chest that Harry should follow the kid–should protect his pup. But there was no fucking way.

14) Charmed | Mature | 163944 words

Louis had always felt he was different, but he had never understood why. At least until one particular event devasted hum, turning his life upside down forever and bringing to the surface a past he didn’t know, a present he thought he knew, and a series of unexpected events that will trigger the beginning of a future he’s not sure he wants to live.

15) Sewn Into You | Explicit | 167,486 words

Harry Styles thinks soulmates are a fairytale, or in other words-a lie. He has no interest in entertaining anything that has anything to do with the very name that had been etched along his collarbone since his eighteenth birthday. Louis Tomlinson won’t be answering to another alpha for the rest of his life if he can help it. Fuck happy endings, his soul mate can choke on it. Problem is, Harry needs a personal assistant to save his family’s business, Louis needs the cash to officially move off of his childhood best-friend’s couch. They can manage. Surely, nothing will go wrong.

16) Don’t Let It (Me) Break | Explicit | 168,297 words

The one where Harry is oblivious, Louis is broken, Zayn and Liam are in love, Gemma and Lottie are lovely, and Niall is just waiting for everyone to get their shit together.

17) Non-Disclosure | Mature | 170,219 words

Being a world class Director, producing some of the best rated Romance movies to date, Louis was easily a sucker for the ‘Happy Ever After’. Except, in a world where he pretends and imagines true love. He was stuck inbetween what he thought was the love of his life and everything trying to stop them. “I did a lot of thinking when I was gone and every scenario I came up with ended with you. I’m fucking scared and I have no idea what will happen from now but I’d risk it all, if you could promise me a lifetime”

18) You Smell Like | Explicit | 185,369 words

The one where Louis is the Alpha’s mate and everyone is aware of it except for Louis and Harry. Go figure!

19) Three Days in February | Explicit | 187,642 words

How close is too close? Harry and Louis are about to find out after a drunken night leaves Louis cursed. With only a week before tour starts, the race is on to fix things before they lose Louis forever. Oh, and Harry has to keep his long-time crush on Louis a secret while the lad can literally hear his thoughts. Easy, right?

20) Collision | Not Rated | 226,294 words

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

21) Truth Behind Golden Eyes | Explicit | 228,727 words 

Louis is a royal servant born with magic in a kingdom where his sole existence is outlawed with a war he has no idea he has a part in upon him. Harry is the prince on whom the burden of mending a broken kingdom falls upon and he might be willing to risk it all for a simple servant if only he admitted it to himself.

22) Join Me In The Afterlife | Explicit | 262,289 words

Louis is a simple guy - all he wants from his summer break is to spend some quality time with his mother, get to know her new husband, and learn to play the guitar. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is for sure. However, life has a funny way of working and when Louis finds a strange boy sitting on his bed one sunny day, his summer break takes a turn for the better (or worse) when he discovers a ghost has stolen his heart from the get-go.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[hoseoksluna]

YOU'RE NOT DIRTY | myg

pairing: ex boyfriend!yoongi x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.4k

summary: he, who has always been able to untangle the ropes of chaos that is your mental health, helps you when you need to not be alone for once.

warnings: demonization of sex, anxiety, fear, crying & all kinds of iffy feelings about sex, yoongi being perfect

note: this was purely written as a way to heal and cope with the fact i felt extremely dirty after writing my last smut fic 'story'. if you've been following me and reading the little updates i post, you already know this. while this fic is loosely based on 'story', it's not necessary that you read it if you haven't, although namjoon is mentioned. i'd spent over a week writing this and every day had been a step closer to feeling better and it's all thanks to yoongi. he's always been the person who helped me with my mental health, especially when d-day came out. it had to be him. he's linked to this part of me forever. enjoy reading guys <3

“You’re not dirty.”

Those words should comfort you. Those words should rip away those sleazy fingers of the ghost that touches you—the ghost of shame, who mocks the touches of the lover you were with barely an hour ago. But those words do anything but. 

The man, who uttered them, studies your ashen face. He doesn’t see the demon’s large body on top of yours, constricting your airflow. Nobody ever does.

He doesn’t see the way the ghost scrapes the surface of your skin with its long claws; how its flimsy, wet and tattered cape deepens the wound with its rough fabric as bile rises in your throat. How could anyone?

It hurts.

It hurts to the point that you think your sexuality is that demon. That anytime a person of the opposite sex would touch you from now on, he would somehow beckon that hostile creature to come and collect you, slimy hands grasping yours and pulling you in—the touch so deathly that the sordidness would seep into your skin and make a bed in you. Then, the torture would begin all over again.

Shortness of breath. The feeling of your body being dirty and heavy. The distaste towards sex and men that follows after. The despair; the loss of hope that life could be possibly normal for you sometime in the future.

Despite it being such a hefty feeling, only a small part of you regards as true that this is someone else’s fault. It’s devastatingly pathetic.

The majority of your being believes that the foulness is yours. That you’re the one to blame. You believe that it’s your decision and your repulsive actions that stain you. And if that wasn’t enough, the certain question of why links arms with that belief, troubles you along the way, and it becomes much, much worse.

Why does filling a dose of hormones that you lack, that you need for your well-being leave you feeling like you did something very bad?

And, also, another one.

Why does enjoying yourself with another person—becoming close with them in a way that is tempestuous, dizzying and beautiful in such a simple sense, in a way that makes life truly worth living—why does it leave you with those burdening thoughts, soiled body and even grimier conscience? 

Those questions fill you up with dark clouds with no stars, dense and thick ones that weigh your body down. You walk through your daily life with trembling legs. And it’s all forced. You’d rather not feel that way, but it comes over you, swallowing you whole, and you have no strength to fight back. It’s all very frustrating. There’s nothing you can do.

The man’s words should take the edge off this discomfort, the lull and the softness of his tone—the maturity, complexity and dependability of his persona the very warmth that coats his voice—like a damp towel to all your gashes and sores. Help you in some way that you’re unable to help yourself. Perhaps lift the body off of you like Atlas held the world above his head. But they don’t.

And it’s Yoongi. The man you love, even if the state of your relationship is chastely friendly at the moment.

It’s Yoongi, who picked you up in the rain pouring down on you woefully, perfuming your hair with the sweetest, most heady scent of the forest. Yoongi, who gave you his clothes—boxers that fit you comfortably, even if they are a little loose in certain areas, gray sweatpants that decorate the ivory waistband of the Calvins, an old shirt, quite an expensive one, warm and cozy from the dryer. 

Yoongi, who let a velvety blanket fall on your shivering figure once you’ve showered, dressed, and rested comfortably on his couch, placing a light pink bowl filled with cheese puffs on your lap, knowing how much you love the color and the snack, too. Yoongi, who typed the title of your favorite Korean drama into the Netflix search bar, thumb clicking on the up, down, left and right buttons on the remote control, even though he hates doing so and prefers the voice search. Yoongi, who opted for muted leniency to waft through the room, turning off the big lights, sound low, fingers having finished typing the title: ‘It’s Okay Not To Be Okay’.

It should do something. But it doesn’t.

You’re incapable of looking him in the eyes. You just numbly gaze down at the orange tastiness, plopping another one into your mouth, swallowing down the bile. You dissociate, eyes defocusing, the pressure to respond to him a distant siren alarm at the back of your mind. 

A solid, peculiar peace steps over the threshold of your mind to check if it’s welcome before it takes a step back and walks the other way, the stench of the mold of your feelings pushing it away. 

Must have been his. 

He’s careful before he says what he wants to say in its entirety.

Yoongi takes his hands off of your forearms. The glint of his silver watch pulls you out of your detachment. Guilt pricks you at the nape of your neck over the fact that he’s trying and you’re too numb to receive it from him. You will your body to be normal, but it stays the way it is.

You had told him briefly in the car, amidst the onrush of your liquid emotions, that you felt that way. Dirty, soiled, ashamed of your perverseness. He didn’t comment on it, driving in silence. He knew that if he spoke too soon, you wouldn’t hear him—choosing to place your palm on the stick shift instead, holding your hand like that.

It struck you with the notion that you spoke too much. Did too much. That you should’ve just stayed quiet, stayed without feeling until he killed the engine at your apartment, until the door softly clicked behind you. You didn’t hear the language of his hand, all the words that gesture said. Instead, you listened to the false words in your brain.

You’re bothering him. He doesn’t care. He thinks you’re annoying. You should’ve called an Uber or you shouldn’t have come at all. You should’ve been home, depriving yourself of life, of excitement, of love and pleasure. 

But Yoongi didn’t drive you home—he didn’t drive down the familiar path to your apartment. And Yoongi didn’t speak because he knows you better than you know yourself. 

He wanted you to pour out the rain of your clouds before his words could tear them apart with sunlight. It wasn’t his intention to make you suffer more than you already did. 

You didn’t know this, though.

“Did you hear what I said?” the grim man asks, the grave acrimony to his voice alerting you and you feel so bad. So, so very bad.

A silky waterfall of his ebony hair brushes the tops of his cheekbones. You notice how the similarly colored hood of his sweatshirt envelops his neck in warmth, merging the hues into one color within the dimness of the living room. Looking down at your crisscrossed legs, mimicking his, you unfurl the blanket over his thighs. It pulls you into one unity with him, his steadfastness reaching for you.

“I did, Yoongi,” you say, wanting to be honest within the environment you find yourself in. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“Did he make you feel that way?” Yoongi folds his arms over his chest. Leans over the backrest. Suddenly you’re aware of the distance between the two of you. Glad that the blanket is big enough. “Dirty?”

It’s a question that hurts because you wish you could change your answer.

“I wish he did.” Your voice wobbles. Somehow his calm demeanor cracks yours, pushing the voices aside. “It would’ve been easier.”

If Namjoon were the one who hauled the words at you instead of your brain—if it were his touches that dug a hole in your heart instead of the ghost—you wouldn’t be sniffling your nose, willing your tears to go back where they came from. It’s all you and the broken interior of your body. Namjoon treated you perfectly, having invited you over to his residence near the woods. He didn’t make love to you, but he did play with you, coaxing moans out of you that echoed through his mansion. You enjoyed yourself, even though you enjoyed pleasuring him a little more.

Perhaps, that’s the biggest problem of it all.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It would’ve been easier ‘cause I would’ve blamed him.” You sigh, averting your gaze, plucking out fluff from the blanket on your knee. 

Yoongi runs his fingers through his hair to sweep it away from his eyes. His leisure position sinks him deeper into the dimness as he lowers his body into the cushions, arms back on his chest. 

“There’s no one to blame, though,” he says simply, biting his lower lip. 

You don’t know what to say. Busying yourself, you take a sip of the can of Sprite Yoongi got for you, aware of the strange emptiness within the walls of your mind. There’s always some kind of noise, some kind of accusation towards you. You’ve become used to it, learned to live with it. It’s a strange newness, this silence. You don’t know what to do with it. 

“You did nothing wrong,” he continues, voice so warm and so deep, despite its monotonicity. 

You merely shrug your shoulders. 

Yoongi reaches forward and places a hand on your left shoulder. As if to stop your stubbornness from overwhelming your body. You feel the heat of his palm and your mouth rounds in a pout. There’s energy in it—some kind of energy that mends you. His words are tall pillars that you slowly make your way over to, leaning against their coolness. Lukewarmness. 

You discover that it feels better. The heat of his touch, the coolness of his solemnity. It creates a temperature that your body responds to, walks away from the hostile creature. 

Before he had spoken, Yoongi touched you. Placed his palms in the crooks of your arms. But it didn’t affect you—and it’s because he hadn’t spoken. Now that he has, it whirs with some kind of spark in you that speaks the language of your body. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Yoongi asks, lowering his head, eyes up, so he can look more deeply into yours. Perhaps read an answer. Any reaction that would tell him that he can move forward. 

You remain quiet, but you reciprocate the eye contact. And you do it for a reason. Now that your mind is empty, you desire for him to fill it. 

You shake your head.

Yoongi cups the side of your neck. Brushes your hair away from your face with his other hand. Inches closer. Pecks you gently on the forehead. 

The gesture squeezes the clouds in you and rain pours out. It trickles out of your tear ducts, down your pallid cheeks. Yoongi leans against your temple. Doesn’t let himself see those raindrops, but he knows they’re there. 

“You did nothing wrong by enjoying sex and you’re not dirty because you had it. It doesn’t stain you. Do you know what it does instead, though?” He whispers, keeping his voice low just for you; waits for your response. 

You shake your head ‘no’ once more, your shoulders relaxing now that you’re being held, now that you’re being spoken to, filled, made new. 

“It paints you golden. Glittery. And all colors of the rainbow are in that glitter. It’s all over you and it’s in you. And do you know the reason?” 

This time he doesn’t wait. Your tears soak the thick fabric of his sweatshirt and a rosy flush floods your cheeks in their place. You sob, and the sound is muffled.

“It’s because you had a good time. Good experiences paint you in all kinds of different ways. You just have to open your eyes to see them. All those colors.  Wait a bit before you can try ‘em all out. It takes time, doesn’t it?” 

You nod, and you do it so many times that your head spins, whimpering at the sudden lightness that your body welcomes. Yoongi hugs you, enclasps you in his arms. The blanket falls to the ground and it’s his body that keeps you warm, the ghost shoved away. You continue to cry until not one cloud fits in your ribcage, Yoongi’s words being the bodies that settle there, cleaning up the disorder they left there. Bodies speckled with the same glitter he talked about, myriads of silver, violet and blue flakes spelling the abbreviation of his name: MYG. 

I have glitter inside of myself.

You repeat it to yourself as your lungs calm down, regular breaths soothing your fragile form still held by Yoongi. He caresses the back of your head, fingers smoothing down your hair, making sure it cascades down your back in one singular stream. 

Lifting your head like a toddler on its belly, you do the same for Yoongi. You brush his hair away from his face, thumb stopping to caress at his cheek. Yoongi puckers his lips at you, hauls you a bit further upwards on his body. Mimics you again, fondling your cheek blooming with a new color. 

“No matter what you do with whoever you choose, you’ll always be a good girl,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumbs flicking away the last teardrops under your eyes, swiping tenderly across the intricate fan of your wet eyelashes. 

You believe him, so you nod, chin quivering with another onrush of emotions but nothing comes out. You don’t say it, but you have a confidence in the notion that your body will be eternally his. 

And you ponder it in your brain, softly, as Yoongi leans over and sets a tangerine down on the top of his chest. You come to terms with it being the current reality while he peels it for you. And you fully believe it and accept it when he feeds you the half moons. One by one, painting the walls of your mind with the faintest color of orange—the very reflection of a morning sunlight pouring in. 

A solid peace, no longer peculiar, steps over the threshold of that suddenly illuminated room, and it doesn’t leave this time. It swings the door closed, the sound of the click the very announcement of stability coming to stay. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

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[tailoroffates]

Writing tips #5 - Conditions

Hey y'all! I'm back again with yet another segment of Writing tips. Today we're going to cover something a bit more vague, conditions. No, not the terms and/or conditions of some contract. What I'm referring to is the current condition of an item, a place, or even a creature.

Clean

Blank, bright, cleansed, clear, dirtless, flawless, fresh, hygienic, immaculate, impeccable, laundered, pristine, pure, sanitary, shining, shiny, sparkling, spick-and-span, spotless, squeaky, stainless, taintless, tidy, unblemished, unpolluted, unsoiled, unsullied, untainted, untarnished, washed, white.

Dirty

Black, contaminated, cruddy, dingy, draggled, dreggy, dungy, dusty, filthy, greasy, grimy, grubby, grungy, icky, impure, mangy, mildewed, moldy, mucky, muddy, murky, nasty, polluted, raunchy, scummy, scuzzy, slimy, smeared, smudged, soiled, soily, snooty, sordid, splotched, spotted, squalid, stained, sullied, sully, tainted, tarnished, unclean, unsanitary, unsightly, unswept.

Damaged

beat-up, bent, blemished, broken, burnt, burst, busted, collapsed, cracked, crippled, crumbed, demolished, destroyed, dinged, discolored, disintegrated, dismembered, flawed, fractured, fragmented, impaired, injured, mangled, marred, mutilated, peeling, pulverized, ripped, ruptured, separated, severed, shattered, shivered, shot, shredded, slivered, smashed, split, tattered, wrecked.

Faultless

Complete, entire, faultless, firm, fixed, flawless, full, intact, mint, perfect, perfect, plenary, preserved, replete, rooted, safe, secure, set, settled, shipshape, solid, sound, stable, steadfast, steady, unblemished, unbroken, uncut, undefiled, undivided, unharmed, unified, unimpaired, uninjured, unmarked, unmarred, unruffled, unscathed, untouched.

Messy

Bedraggled, botchy, careless, cluttered, dirty, disheveled, disordered, disorderly, disorganized, filthy, foul, frowzy, frumpy, grimy, grubby, ill-kempt, lax, littered, muddled, mussy, nasty, raunchy, ruffled, rumpled, shabby, slack, slapdash, slipshod, sloppy, slovenly, uncombed, unkempt, untidy, wrinkled, wrinkly.

Neat

Chipper, clean-cut, combed, detailed, fastidious, groomed, immaculate, kempt, meticulous, orderly, organized, prim, shipshape, snappy, snug, spick-and-span, spruce, tidy, trig, trim, uncluttered, uncluttered, unwrinkled, well-groomed, well-pressed.

New

Advanced, brand-new, contemporary, current, cutting edge, fresh, latest, modern, new-fashioned, newfound, new-sprung, novel, original, recent, stylish, trendy, ultramodern, unfamiliar, unspoiled, untouched, untrodden, unused, up-to-date, youthful.

Old

Abandoned, aged, ancient, antiquated, antique, archaic, broken-down, cast-off, crusty, dated, decayed, decrepit, deteriorated, dilapidated, discarded, dowdy, faded, hackneyed, historical, moth-eaten, neglected, old-fashioned, outdated, out-of-date, outworn, primitive, primordial, raggedy, rickety, run-down, rusty, scruffy, shabby, shoddy, stale, tattered, threadbare, time-worn, traditional, used, worm-eaten, worn, worn-out, wrinkly.

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 36

Hey guys! Been super busy with other stuff. Check out my Ao3 if u wanna see more dpxdc siren content!

also masterpost!

INTERNATIONAL OUTCRY AS AMERICAN AGENTS TEAR THROUGH PANAMA

GIW agents harass civilians and destroy property in pursuit of supposed siren supervillain Phantom, only for no trace of said villain to be found. Is this yet another sordid chapter in American interference on South American soil? Lois Lane reports.

That was a welcome sight to see in the morning. Jazz Fenton placed her phone face down, and rolled back into bed; it was a bad idea to look at screens for too long while concussed, as much as she wanted to dig into the article lambasting Amity’s least favourite government workers. A small weight lifted off her shoulders. For the moment, her brother and Damian were scot free. Her parents were still hard at work on repairs. They’d spent the whole night in despair along with Bruce Wayne after Skulker had escaped without telling them any info on the missing boys, then the next morning, boom! Back to work. Never let it be said that the Fentons gave up easily. The GIW seemed less likely to bounce back, if the backlash against them was any indication. And Skulker’s ship was at the bottom of the sea.

As for what Danny and Damian would do next, Jazz had no idea. They could be trekking through Brazil on foot, or planning to swim back up north to Amity for all she knew. All she could do was hope Danny got himself a phone soon to call her, and let her know they were alright. Speaking of which…

Jazz got up and moved to the side of her door, where the spare mattress was propped up. She dragged it over the door, sealing it shut. With her room once again soundproofed and secure, she went back to her bed, and tapped a group call contact on her phone. She had texted them the brief details last night, but was too busy comforting her parents to give them the full report.

It answered in two rings. Tucker spoke immediately. “What’s your status?”

Sam picked up right after. “Where are the boys?”

“Everything is fine, for now. They managed to escape Panama before the GIW could catch them. But Skulker got them soon after.”

“Shit. I never even knew! I wasn’t there to hack him. What happened?” Tucker asked in panic.

“Mom and Dad came back last night, told me and Bruce that ‘Phantom’ made off with his little green friend. So at least they’re safe.”

“So that means they’re safe, right?”

Jazz squeezed her hairband. “For the most part. There’s one issue, though. Mom and Bruce saw Danny running at the beach in Panama. They didn’t see him go into the water or anything.” She was always careful not to say anything that would connect Danny with Phantom, just in case there was still somehow someone listening. It was never ‘transform’, it was always ‘go in the water.’ It was never Danny and Damian swimming in the ocean, it was Phantom and his friend, or just ‘they.’ “They don’t suspect anything catastrophic yet, but the situation is sensitive.”

“Well fuck.” The sound of a fist on wood came through Sam’s end.

“Sam, are you training?” Tucker asked. Jazz internally questioned if there was a reason to his surprise.

“Just a bit. Need to be in tip top shape.” Another series of punches. “You got a problem with that, Tuck?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

Jazz pursed her lips. “How are you guys feeling, outside of paranoid anxiety and crushing fear?”

“Like I want to cave someone’s face in right now.”

“I’ve got some good news!” Keyboard clacking followed his announcement, and a text from him appeared on their group chat. It was an internal order obviously gained via Tucker’s illicit means, directing operatives to pack up and hit the seas for Phantom. “The Gankers in Wetwipes are screwing off in the next couple weeks. That means less property damage. Woo!”

“But more people chasing Phantom, Tuck.” Sam let out a guttural growl as she kicked something, by the sound of it. “They’ll be licking their wounds for a while with his GTA stunt in Panama, but for how long?”

For how long indeed. If they were as determined as they ever were, probably not long at all. “What’s the status at Fentonworks?”

“All clear for now. I already gained access to the system aaages ago, back when we needed to disable the detection systems for Danny.” A few keys clicked in the background. “Still nothing. I have a program to alert me and Sam when a certain someone shows up.”

“And then what?”

“Hopefully, blast him to fucking bits with the house defenses.”

“There’s also plan B, Jazz, but we’ll save that for later,” Sam added. “How are you feeling?”

Jazz sighed. The last few days have been nothing but anxiety, uncertainty and stress. Slowly, she breathed in again, and her sigh became a calming exhale. “Honestly? Relieved. The future is uncertain, and people are naturally inclined to dislike uncertainty, but I have faith in Danny. He’s one of the strongest little brothers a woman could hope for.”

She just needed to have faith.

Damian chewed a piece of Sargassum. The stars coated the night sky once more in a mesmerising dome, while Danny laid beside him, fins flicking lazily, as he retold myths. Currently Danny was going over Herakles, who was brought to the teet of Hera to suckle, only for the baby Herakles to nibble too hard, causing the goddess’ milk to spill out into the stars, forming the Milky Way.

“Incidentally, galaxias literally means milky! Can you believe it?” Danny concluded.

The whale pod was fast asleep at this moment, floating near the surface of the ocean. Danny’s body was already mostly dried out, scales replaced by pink skin. The older boy tipped his foot into the water, which morphed it into a fin, before splashing the water onto Damian’s body.

As much as Damian wished to be able to continue swimming, he was still in recovery, and he and Danny had not finished gathering supplies yet. Instead, he laid his head on the mother whale’s body and on Danny’s, and listened to another story.

“This isn’t about any constellations, but here’s the hillaarrious misunderstanding for why some Greeks thought the god Pan was dead…”

Damian fell asleep to the rhythm in Danny’s chest.

He woke up feeling better than ever, and the whale calves seemed to feel the same. As soon as he rose, a group of them with Dorothea at the helm ambushed him. Dorothea bumped her nose onto him, and Damian instinctively grasped her fins to hold on, while she dashed away from her friends. Three calves followed Dorothea’s tail, while another two flanked her left side.

The two from the side dove for Damian, aiming to knock him off Dorothea’s back, but she swerved upward and dodged their advance. So the game was to claim Damian as their rider. He could get behind this. Dorothea’s friends approached from the rear. Damian secured his position atop her back, and scanned his surroundings, which were mostly featureless sands and dozens of whales. He clicked a command, then nudged her in the downwards direction. Almost by telepathy, Dorothea angled downwards underneath the belly of one of the adult pod members. The three chasers followed closely.

“Giddy up, Dorothy! We can still outswim them!” He called out to his friend. However, his glee was cut short by the reappearance of the two flankers. One seemed like a young male, with three spots on his head. Damian dubbed him Cerberus. The other had a white patch on its fin. Damian called it Todd.

Cerberus went low, while Todd went high, brushing against the underbelly of the adult they were swimming under. With Damian holding on tight, Dorothy dashed forward. She and Damian aimed to swim up the side of the adult and lose their tails (curse you Richard and your infectious disease). However, the three chasers from the back had returned. A smaller runt rammed Damian by the side. It was not painful, just startling. Damian yelped at his new captor and the current winner. “Be careful, you dolt! And start swimming!”

Runt clicked an answer back, and the chase was on. Damian took the helm at Runt’s back, and chirped a challenge back to the other calves, who crooned back with renewed vigour. Runt wasn’t as big or strong as her friends, but she was small, and that made her a more difficult target, as well as granting her greater nimbleness in the water. Try as her pod mates might, they were unable to catch her. Runt twisted and zig-zagged through the water, and around the bodies of the adults. Dorothea managed to glance by Damian’s sail, but she had aimed too high and left Damian firmly seated on his current noble steed.

As enemy forces closed in on them, he had to wonder what the victory condition had to be for this game, and if there weren’t, how he could make one decisively. His gaze turned upward.

“We need altitude, Runt. On the double!” He commanded. Damian ducked under another capture attempt by Cerberus, then jerked Runt to the side as Todd dove for another attempt. Runt sped toward the surface with accelerating pace amidst the growing resistance. In a rush of motion, the pair broke the surface and launched into the air, almost six whole feet up. Runt sang a triumphant tune. She blasted water out of her blowhole, which happened to be right underneath Damian’s face, but Damian couldn’t help but laugh even as he was pelted by high-pressure water. His stomach lurched and his heart jittered with the thrill of free-fall, celebrated with a pump of the fist.

He and Runt plummeted back to the deep blue sea with a magnificent splash, right before the whale calves surrounded them with playful nuzzles.

A click interrupted their celebration. Behind the shifting bodies of the whale calves, a grinning Danny floated, camera in hand. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Damian glared with dignity. He did not pout. “I was getting in my recommended hours of physical therapy. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. And it wasn’t just because you wanted to play with the whales again?”

“It was training.” Damian put his hands to his hips. “I am learning how to be a whale whisperer and trainer, for any future encounters where that skillset might be useful.”

“Well…” Danny rolled his shoulders back and grinned. “Is the budding whale trainer ready for a lunch break?” The older boy offered a helping of brown kelp. “Today our chef has prepared a special three-course dinner comprising of kelp, kelp, and a mystery desert for later!”

“It is kelp, is it not?”

“You betcha!”

Within the clean white walls of a private jet, a man picks up a glass of champagne. Poor Jasmine, all alone in Fentonworks, her parents having gone off gallivanting across the waves once more. Poor Jasmine indeed. Well, having set affairs in order back at home, Vlad Masters was finally coming to check in on his dear, dear goddaughter.

“How long until we reach Amity, pilot?”

“Just another hour, sir. Hang in tight.”

“Excellent.”

And if he completed a few errands around Amity Park in the meantime, who could blame him?

[agentrouka-blog]

Jon, Sansa, Romance and Choice

Jon associates his mother with this mix of shame and longing, because his entire existence is founded on an act of transgression rooted in potentially no more than Ned rutting with some poverty-driven peasant behind a shed somewhere when he felt the urge. He has issues with sex and self-loathing a mile wide even before his consent is violated, but when it is, he paints over that with an invention of love that coexists uneasily with his perception of the truth. It makes the situation bearable and it's a familiar coping mechanism. "Beautiful and highborn and her eyes were kind" exists alongside his resignation that his mother was likely a "whore".

Double realities are a go-to for the Starks.

But given this longing for something "pure" to combat his own association with being inherently "soiled", is it any wonder that the kid tries to dress up his abusive relationship with fantasies of flowers, with gestures of chivalry or tender declarations - which either defy reality or are harshly rejected and ridiculed?

Jon is a romantic out of self-defense, much like Sansa. Sansa is escaping the reality of what marriage is for a woman in Westeros, Jon is escaping the base mechanics of sex without mutual dignity or considerstion for consequences. Both reach for the idea of love as a bridge. Love means that Sansa is valued for herself and safe from disrespect. Love means that there is a category of belonging and mutual respect. Their lives become more than a political transaction or an inconvenient byproduct of biology. Love adds dignity to a world that withholds it from them. Love. Not power.

The fantasy of romantic love is pretty crucial to their character arcs in similar ways.

This becomes especially interesting when romance and love slide into a place of transgression with Jon and Sansa. What prevails? The shame of the sordid and soiled, or the inherent dignity of love and mutual care?

It stops being an escapist fantasy, and starts being a choice about what they want it to mean. No double reality but an integration of competing forces. Love in and of itself becomes a central value if it cannot work as a solution to reality. Is it still worth choosing? The answer will be yes.

RLJ, ironically helps with that, rewards that.

Jon will find healing and meaning in the fact that his mother did love him, that no matter the transgressive circumstances, she was everything he had secretly longed for and her choice to love him imbues him with an inherent dignity that his status had always deprived him of.

The reality of being her son also frees his love for Sansa from the constraints of being inherently transgressive. It becomes possible. Integrating double reality twice over.

For Sansa, the incompatibility of love and political reality ("It is my claim they mean to wed. No one will ever marry me for love.") is resolved when the real but impossible love, equally, becomes possible, and only after it was made clear that it existed independent of her value as an "object" and for herself alone.

It's just such a neat shared arc about love. ❤️

[m3rricat]

The beginning of the upcoming chapter of my wyllstarion fic for wip wednesday!

“Is that a joke?” Astarion snapped, head craned back to glare up at Mizora’s shadowy face.

The dark silhouette wings grew rapidly on the ceiling, as if Mizora was descending to land on them both. Wyll fought the instinct to shrink back.

“Yes, and it was funny,” she said at last. “That is, if you have any clue what’s down here. And shouldn’t you, spawn? You’ve been crawling around in the dark for centuries.”

“Barely two centuries. And never deeper than this. I’m not eager to see what horrors are down in the pits around here.”

“Oh, but aren’t you one of those horrors, my little vampire?”

Astarion flinched back like a kicked dog. Wyll had had enough. “Mizora, get to the damn point. I thought we were in a hurry.”

Mizora tittered. “One needs to stop and smell the roses now and then, pup. Your friend’s pain is… exquisite. But fine. When I say murder, I mean the ‘essence of murder,’ forged into a weapon.”

The phrase jarred Wyll’s memory. Sent him back years to when he was listening to the old stories: not the ones in his schoolbooks, but the snatches of sordid rumor he caught on the air every time someone in the neighborhood went missing. As he got older he ignored them; he knew in his wisdom that people fell off the face of the earth for boring, banal reasons. But when he was younger, he and his friends hung on every gruesome word. Monsters, cannibals, cults. Gods. They had felt so real to his young mind, creeping just under the crust separating the city above from the grasping horrors below.

“Mizora,” Wyll began slowly. “There were always stories about murder worship under the city. Baldur’s Gate, the city of blood. Are you trying to say that—?”

“Bhaal,” Astarion spat. “One of those things, those melty-face things said the name. But there’s still no reason to think that was anything but raving. There’s no way there’s some murder god’s relic still lying around. At least not with any power left in it.”

“A week ago you would have said there was no such things as devils here anymore,” Mizora retorted. “Yet here we are. Magic is scarce, but it lingers in certain places. Down here, for instance. Where so much blood has been spilled it will soak the soil til the end of time. Have some faith, my dears."

[fangirleaconmigo]

I wrote my first full Geraskefer (Geralt x Yen x Jaskier poly) fic! It's a..."it's not really unrequited, Jaskier is just a dumdum" fic. It has a POV chapter for each character.

It is below AND on Ao3 (5k words)

I wrote it as part of a fandom event with @witcherficwriters for @demeter918

Jaskier

When Jaskier fell in love with Geralt, it hit him hard and fast--like an arrow straight to the heart. Yen was different. Falling for her had worked like a poison, like droplets in his wine, building up in his body unnoticed, year after year until he was weak and unsteady.

That was the truth of the matter. But it all sounded so cliche.

Bollocks. 

His metaphors needed work.

Jaskier leaned against a large oak tree and picked at his lute. Every few notes, he stopped to scratch lyrics on his parchment. 

He needed something that rhymed with venom.

Jaskier was in a forest, by himself, half drunk. His heart ached in the empty place where his friends used to be. Once upon a time, this had all been easier. Simpler. He had known his role and had played it well. 

In the first several decades of his relationship with Geralt, Jaskier was the one who picked up the pieces. The witcher and the witch were always at each other’s throats, always scratching each other’s eyes out. When the fights were over and the dust had settled, Jaskier was always there with a pint and a friendly ear.

Then, after Voleth Meir, things changed. It had felt so odd, drifting away from Geralt, and being there for Yennefer during that cold, brutal phase when Geralt wanted nothing to do with her. Jaskier was the only one left in Kaer Morhen who provided her with any warmth. He was the only one who she could turn to.

If you asked an average member of the public to describe the famous troubadour Jaskier, you would be hard pressed to find someone who would use the terms reliable or constant. And yet? That was what he had been for them--his witcher and his witch. Jaskier had always been their port in the storm. 

And while it had certainly troubled him over the years to see his friends hurting, he found comfort in helping. And, if he were honest, he may possibly have felt a tiny bit smug. A little, itty bit superior. While they fought, he patiently counseled. While they scratched and hissed, he embraced and listened.

The childish, fickle poet got to play the hero.

It had taken the sting out of the unrequited yearning. 

But then the worst thing possible happened. Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg made up. And not just temporarily. 

They grew. 

They matured. 

Parenting Ciri together eventually brought them closer than ever. And about six months ago, Geralt and Yen had purchased a lovely home by the sea. 

THE SEA.

Jaskier’s face screwed up like he’d sucked a lemon. He spat on the ground next to him. 

What rhymed with betrayal?

He had always understood that he was the friend, not the lover. It was true that both Geralt and Yen had kissed him at different points in their sordid histories. Each moment was burned into his memories for good. He was convinced that on his deathbed, the phantom caress of their lips would carry him back to the soil. 

But every kiss, every touch that strayed from the bounds of friendship, had always felt furtive. Stolen. They had never spoken of it, and Geralt and Yen had always returned to one another. 

Up until about six months ago, he thought he was fine with that. 

But this new home by the sea changed everything. It was physical, conclusive evidence that they would be settling down together. Making a life. A future. Without him.

After about a month, the dinner invitations began to arrive for him at Oxenfurt. He would sit at his desk in silence and stare at the curled up parchment, picturing sitting around the table with Yen and Geralt. His heart ached with yearning for them. But he would only get as far as imagining what it would feel like to see their clothing hanging together, to sit on the furniture they picked out as a couple, and to witness their contented smiles, before he grew sullen and resentful.

Dinner.

Dinner in the home he was not a part of. 

But he couldn’t say no. There was no rational reason to say no to generous invitations from cherished friends. So he decided to pretend he hadn’t received the invitations. He fled Oxenfurt for some conveniently timed walkabouts. They, however, knew he liked to hang around Posada, so an invitation had arrived for him there. So, Jaskier took off again. And again. And again. That was how he’d arrived where he was, on the outskirts of bum fuck nowhere, drunken and writing shitty ballads. 

He tried to play another stanza, but the notes slipped from underneath his fingers, and dropped like bricks, making a discordant sound. 

It was twilight. He looked at the empty wine flask at his knee. Shit. He may as well stop for the evening and stagger to an inn. Maybe the solution was to get more drunk. Yes Jaskier, he said to himself, that was a wise choice indeed.

“Master Jaskier!” A messenger boy popped out from the bushes.

Jaskier shrieked in surprise. The messenger boy was startled by his outburst, and shrieked in return. He was young, barely out of adolescence, wearing a hat pulled down to his prominent ears. 

Jaskier clasped his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” He shouted, affronted. “You rogue! You snot nosed, uhhhh,” his brain was foggy, so his voice trailed off, not able to come up with any better insult than uhhhh.

“I apologize sir!” the messenger pleaded, “but I’ve been tracking you for ages. You’re a tough man to catch.”

Jaskier swore under his breath. He thought he’d lost the little bugger. What happened to standards? What happened to work ethic? The messengers were rapidly gaining both, and it troubled him. You could barely escape a legal summons anymore, nor messages from your dearest friends.

“I have another message from Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg and Sir Geralt of Rivia.” He held out a cream colored square of paper. It was a lush envelope this time, affixed with a black and white seal.

Geralt and Yen had designed their own seal to affix to the envelopes and parchments that they sent as a couple. 

It was so very...

Jaskier eyed his lute, instead of the messenger boy. He just needed a word that rhymed with cloying.

The boy waved the envelope impatiently in front of his nose. The slight scent of lilac and gooseberries wafted towards him. Scent was a funny thing. A funny and powerful thing. This particular scent brought very specific memories roaring back to life. It brought back Kaer Morhen, in the wreckage of Voleth Meir, when his arms cradled the petite frame of one raven haired sorceress as she quietly pretended not to cry.

Suddenly, Jaskier felt like a complete ass.

He swiped the envelope, and sent the boy away with free advice to never ever fall in love. He sat back hard against the rock and opened the envelope, reading it against the dying of the light.

Yennefer

It was raining.

Yennefer had not planned for rain.

She straightened the silverware again and smoothed out the napkin. Damnit. She was turning into Tissaia.

“Why is he avoiding us?” she demanded. “We’ve sent him ten invitations by now. He’s gotten at least one, there’s no way he hasn’t.”

Yennefer couldn’t bring herself to speak her real fear aloud. Does he not want us? No. Of course he wants Geralt. Is it me? Does he not want me? A warm hand covered her own. She raised her eyes. 

“He’ll be here,” Geralt assured her.

They sat together, on either side of a table for four. There was one more place setting immaculately staged in front of the empty chair. Geralt and Yen sat in silence, listening to the rain tap on the roof.

“It is so rude not of him not to answer. He should at least say yes or no.”

“He’s an ass,” hummed Geralt. “But he’ll be here.”

Yennefer nodded. He would be here. He would. He would come and she would show him the house that they bought and decorated with care and love, and she would feed him the food that she and Geralt had made with their own hands. She would tell him about the town, how lovely and vibrant it was and how well he would fit in. And when he had seen everything this particular life had to offer him, they would make him a proposition. They would extend him an invitation.

“And what if he does come?” Yennefer blurted out. “What if he does come, and when we make our offer, he thinks we’re some kind of degenerates? What if he laughs, what if he--”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier?” He laughed. “He’s the worst degenerate I have ever met.”

Yennefer swatted his arm softly. “Well, we aren’t. Not really.”

Geralt leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek. “You’re nervous. Don’t be nervous. And don’t read his thoughts when he gets here. He hates that. If the answer is no, then it’s no.”

Yennefer leaned into his kiss and sighed. The fireplace crackled. The wind ripped through the branches of the olive tree by the window, and it sent leaves flicking against the window. She turned and pressed her lips softly into his. Her eyes closed and she inhaled his warmth, his scent. 

Her dear witcher. Her Geralt. Finally they were getting the chance to rest together. To build a life. She let out a trembling breath as she pulled away and opened her eyes. She gazed at him fondly.

“This is all your fault, Geralt. I blame you entirely.” 

Geralt grimaced and gave her The Look.

“It is,” she insisted. “If you hadn’t brought that beastly little man into my life, if you hadn’t introduced us, if you hadn’t made him marginally more tolerable by your association with him, I would never have taken him more seriously than I ever should have.”

“Yen.” Geralt leaned towards her, looking patient and understanding. 

“He’s a bastard and I don’t even care,” she protested. “And what is more, I never should have.”

“Yen,” Geralt said again, like he was comforting a cranky child. 

It made her feel like a cranky child and her voice grew louder. “And I don’t! I don’t care! I haven’t. And what’s more, I don’t even care if he comes tonight. If he knocked right now, I don’t know if I’d even answer it, I’d leave him outside to drown, and catch cold, and it would serve him right--”

Her tirade was suddenly muffled by the sound of a bang on the door.

Yennefer and Geralt leapt to their feet, rattling the dishes. They stood, facing each other in the candlelight, the moment hanging in the air. Geralt smiled in that way that said I told you so. Yennefer grinned back at him.

The sorceress tore open the door.

There he was, ragged and sopping wet, dripping water onto her landing. The sight of his face after so long was overwhelming. 

“Hello?” he said, though he said it like a question. “You summoned a bard?” He laughed weakly.

“Well it’s about time. Come in,” Yen said. “You look like a wet alley cat, and you smell like it too.”

Jaskier stepped inside, water dripping onto the rug. He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to have gotten even more blue, if that were possible. They stared at one another for a tense moment. This was normally the moment in which he would either compliment or insult her lavishly. 

But he didn’t. He smiled tentatively and he seemed, well, Yennefer wasn’t sure how he seemed. Apprehensive? Nervous? She began to reach out with her mind out of habit. Geralt preferred for her to read his mind rather than to be forced to speak his, so she’d gotten into the habit.

But she felt Geralt’s urgent hand on the small of her back and she yanked her mind back like she had touched a hot stove. 

Jaskier opened his arms, and with a voice that sounded cheerful and forced, said “Well. Don’t just stand there, rejoice! The famous bard Jaskier graces your humble home.”

“Yes, and you look ridiculous.” Yennefer touched the sad soaking feather drooping from his hat. “I think it’s dead, bard.” She tugged on the top of his boots. “And what the fuck are you doing wearing these in this downpour? Are they rainwater collection devices?”

Jaskier yanked her into an embrace. It was cold and wet and jarring. It also made her heart leap with joy and her eyes prickle with tears. Geralt wrapped his arms around the two of them, and didn’t let them go until he heard Jaskier’s teeth begin to chatter.

Geralt

Sometimes, when Geralt found himself in awkward social situations, he pretended that he was on a hunt. He would gather data with his senses instead of worrying about what he would say next.

This was one of those moments. Instead of letting the uncertain tension in the room seep into him, he looked around and gathered data. 

Geralt sat in his own dining room, at a teak table he had made with his own hands. The table settings had been done by a servant girl called Fiona who came over for a few hours on odd days. She had folded the napkins into birds. They were lined up like little soldiers, ready to absorb the detritus of dinner.

Yen sat to his right. She had on one of those soft gowns that she often wore around the house.  It was a crushed velvet green that made her look like she glowed from within. Whenever she wore it, he had to be careful how he touched her if he wanted to get anything productive done that day. The fabric was warm and flimsy and it drove him insane the way it slid under his fingers. It was a vulnerable, gossamer barrier between his desire and her bare body that felt like it could be removed with just one tug. Whenever she wore it, it was all he could do to keep the wolf in check and his hands to himself.

“I can’t believe you like these old things,” she would sniff. 

But she knew. She loved to provoke him, then trap him between her thighs. He loved that too.

He inhaled, and she smelled as she always did. The scent of lilac and gooseberries had grown to become the scent of home, calming him on contact. Beneath that scent was her beauty potions. She had spent twice as long on her face and hair that morning, though he’d known better than to call attention to it. It was her armor. Her arsenal. It was all in preparation for this; this battle with her fear of being rejected.

That was another thing he wasn’t allowed to speak, but he knew it to be true. Geralt always assumed rejection was imminent, so he was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t receive it. But Yen had more pride than he did. In some ways, she was more vulnerable, though if he said that aloud he’d lose his nuts. He understood though. He looked at her softly, as she faced off with his oldest, dearest friend, her fingers clenching her knees under the table.

Geralt had been trying to avoid really looking at Jaskier, but now he did. He had to gather data, after all.

His gaze settled on Jaskier, and he tried to empty his mind.

The bard had been soaked to the bone, so Yen had offered him a fresh change of dry clothes. It was perfectly logical. But now Jaskier sat directly across from Geralt, wearing the witcher’s clothes. 

The fireplace was directly behind the bard, which was a problem. Geralt’s tunic hung half off one of his shoulders, so the loose fabric was made transparent by the back lighting. The shape of Jaskier’s strong shoulders and the thick pelt he called chest hair was entirely too visible for the witcher’s comfort. The light from behind made his half wet hair look like a bedraggled halo, which, unfortunately, Geralt also found very charming. But most distracting of all was the scent. Jaskier had dried himself, but the subtle scent of fresh rain clung to his skin, mixing with the scent of Geralt. 

It provoked a territorial instinct in the witcher that he was trying to tamp down on. This was a delicate situation, and he didn’t need to add flame to the fire. But it was no use. When he looked at Jaskier in his clothes, a voice within him growled.

Mine. Fucking Mine.

Back in the day, Geralt had never gotten enough of Jaskier to sate him. They’d kissed and groped in the cover of darkness, but things had been so chaotic then. 

Everything then had been about Ciri. About survival. They were on the run from every power hungry bastard on the continent. There had been nothing left for what he wanted. When the dust cleared, he and Yen had made their way back to each other first. They were both focused on Ciri, after all. They had built their bridges. But he hadn’t meant to leave Jaskier behind.

Geralt looked at his friend now, and all he could think about was all the things he had never gotten to do. He’d kissed him. But had he kissed him properly? Tenderly? Like he meant it? Had he even paid attention? And what about all the places on Jaskier’s body that he had yet to touch or see in the beauty of daylight? 

“Don’t you think, Geralt?” Yen asked, voice sounding tense.

Geralt startled. “What, dear?” 

Shit. What had he missed? 

Yen smiled, tight lipped. “Don’t you think this is a lovely area, Geralt? A great place to live? Doesn’t it have a thriving artistic community with plenty of bards and craftsmen and artists around?”

Geralt smiled too. “Yes. Yes. Definitely.” He wanted Jaskier to want to live here, and it seemed like just the thing to say. “Lots of bards.”

But Jaskier looked pained. “Other bards, you say?”

“No.” Geralt blurted out. “No. None. No other bards anywhere.”

Yennefer sighed. There was an awkward pause and he could see the gears turning. She was changing tactics. “How about a tour of the house?”

Again, Jaskier smiled but looked pained. Geralt felt like they were torturing the man, but he wasn’t sure how. He understood Yen’s impulse towards mind reading sometimes. “Yes,” Geralt answered. “A tour.”

“No! No thank you!” Jaskier said, a little too loudly. “I can see it from here!”

Yen and Geralt had already pushed away their plates and begun to stand. They plopped back down again. 

Jaskier coughed and fiddled with his napkin. The little bird had long since unfolded into a shapeless mass, yet his napkin was still clean. Geralt looked at his plate. He and Yen had eaten their entire meals, but Jaskier hadn’t taken a bite.

“What’s the matter?” Geralt leaned forward and instinctively put his hand on the table, reaching towards his friend. Jaskier glanced at it and his face fell.

“I saw the room. When I was changing.”

“Your room?” asked Yen, her voice tight. “You don’t like it.”

Jaskier looked down at his napkin again, as he pinched and twisted it. “I do, it’s lovely. I saw that you put a lithograph up for each of my favorite bawdy houses in each of my favorite cities.” He smiled, and his eyes looked like they were growing wet. “And you put dried buttercups and music sheets.” He finally looked up at them. “It is so thoughtful and kind. You are the best friends anyone could hope to have.”

Yen leaned forward now too. She held Jaskier’s hand until his fingers stopped fluttering. Their eyes met. “Then what is wrong?”

Jaskier looked at Geralt and then back at Yen. “I wish the two of you weren’t so fucking kind. Because that means I must be honest with you.”

“Honest?” Geralt asked. “About what?”

Jaskier slipped his hand free of Yen and sat back in his chair. She returned her hands to her lap, so Geralt reached under the table and laced his fingers together with hers. They were clammy and nervous.

Jaskier looked at the ceiling. “I’m a selfish cunt.” He looked back at them, more confident now. “Alright?”

“Yes,” Yen agreed. “We know that.”

Jaskier continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “I am not worthy of your friendship. Because,” He drew in a slow breath, then released it, “I want more.”

“More?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier swallowed. “Geralt, I have all of these feelings. I tried to deny them. I tried to change them. I don’t want to feel this way.” He was speaking so fast now, Geralt was having trouble keeping up. “But I do. So I am not going to be able to come and stay here just yet, in this beautiful room, not until I can calm this beast in my heart, and can accept the love of your friendship without wanting more. It’s why I avoided your invitations. Instead of answering honestly, I avoided you, and now I must decline your hospitality for the foreseeable future. Because,” he tapped the table a few times, “I am a selfish cunt.”

There was a moment of silence between them, though the fire crackled away noisily.

Yen cleared her throat. “You want more? From who? Which one of us are you talking about? Me, or Geralt?”

Jaskier’s shoulders drooped. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

There was a longer moment of silence. It was a delicate, brittle silence, as they all sat, trying to grasp for their next words. Geralt finally broke the silence.

“Why don’t we take that tour of the house.” He slipped his hands around Yen’s waist. “Let’s show him the bedroom.”

Jaskier squeaked a protest. “Geralt, you weren’t listening, please don’t do this to me--”

But Yennefer was up in a flash, tugging him by the hand. 

Jaskier

Jaskier allowed himself to be pulled along because he didn’t want to fight with Yen. But when he stepped into the bedroom, his heart sank, exactly as he was expecting it to.

It was a lovely room. It reflected the elegance and taste of Yen, but it was unfussy in a way that felt like Geralt. The bed was large enough to accommodate a small army. They must have had it made special so they could be as acrobatic as Yen wanted to be.

Jaskier swallowed down the lump in his throat. They could both be so kind, and yet so cruel. He’d said he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to see where they carried on without him.

“Jaskier.” 

Yen was still holding his hand. He focused on her, and immediately regretted it. He felt vulnerable. His eyes were prickling, his throat constricting. And despite his emotional turmoil, he still felt that old attraction to her.

How could he not?

Look at her.

Those incomparable, violet, doe eyes. The softness of her hands. The shameless grace of her low swooping neckline which, from his higher perspective, revealed most of her lovely breasts. They’d been in his mouth once, on his lips.

He cleared his throat and corrected his wandering gaze. “Yes?”

She stepped close. Too close. He became aware of his quickening pulse. He glanced nervously at Geralt. Geralt sat on the bed, leaning back on his hands. He didn’t seem concerned that the love of his life was a bit too close to his best friend.

Yen cradled his face, forcing him to look at her once more.

“Yes?” he repeated doubtfully, his voice cracking like an adolescent.

Yen pushed up onto her toes and gently tugged him down, just as she pressed her lips to his. They were pliant and petal soft, and before he could think, he moaned and clasped her slight waist, clenching her tight.

Yen, lovely Yen, pressed into his lips with her tongue. There was no mistaking this kiss for anything friendly.

Panic came roaring back, and Jaskier dropped her waist and stumbled backwards, covering his mouth. He was too ashamed to look at Geralt. “Geralt,” he croaked. “No. I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

His back hit the wall. Yen was looking at him like she did sometimes. Like she thought he was a fool, but she was resigned to it. She shook her head as though regretting all of her life choices. “Geralt?” she asked.

Geralt stood up from the bed, almost lazily. He stretched, giving Jaskier a moment to admire him too. He wore a tunic much like the one Jaskier had on. When he stretched, he revealed a sliver of belly. He’d been eating better, and he looked thicker than Jaskier remembered. He looked absolutely divine.

While Jaskier was busy admiring him, the witcher took three long steps towards him. The witcher was so large and broad, but he moved so gracefully that it made Jaskier’s head spin. 

Jaskier tensed. He wasn’t sure why. What would Geralt do to him? He lifted his arms in defeat.

But Geralt was not angry. He did not push him, or anything else Jaskier feared. Instead, the witcher looped his arms around Jaskier’s waist and spun him.

Jaskier felt the room spin and his body drop. Geralt was dipping him. 

He managed to relax and let himself be thrown backwards into Geralt’s arms. Then Geralt leaned down and their foreheads touched, their lips were so close together. 

Jaskier smiled tentatively and touched Geralt’s cheek.

Then, Geralt kissed him, fiery and passionate. It was just like some romance novel. Jaskier let himself go. He sunk into Geralt’s arms and pressed into his kiss. Some part of Jaskier’s mind was vaguely aware that Yen was watching them. 

When Geralt returned him to his feet, Jaskier was dizzy. He was giggling like a schoolgirl, and he was dizzy.

“Do you understand now, bard?” teased Geralt.

Jaskier touched his own lips and looked from Geralt to Yen. “Oh.”

It was all he could say. He was a poet, damnit. A poet.

Oh.

Yen giggled too. She did that so rarely. It was a fucking gorgeous sound. A girlish, carefree sound that she so rarely made. “Moron,” she said, as she threw herself into his arms. 

Jaskier nodded, in a daze, stroking the small of her back and pressing a kiss to her hair. “I think I get it,” he said, his voice rough.

“There are three pillows on the bed, Jaskier,” said Geralt. He pointed at the bed. And yes, it was true. “There are three hooks by the door,” Geralt continued, “for robes and things--” his voice trailed off.

“We made you a room,” said Yen, voice muffled by being pressed into Jaskier’s chest, “just so you could have your own space if you want it. But we want you to live in this one, with us.”

Geralt draped his arms around them, encircling both of them. “You only need to use your room when you want privacy or need a break.” He kissed the top of Yen’s head. Then he kissed Jaskier’s temple.

Jaskier was never speechless. He always had something to say. But he could not quite believe that life would give him this blessing. After everything they had been through. After the pain, and torture, after the imprisonment, the loss.

He was really going to get to have this.

“Well,” Yen asked. “What do you say, bard? Cat got your tongue?”

Jaskier let his head drop onto Geralt’s impossibly round, impossibly solid shoulder.  ‘I accept,” he said. “I accept.”

-----

Jaskier had, of course, had sex with multiple people at once. When he could afford to, or he was on someone else’s dime, he paid for multiple people to attend to him at the brothels. There were also those nights when he had several fans who wanted him after a performance, and weren’t averse to sharing. He loved the attention, that was no secret.

But this.

This was something new.

He had never made love to two people at once, not people that he would lay down his life for. And while he was aware that some people had more than two individuals in their relationships, he supposed it hadn’t occurred to him that Yen and Geralt might be like that, and for him of all people.

He was nervous at first. But when he saw that touching Geralt made Yen smile, and that touching Yen made Geralt’s eyes darken with lust, he relaxed. 

When Geralt and Yen asked him what he wanted, he was in such shock that he fell back into old habits. He grasped Yen’s thighs and ate her out like she was his last meal, though he had never done that with Geralt fucking him from behind. It was unspeakably sexy. It also made him feel important that two people like Geralt and Yen wanted him like that.

They learned how to move together, they touched one another, kissed one another, and rolled around together on the bed big enough for an army.

When they lay in the afterglow, Jaskier asked if he’d died and gone to heaven. It was truly difficult to fathom that he could have both. Choosing anything was the bane of his existence and it seemed too good to be true that it would not be required of him.

Geralt assured him that when Yen began to use his legs to warm her feet, he would change his tune.

“That’s the main reason you’re here, bard,” Geralt had said. “I was tired of being the foot warmer.”

That night, Jaskier fell asleep with a contented sigh on his lips. 

He was with Yen. He was with Geralt. He was home. Home at the house on the sea.

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

Gospel of the Damned I

As I guided my old sedan along the winding roads leading to Villisca, Iowa, the steady hum of the engine was a comforting, familiar sound against the backdrop of my tumultuous thoughts. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the road, shadows that seemed to stretch and reach towards me as if they knew the purpose of my journey.

My name is Evelyn Archer, and I’m a journalist driven by the search for truths buried beneath layers of silence and secrets. My journey has brought me to Villisca, a town cloaked in historical mystery and whispered rumors.

Leaving Chicago had been a relief, a chance to escape the clutter of a life that had become too much to bear. The city, with its relentless noise and ceaseless demands, had started to suffocate me. After the collapse of my last major investigative piece—a story I’d poured my heart into only to see it discredited due to a sketchy source's last-minute retraction—I knew I needed a break, not just from the city, but from myself.

Villisca offered that escape, or so I hoped. It wasn’t just the town's notorious history that drew me but the promise of silence, of solitude, and perhaps a chance to redeem my journalistic career with a story that could be more than just another article. The whispers of a cult operating under a religious community, led by the mysterious Father Malachai, enticed me to peel at the layers of secrets this town held—secrets that perhaps needed someone like me to unravel them.

I could feel every mile pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t quite understand yet, a story that was more than just a chapter in my career—it was a chance to redefine it. As I passed the weathered sign welcoming visitors to Villisca, a shiver crawled up my spine. This town, cloaked in its notorious past, was like a character from one of the many thrillers that lined my bookshelves back home in my loft. Except now, I wasn't just an observer; I was part of its history.

The infamous Axe Murder House was here, a grim tourist magnet that I'd read about but never seen for myself. Apparently, eight people were murdered in their sleep, six of them being children, no less. And of course, the killer was never found. The remnants of this unresolved mystery seemed to seep into the soil of this place, staining it with a palpable darkness. I pulled into Villisca, the small town appeared almost frozen in time.

The Main Street was a quaint lineup of old brick buildings and fading storefronts, each one bearing the weight of sordid history. Despite the serene appearance, there was an underlying tension, as if the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to break the silence.

I parked my car outside a diner that boasted the “Best Pie in Montgomery County,” its windows steamed up from the warmth inside. As I stepped out, the autumnal chill hit me, a stark contrast to the cozy scene inside the diner.

The stares of the few locals scattered along the street felt heavy on my shoulders. They knew I was an outsider, another curiosity-seeker perhaps, drawn by the morbid fascination with their town's dark lore. Clutching my notebook and camera, I hesitated for a moment. This was it—the start of something I couldn't yet define. Was I here as a journalist, a detective, or just another lost soul seeking answers in the wrong places?

Only time will tell…

[magnusmodig]

@clxscdeyes / following (x.)

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐄'𝐒 shores was to remain each day suffocating in the wake of his own absence within the nine realms. his dreams , if they could ever be called that , recalled their sunken faces covered in dirt , blood , grime and ash. then recalled still how hands had clung to his cape , soiling the the fabric as he'd tolled the names of the dead , the lost , and those who had survived. perhaps another all-father might rave , beside himself at the audacity of commoner's dirtied hands and rivers of tears. but all thor had seen then was the grief of his people. cold and dark and heavy. he felt in himself the weight of every loss as though it were his own. ( if he was asgard's molten gold , his cape the same red of asgard's once-proud banners , then thor felt that the dust and dirt to stain his royal hem was fitting . asgard the people wept for their legion dead. it was thor's burden to bear the striking lash of each name he added to it. )

each day was counted in mortal months , weeks , days and hours. and for each sorry , sordid day spent far away from his people thor could only rue the moment they had looked up and found in him their golden child.

he couldn't escape this planet. even as it fell ill all around him he could do nothing to sway the tide of the "nightmare moss'" infestation. still , thor would not rest contented with that. the aevum realm was hardly one of his own , but he had alighted upon it all the same. and so he would toil against the tides of reckoning that consumed the isle beneath the light of the blue moon.

his work had led him first to the archives with his brother. then deep into the decrepit ruins with his flame-haired friend. but thor would not rest with such little known and such little done , and carved out in himself the WILL to continue as exhaustion foxed the edges of his mind. ( he felt them. his people . like shadows lingering just outside his vision . like hands clawing and clinging to his boots / pants / cape — ) he turned a corner on his return to the guild headquarters. behind the trunk of one tree and slumped against the next , the mangled corpse of an asgardian child , befelled by surtur's infernal flames , eyes accusatory and wide open and mouth agape with the whisper of asgard's scorn upon her lips – leering at him. the mighty thor faltered. blinked.

there was no asgardian girl. there was— another.

❝  — ᛒᚬᚴᚴᛁᚱ . ❞ ( damn . ) one foot fell before the other. in a rush of movement he had snapped mossy tendrils from his boot and crouched at her side in an instant. ❝  child, ❞ he called. then , placed a hand upon her shoulder. ( shook it as lightly as he could - aware of a primordial strength within his fingertips that could move mountains . ) ❝  luna. this is no place to rest. not at this time , young one. ❞

[saintmeghanmarkle]

How Fergie found her way back into the fold ... but Harry and Meghan won't by u/Aware-Impression8527

How Fergie found her way back into the fold ... but Harry and Meghan won't Fergie went from deeply embedded in the royal family to languishing in obscurity in America, shilling her books, being interviewed by Oprah and doing humiliating appearances. But she made it back into the royal fold, despite bringing shame upon the family with that whole toe-sucking farrago and that pesky cash-for-access scandal (although they all do that, it seems...)My point is, Fergie found a way home -- she's living rent-free on the Windsor estate with the Queen's corgis at her feet. Her reputation has even remained largely unsullied by Andrew's being a pedophile unpleasantness and her children have retained their titles.It is possible. Or should I say was. And this is where it gets interesting. Fergie had an ally in Andrew, who fought for Sarah and, as the Queen's favorite child, was indulged. But The Queen has gone. The only person who might maybe be willing for Harry and Meghan to be accepted back is Charles. And who is more powerful in the family that the King? The future King.While I truly believe Charles could get past what Harry wrote about Camilla and have them back on British soil, there's just absolutely no way William will put up with it. He could even threaten to walk away -- 'him or me' ... which would leave Harry and Andrew as the next in line. An unthinkable prospect which would surely spell the end of Monarchy.Now that Harry and Meghan have sold every sordid story, there's nothing left to protect. They've played their hand. Perhaps they thought that revealing the names of the 'royal racists' would mean an end to the three-year-long game of 'Guess Who?' and draw a line under the whole thing, paving a way for reconciliation. But, if you'll forgive another gambling analogy, it was their last bargaining chip. The family doesn't want them back and the institution doesn't need them back to protect sensitive information.It's just funny to me that Fergie has out-played H&M, lives in luxury and never has to work again. It's enough to make me think that her public image as a bumbling, inelegant fool might be as as inaccurate as Harry's 'cheeky-chappy' persona turned out to be... post link: https://ift.tt/QcvpuX8 author: Aware-Impression8527 submitted: December 20, 2023 at 02:26PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[chierafied]

Laundry Duty

I wasn't going to write today, but @drosselmeyerwrites gave me an excuse to torture Sesshoumaru. 300 words. On AO3.

Kagome had called it a stomach bug. Sesshoumaru called it hell.  

Bile simmered in the back of his throat. The foul stench burned in his nostrils, crawling into his very lungs. It took all his willpower not to gag. Luckily, he managed. For the last thing they needed right now was more vomit to add to the mix.  

He had thought—with naïveté unfitting his advanced age—that once his progeny had surpassed their initial years and had ceased to require diapers, he'd be free from the abundance of the various fluids their tiny bodies never ceased to produce.  

But alas, he was not so fortunate, for children were the gift that kept on giving. In good ways and the bad. In the worst scenario right out of his nightmares, all three of them would spontaneously start to disgorge their dinner at three in the morning. And wander off in search of their parents, wailing and dripping vomit in their wake.   

In the past, of course, Sesshoumaru would have had a horde of servants to take care of the clean-up. Or Jaken, at the very least. Now, he had to wage the war himself. Kagome had gone to look after the children and had assigned the laundry duty to him. This was why Sesshoumaru found himself glaring blearily at the cheerfully-coloured pyjamas and suffering a grave malodorous assault. He held the stained pieces of clothing gingerly, only touching the cloth with the very tips of his claws as he chucked them into the yawning mouth of the washing machine. The technological advantages brought a modicum of convenience to this sordid task. Still, as he picked up the soiled bedsheets, he thought wistfully about the imp who’d once sworn him his alliance.

He’d rather have Jaken and avoid laundry duty altogether.    

[chim-aera]

pomegranate

I am like a pomegranate. I always have been.

not an apple, not easily accessed, not bright, and lovely. sweet nectar dribbling down your chin, skin broken with one bite.

no, I'm guarded. dark red armor, hiding the intimate depths of my soul, of my body. there is no tender flesh available for you to touch, I am all shining sheaths, all crimson coats.

pull me apart, try to rip through my barriers, I'll crumble, fall apart.

all the while I stain you, dripping red, staining your fingers, your tongue, your hands. saying, pointing, showing, what you did to me.

you did this. you did this. you did this.

no I am not easily accessed.

I've always found a sort of solace with the disregarded things. items, objects, creatures, myths. the monsters and morrows.

the misunderstood.

I am like a pomegranate.

I can be destroyed, yes.

with some force, sink your fangs into me, rip me apart. or, leave me alone.

grow bored when I do not yield immediately, I never do. not all the way. I am far too distrusting for that. toss me to the ground let me roll back to Mother, soil staining the waxy surface, as I am simply lost, and forgotten as another rotten harvest. another fallen fruit.

but I can be opened, I can be seen. it only takes gentleness to get there. patience, and a tender hand.

I use no knives when I peel them, pomegranates, just my bare, calloused, cool hands, pulling gently at the top, at the crown, like the one Hades placed reverently on his goddess's forehead.

it will split in two, glistening like rubies, like blood stains, like poems. glittering like scarlet stars, and one by one will I carefully pull out the little jewels, letting the sugary syrup coat my tongue, relishing in a gift from the gods.

patience.

that's all it takes.

and a want for it.

oranges.

it's always oranges.

perhaps I find some sympathy for them, but I have only found kindred in those bleeding garnet garnishes.

they're known so well for their beauty, yes.

but how many act only with violence, ripping her soft flesh, spilling her blood.

why am I identifying with a fruit?

but I am nevertheless.

oh Kore, Queen, Goddess, why do I find myself echoing your name, your epithets falling from these still lips.

over.

and over.

and over.

how did you do it?

left your cage, found your love? when I have done neither.

but I am far, far from goddess.

I'm not even some moon-eyed maiden, all I am, is some shivering, sordid thing.

or perhaps I am simply tired.

tired of all this.

I'm not angry, no injustice has been done.

but gods, gods I am tired.

Orpheus, if it were me he had turned around for, no wrath would mar my features, I would feel no remorse, if I were to be doomed to return back to king and queen, drawn back to Styx, to Hades, with the sorrows and shades, at least the last thing I see is your face. is knowing I was loved.

memento mei in fabulis.

make a story, perhaps, write me weird, write me well.

I know you will.

perhaps one day the song will flit down here to me among the meadows of morose melancholy.

not even my crown of asphodel could make me forget you.

find me in elysium, perhaps, maybe tarturus, but then again, I have passed judgement already, strangely enough, I judged myself well. the bronze sword fell in my favor.

but that does not matter now.

riddles.

metaphors.

inchor drips from my jaws, through the gaps of my teeth, from behind my eyelids, I try to rub it away but it seeps into my skin staining me murky and ink-ridden.

will I always be this way?

I am nothing if not a romantic.

internally.

philosophically

hopelessly.

run your sword through my heart to check if it is still beating, is it? I couldn't tell?

but still, I'd only smile as I fell to the earth, flick my blood of the blade, let it color the anemone blossoms.

I do not want to be wanted, I want to be sought.

for all of me, whole, whole.

scars, and screaming, softness and songs.

all my madness and melodies and melcholy.

if someone will take all of that, I don't know what I'd do.

I do not seek pleasure, I just want to be loved.

and here I am again, some feral, frazzled cat scratching down walls, clawing and climbing in its own indignation.

I am nothing if not some songbird plucking out its own windpipe.

a walking cacophony of conundrums.

dauntless dualaties at its very finest.

but yes.

pomegranates.

patience and care, perhaps I'll just sit here, waiting, within Lord Hades' chambers.

waiting for someone to bind themself to me, willingly, like his Goddess did with him.

waiting till someone wraps rough or tender hands around my aching vessel, to hold me, to want me.

pull me apart, lower my defenses, peel them back one by one.

you scream and stab me I'll cower or combust, but a gentle stroke or soft soothing and I may fall forward crumbling like petals withering in your fists, but for once will someone catch me?

tear me open to the dawn, I may shrivel in sunlight.

it's been so long.

it's been eternity.

but will you?

I'm waiting.

waiting for that chance, that day. when I'm plucked from the branch I so desperately despise, yet cling to. my prison and asylum all at once.

waiting, until I'm pulled down, seen, and perhaps, then you'll taste me, when I'm out in the open, undoing each piece of armor bit by bit, I'll hand you my dagger, as you lay it on the ground, oh how I wish not to need it.

for someone to try, for someone to fight for me, for someone to give me a reason not to need all this fear.

but for now that is fiction.

and I am nothing if not a dreamer, so let me dream.

let me fall back into my fantasies and frivolities that I adore so dearly.

let me sleep.

let me dream.

a tree in winter, will spring come again?

I've never even blossomed.

that's alright.

I haven't rotted entirely yet either, I have time.

but for now here I am, waiting.

a pomegranate.

all ruby rosiness, all tentative textures.

spit me out, or suck me dry. either. neither. but nevertheless I am here.

and I will not lose hope.

besides.

perhaps, just maybe.

there is someone, up there, who is searching for me, who wants me, and maybe for now that is enough.

[nadiegesabate1990]

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to live in space or what it must be like to land on the Moon, and to step on lunar soil or on Mars?

The song's lyrics are about an astronaut. It's not cool to send people to die in space, but I think it's worth it. It must be cool to live without gravity and my dream is to fly… to levitate. And many idiots say why spend so much money on such an expensive expedition to a planet that has no water, oxygen, or natural resources like Mars? I don't know, I think Mars could become a new Las Vegas: a paradise. Who knows, maybe in the future they'll build houses on Mars, a small outpost in the desert, transform it into a resplendent planet of entertainment. Mars is an uninhabited planet. And build post offices (to receive goods from China), nightclubs, a bank (I don't know if it will be necessary), hotels, saloons and gambling houses. But the world is not cool and we live in the middle of a global economic crisis. And we only set foot on Mars in video games, and they don't accurately describe what it's like to live in space. Here is Nadiege, a player and a passing tourist, bringing the money the gaming industry needs to create more games. But leaving planet Earth is still possible, or getting into the pockets of the space research colleges that are so urgently needed and are struggling. Most of the colleges are nothing more than truly sordid dens. But I believe that in the future, several kilometers from the cities, there will be airports for space shuttles.

And then space stations will be inaugurated, Universal and the decoration will be exuberant, with employees dressed as astronauts, a gigantic garden in space and a three-story platform that will be visible on Earth, and will impose the style that, from then on, will characterize the new world.

The entertainment will be provided by big stars, like… me, the DJ at the party.

With the boom, other Planets, Moons, etc. will appear, with an atmosphere similar to Earth's, but smaller than our current planet and with several stars. The Sun will be the planet of the Sun, guaranteed fun and the beaches will be wonderful.

[graceandpursuit]

Three week old ghost haunts me longer than I knew him,

and while my brain invalidates the pain,

abandoned hope leads to my wit’s end.

Our “situation” cut so short I never learned his mom’s name.

Even so I try to sort out all the why’s

and wonder if he feels some shame.

I’ve penned a dozen lines, so many lies he would mutter,

every excuse a sorry man could use,

but nothing justifies the sordid hunter.

Still I sank even lower when he never crawled back.

Questioned my worth like I’m no better than dirt,

and felt every nerve within me crack.

Then the pain began to shift to something much darker.

Anger ablaze convected through my veins

ensuring the healing only got harder.

Every soiled fragmented piece of me wanted to fight.

Your blatant disrespect, last time I checked,

gave my sore battered heart every right.

God, I hate how long it took for me to come to my senses.

Did therapy every other week,

like spring cleaning all my life’s messes.

Now it’s no longer worth my time to even the score.

If my friends ask me about the past -

well, I don’t believe in ghosts anymore.

~ Crystal | All Time Reverie

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 36

Sorry to have disappeared for so long! I've been really busy with work and things! Hope you enjoy this chapter, even if it's a shorter one.

INTERNATIONAL OUTCRY AS AMERICAN AGENTS TEAR THROUGH PANAMA

GIW agents harass civilians and destroy property in pursuit of elusive siren supervillain Phantom, only for no trace of said villain to be found. Is this yet another sordid chapter in American interference on South American soil? Lois Lane reports.

That was a welcome sight to see in the morning. Jazz Fenton placed her phone face down, and rolled back into bed; it was a bad idea to look at screens for too long while concussed, as much as she wanted to dig into the article lambasting Amity’s least favourite government workers. A small weight lifted off her shoulders. For the moment, her brother and Damian were scot free. Her parents were still hard at work on repairs. They’d spent the whole night in despair along with Bruce Wayne after Skulker had escaped without telling them any info on the missing boys, then the next morning, boom! Back to work. Never let it be said that the Fentons gave up easily. The GIW seemed less likely to bounce back, if the backlash against them was any indication. And Skulker’s ship was at the bottom of the sea.

As for what Danny and Damian would do next, Jazz had no idea. They could be trekking through Brazil on foot, or planning to swim back up north to Amity for all she knew. All she could do was hope Danny got himself a phone soon to call her, and let her know they were alright. Speaking of which…

Jazz got up and moved to the side of her door, where the spare mattress was propped up. She dragged it over the door, sealing it shut. With her room once again soundproofed and secure, she went back to her bed, and tapped a group call contact on her phone. She had texted them the brief details last night, but was too busy comforting her parents to give them the full report.

It answered in two rings. Tucker spoke immediately. “What’s your status?”

Sam picked up right after. “Where are the boys?”

“Everything is fine, for now. They managed to escape Panama before the GIW could catch them. But Skulker got them soon after.”

“Shit. I never even knew! I wasn’t there to hack him. What happened?” Tucker asked in panic.

“Mom and Dad came back last night, told me and Bruce that ‘Phantom’ made off with his little green friend. So at least they’re safe.”

“So that means they’re safe, right?”

Jazz squeezed her hairband. “For the most part. There’s one issue, though. Mom and Bruce saw Danny running at the beach in Panama. They didn’t see him go into the water or anything.” She was always careful not to say anything that would connect Danny with Phantom, just in case there was still somehow someone listening. It was never ‘transform’, it was always ‘go in the water.’ It was never Danny and Damian swimming in the ocean, it was Phantom and his friend, or just ‘they.’ “They don’t suspect anything catastrophic yet, but the situation is sensitive.”

“Well fuck.” The sound of a fist on wood came through Sam’s end.

“Sam, are you training?” Tucker asked. Jazz internally questioned if there was a reason to his surprise.

“Just a bit. Need to be in tip top shape.” Another series of punches. “You got a problem with that, Tuck?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

Jazz pursed her lips. “How are you guys feeling, outside of paranoid anxiety and crushing fear?”

“Like I want to cave someone’s face in right now.”

“I’ve got some good news!” Keyboard clacking followed his announcement, and a text from him appeared on their group chat. It was an internal order obviously gained via Tucker’s illicit means, directing operatives to pack up and hit the seas for Phantom. “The Gankers in Wetwipes are screwing off in the next couple weeks. That means less property damage. Woo!”

“But more people chasing Phantom, Tuck.” Sam let out a guttural growl as she kicked something, by the sound of it. “They’ll be licking their wounds for a while with his GTA stunt in Panama, but for how long?”

For how long indeed. If they were as determined as they ever were, probably not long at all. “What’s the status at Fentonworks?”

“All clear for now. I already gained access to the system aaages ago, back when we needed to disable the detection systems for Danny.” A few keys clicked in the background. “Still nothing. I have a program to alert me and Sam when a certain someone shows up.”

“And then what?”

“Hopefully, blast him to fucking bits with the house defenses.”

“There’s also plan B, Jazz, but we’ll save that for later,” Sam added. “How are you feeling?”

Jazz sighed. The last few days have been nothing but anxiety, uncertainty and stress. Slowly, she breathed in again, and her sigh became a calming exhale. “Honestly? Relieved. The future is uncertain, and people are naturally inclined to dislike uncertainty, but I have faith in Danny. He’s one of the strongest little brothers a woman could hope for.”

She just needed to have faith.

Damian chewed a piece of Sargassum. The stars coated the night sky once more in a mesmerising dome, while Danny laid beside him, fins flicking lazily, as he retold myths. Currently Danny was going over Herakles, who was brought to the teet of Hera to suckle, only for the baby Herakles to nibble too hard, causing the goddess’ milk to spill out into the stars, forming the Milky Way.

“Incidentally, galaxias literally means milky! Can you believe it?” Danny concluded.

The whale pod was fast asleep at this moment, floating near the surface of the ocean. Danny’s body was already mostly dried out, scales replaced by pink skin. The older boy tipped his foot into the water, which morphed it into a fin, before splashing the water onto Damian’s body.

As much as Damian wished to be able to continue swimming, he was still in recovery, and he and Danny had not finished gathering supplies yet. Instead, he laid his head on the mother whale’s body and on Danny’s, and listened to another story.

“This isn’t about any constellations, but here’s the hillaarrious misunderstanding for why some Greeks thought the god Pan was dead…”

Damian fell asleep to the rhythm in Danny’s chest.

He woke up feeling better than ever, and the whale calves seemed to feel the same. As soon as he rose, a group of them with Dorothea at the helm ambushed him. Dorothea bumped her nose onto him, and Damian instinctively grasped her fins to hold on, while she dashed away from her friends. Three calves followed Dorothea’s tail, while another two flanked her left side.

The two from the side dove for Damian, aiming to knock him off Dorothea’s back, but she swerved upward and dodged their advance. So the game was to claim Damian as their rider. He could get behind this. Dorothea’s friends approached from the rear. Damian secured his position atop her back, and scanned his surroundings, which were mostly featureless sands and dozens of whales. He clicked a command, then nudged her in the downwards direction. Almost by telepathy, Dorothea angled downwards underneath the belly of one of the adult pod members. The three chasers followed closely.

“Giddy up, Dorothy! We can still outswim them!” He called out to his friend. However, his glee was cut short by the reappearance of the two flankers. One seemed like a young male, with three spots on his head. Damian dubbed him Cerberus. The other had a white patch on its fin. Damian called it Todd.

Cerberus went low, while Todd went high, brushing against the underbelly of the adult they were swimming under. With Damian holding on tight, Dorothy dashed forward. She and Damian aimed to swim up the side of the adult and lose their tails (curse you Richard and your infectious disease). However, the three chasers from the back had returned. A smaller runt rammed Damian by the side. It was not painful, just startling. Damian yelped at his new captor and the current winner. “Be careful, you dolt! And start swimming!”

Runt clicked an answer back, and the chase was on. Damian took the helm at Runt’s back, and chirped a challenge back to the other calves, who crooned back with renewed vigour. Runt wasn’t as big or strong as her friends, but she was small, and that made her a more difficult target, as well as granting her greater nimbleness in the water. Try as her pod mates might, they were unable to catch her. Runt twisted and zig-zagged through the water, and around the bodies of the adults. Dorothea managed to glance by Damian’s sail, but she had aimed too high and left Damian firmly seated on his current noble steed.

As enemy forces closed in on them, he had to wonder what the victory condition had to be for this game, and if there weren’t, how he could make one decisively. His gaze turned upward.

“We need altitude, Runt. On the double!” He commanded. Damian ducked under another capture attempt by Cerberus, then jerked Runt to the side as Todd dove for another attempt. Runt sped toward the surface with accelerating pace amidst the growing resistance. In a rush of motion, the pair broke the surface and launched into the air, almost six whole feet up. Runt sang a triumphant tune. She blasted water out of her blowhole, which happened to be right underneath Damian’s face, but Damian couldn’t help but laugh even as he was pelted by high-pressure water. His stomach lurched and his heart jittered with the thrill of free-fall, celebrated with a pump of the fist.

He and Runt plummeted back to the deep blue sea with a magnificent splash, right before the whale calves surrounded them with playful nuzzles.

A click interrupted their celebration. Behind the shifting bodies of the whale calves, a grinning Danny floated, camera in hand. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Damian glared with dignity. He did not pout. “I was getting in my recommended hours of physical therapy. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. And it wasn’t just because you wanted to play with the whales again?”

“It was training.” Damian put his hands to his hips. “I am learning how to be a whale whisperer and trainer, for any future encounters where that skillset might be useful.”

“Well…” Danny rolled his shoulders back and grinned. “Is the budding whale trainer ready for a lunch break?” The older boy offered a helping of brown kelp. “Today our chef has prepared a special three-course dinner comprising of kelp, kelp, and a mystery desert for later!”

“It is kelp, is it not?”

“You betcha!”

Within the clean white walls of a private jet, a man picks up a glass of champagne. Poor Jasmine, all alone in Fentonworks, her parents having gone off gallivanting across the waves once more. Poor Jasmine indeed. Well, having set affairs in order back at home, Vlad Masters was finally coming to check in on his dear, dear goddaughter.

“How long until we reach Amity, pilot?”

“Just another hour, sir. Hang in tight.”

“Excellent.”

And if he completed a few errands around Amity Park in the meantime, who could blame him?