#source: my wretched brain

[gaylittlewizardcat]

Mistoffelees: The “weird little girl” to “strange little man” pipeline is real and it happened to me

[heian-era-housewife]

Sex, Smut, & Scuttlebutt

Lately I've seen a growing number of virgins, "new-cummers", and even seasoned sex vets voicing their concerns or frustrations with the unrealistic portrayal of sex within smut. Adult fictions are so fun to read and write and even more fun to act out in real life (with a trusted partner), but they are fiction. Quite often exaggeratedly so and in no way representative of what really goes on behind closed doors, or open (you do you babes).

Nevertheless these concerns and frustrations are real, they are valid, and they deserve to be acknowledged. And so, without further ado, I present to you the very real, very raw, and sometimes very unsexy side of sex.

(Though tbh nothing Ryomen Sukuna does could ever be categorized as 'unsexy')

Love to you all, no matter your experience 😘

Pairings | Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Higuruma, Toji, and of course Sukuna 💕

Content | mdni, smut, fem!reader x jjk men, piv, oral (both f-to-m and vice versa), pubes, blood, sex on period, first time, Toji eats a worm. It's fine. Don't worry about it.

Word Count | 3.3k

Gojo:

White Hair...Everywhere

You've been ignoring it for a while now. Well...trying to anyway. The faint tickle on the back of your tongue has grown into a sharp pinprick that jabs at your throat with each bob of your head. It's uncomfortable, it's distracting, and worst of all it is threatening to trigger your gag reflex.

Gojo gasps and whimpers, long fingers running through your hair, pulling you toward him as he edges closer to his climax. It's all you can do to focus on the task at hand when his sudden thrusts render the job impossible. You gag and sputter against the source of your irritation, eyes streaming as you pull away from his hungry cock. 

Confusion and poorly concealed dissapointment in his words of longing barely register as you wretch, two of your own fingers stuffed to the back of your throat. 

You turn to meet his eyes with yours still streaming as you reveal the cause for disruption. With your middle and index finger you pull a long, coiled, pure white hair from deep within your throat. 

"I think this belongs to you," you tease, wiping drool from your chin and flicking the stray pube his direction.

"Oof. My bad," he squirms, one hand sheepishly rubbing against his undercut. 

"Shall we resume?" You offer with a playful smile, making a show of patting away his snowy bristles before taking his twitching length back into your mouth.

"Phewww!" He whistled. "I thought for a second sexy time was over!"

"It wiw be ith you don' shu-up," you mocked, mouth full and voice muffled. You reached a hand around to give one of his ass cheeks an impish squeaze for good measure. Gojo laughed playfully before falling back into a steady rythm of whines and whimpers.

Geto:

Welcome to the Jungle

Unwaivering confidence was one of the things you loved so much about Suguru Geto. On a scale of 1-10 his sex appeal was an 11 and you were about to find out for yourself exactly why he was so damn self-assured.

You, on the other hand, couldn't help but obsess over all your flaws and imperfections. Your outfits, those stretch marks, and was that =sniff, sniff= body odor?? 

But this was not the time to get lost in insecurity because you were perched pretty as a peach on his apartment sofa while Suguru stood, hastening to undo his belt, never once relinquishing that calm and cocky smile.

You gazed at him loftily, cheeks growing flushed, heart pounding in your ears. Your groin ached with longing as he stripped down to plain black boxer briefs and reached forward to help you down to bra and panties. Nerves and excitement churned in your core creating a volitile compound that set your heart ablaze. It was all too good to be real.

Finally, he guided your hands toward his own hips, placing them on the hem of his boxers, inviting you to remove his final garment.

Your brain buzzed with electric anticipation as you pulled downward, revealing that which, until this moment, you had only imagined. 

And there it was. 

And there you were.

Your buzzing brain cutting to standby as static filled your senses and every decision you'd ever made leading to this exact point in time sent you into a hurling spiral of doubt and regret.

Because Geto had shaved.

And you had not. 

Not now...not ever. Frankly, it hadn't even occured to you before. 

Insecurities came flooding in causing you to lose yourself entirely until the gentle touch of his strong hand on your pantyline dragged you forcefully back to your grim reality.

"NO!" You shrieked, pulling frantically from his reach. 

"Oh! Have I hurt you?" He asked with concern as you wished with every fibre of your being for a quick and painless death. 

"It's just...you're so pretty," you breathed, lip almost trembling as you spoke.

"I'm glad you think so," he said, cocky little smile returning to his perfect playboy face.

"And I'm...well..." you slipped off your own panties awkwardly, revealing a lush and uncut jungle, knowing you were already past the point of no return.

"You're.....?" Suguru prompted.

"I'm...you know...this!" You gestured to your unkempt garden.

"You're...female?" He finished, confused.

"NO!" He was missing the point. "I'm a gross unshaven mess! And you're...what? The centerfold of next month's Playgirl?"

Geto laughed, much louder than you expected, snorting as he did so. "That's what you're worried about??"

"That and a million other things...yeah!" You sulked, tears brimming your lashes as you slumped, defeated against the sofa.

"Come here," he said, pulling you close, forgetting entirely about his unclothed state. "I think you're sexy just the way you are. And, if I'm being honest, shaving is a real pain in the ass anyway."

Giggling to yourself, you watched as his impressive length grew soft and diminished as his arousal shifted to concern for you. 

"Hey!" He objected, throwing a pillow over his lap. "He was just worried about you, give him a minute," he teased.

Both of you laughed as you snuggled on the couch together, sharing doubts and insecurities, reassuring one another, and settling in for a long night. One full of love making that was sure to be genuine, sometimes awkward, but far better than any magazine.

Nanami:

Corporate Cock Block

Nanami was pent up. Not only had he been called on a particularly large number of missions this week, he'd been forced into overtime nearly every day. Now that he was home, he was desperately looking forward to nothing more than dissolving in your arms and seeing where the night might take you both.

Needless to say, he was more than thrilled when you suggested skipping dinner and going straight for dessert. That's right. You were pretty pent up yourself. And who was he to deny his pretty and incredibly patient wife what she needed?

"Thank you-hah-for being so-mhh-understanding this-hahhh-week", he breathed through passionate kisses, slipping off his suspenders and tossing his goggles to the side.

Movements punctuated by more steamy kisses, you helped him take off his tie and belt while he worked his fingers up and under your shirt to skillfully unsnap your bra.

He backed you down the hall and together you fell onto the bed, both panting in excitement as clothing fell hastily to the floor.

Just then, the phone rang. His phone. Illuminated harshly against the evening's fading light revealing none other than Satoru Gojo as the caller. Nanami went rigid.

"Hun," you said softly, "it's okay if you need to-"

"No." He asserted, cutting you off. "He's had enough of my time. I'm off the clock and I'm spending this evening with my wife."

The seriousness in his tone was all you needed to know it was case closed, so as he let it go to voicemail, the two of you resumed your game of lips and hands.

Time passed, Nanami was absolutely aching for you, and you were practically trembling in anticipation. As he lined himself up, you closed your eyes ready to melt at the feeling of him entering your throbbing core. And that's when it happened. Again. The name "Satoru Gojo" shone through the darkness as Nanami's phone lit up your room.

"I'm going to kill him," Nanami said calmly, head hanging in frustration as he imagined all the ways he could cleave his obnoxious coworker in a perfect 7:3 ratio.

"Kento..." you whispered, bringing him back to reality. "I really don't mind if you need to-"

"Absolutely not! This is our time. You and me."

"But what if he needs-"

"There is nothing he could need from me that is more important than what's right in front of me," voice dripping with sincerity.

"I love you, Ken."

"I love you too. Truly," he replied. "Shall we?"

Picking up where you left off, he gave himself a few quick strokes before plunging deep into your core. Tension and relief unraveling as he worked his strong hips passionately between your shaking legs.

***

As the love making continued, a new tension was building within both of you and Nanami could feel himself reaching his climax, breaths coming sharp and shallow as he felt his nearing release.

"Im so close," He breathed.

"Me too, baby," you gasped.

And then...

=RINGGGGGG=

Nanami cracked.

Snapping up his phone while pounding the ever-loving life out of you, you heard his voice loud and hostile as he snarled into the speaker.

"Satoru Gojo, so help me God I have half a mind to cut you down where you stand. Do you know how long I've waited to FUCK my WIFE?! How many nights this week I had to give up SEX with HER just to follow your sorry ass around chasing curses and cleaning up the FILTH of this city?! I was about to give her one SPECIAL GRADE, MIND-BLOWING ORGASM before you-" he stopped thrusting, blood draining from his face, feral sneer dropping into a hollowed out look of utter humilation.

"Principal Yaga I- of course, sir, I'm so sorry...Yes..yes..right away. I understand. Again, I'm so- no of course not. I appreciate your discretion...I'll see you soon...bye."

Your eyes widened in horror as you listened to his conversation, unsure which end was worse.

"I..uh...I have to go. I'm needed at the school," he muttered sheepishly, unable to meet your shocked gaze.

"Yeah, I gathered that," you said with a nervous laugh.

You helped him get dressed, giving him a tight hug and wiping the beading sweat off his brow as he stumbled back out the door.

"Kento!" You called as he headed in the direction of the school. He turned to look at you, defeat written in his tired features. "Come home safe, okay?"

"Of course, love," he rasped, weakly.

"You still owe me that 'special grade, mind-blowing orgasm'," you teased with a wink.

Shaking his head, you heard him laugh as he hurried toward his next mission.

Higuruma:

Erection Overruled!

Hiromi's long week has finally drawn to an end and as your tired and more-than-likely dishevelled man makes his way home to slump into his favorite chair and fall asleep, you want to make sure he gets to finish the week out properly. You've spent the afternoon hard at work yourself, cleaning up, picking just the right music, and slinking in to that silky little black robe you know he loves slipping you out of.

The mood is set, candles are lit, and as if on cue Higuruma stumbles in through the front door, dropping his briefcase, and sagging languidly into his favorite chair. You approach from behind, running fingers through his dark and unkempt hair, tipping his head back with a provocative "Welcome home," allowing him to savor the view.

Experience tells him there's not a thing beneath that robe and his eyes grow wide and hungry as he scrambles to his knees, facing backward in his chair to take you in. He burries his nose against you as he presses passionate kisses to your collarbones, moving to nip at your neck, trailing his tongue upward and landing just below your earlobe before whispering , "I've waited all week for this."

One very steamy makeout session later, you find yourselves in the bedroom, working quickly to remove each other's clothing, air thick with ravenous longing. But as you slip him out of his trousers taking his not even half-hard cock into your loving hands, things start to feel a bit off.

Nothing a few good strokes can't fix, you think to yourself, stealing a downward glance at his would-be errection-  flaccid, but hopeful.

~

Some time later there's still little change in terms of rigidity and you notice the exhaustion building behind his determined features. Knowing his pride is at stake, you start to wonder if it might just be best to let your tired man rest and resume love making another time. Opting for a mix of tact and humor, you make the judgement call.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I move to postpone today's proceedings until the defendant can get some well-deserved and very much needed rest."

Hiromi's eyes snap open. "Objection!" He barks automatically, surprising himself.

"Overruled!" You reply, tapping his tip once against his tummy as though holding a gavel. 

A moment of silence as you stare at each other seriosuly and then...

"PFFFTTT!" You both burst out laughing at the ridiculous scene. He pulls you in for more kisses and you lay together wiping tears from your eyes as the laughter continues. 

Turning on his side he offers, "Motion to reconvene tomorrow morning?"

"Motion granted!"

More laughter. A heavy sigh and then, "Thanks for understanding," he says.

"Impartiality is my job, afterall," you continue the act. 

Pulling your head to his chest he scruffles your hair until you fight him off, giggling. 

This isn't the first and probably won't be the last time your romantic pursuits as a couple are thwarted by exhaustion, but you know that with a little patience and a good night's sleep he'll be a different man come morning, when your courtship is back in session.

Choso:

Shark Week 

Choso's not just new to sex. He's new to life itself. Loving him brings you the unique opportunity of experiencing the world for the very first time through his eyes. 

The eldest of his brothers, he's already learned so much, but he still relies on you to guide him through his many firsts as both a lover and a mentor for all of life's unexpected moments- the good, the bad, and the painfully awkward. 

That is why, when you hear a sharp, panicked little gasp as he pulls out of you, dick still twitching from his orgasm just moments before, you suspect you are in for another brand new encounter.

"What's a'matter Cho?"

"Uhm..." He swallows hard, eyes trained downward. "It's...it's not there."

"What's not there?" You question, sitting up against your elbows trying to glimpse whatever it is he's staring at.

"The condom," He says weakly, mouth going dry. "It's just gone!"

"Ohh!" You reach a knowing hand between your legs. "It probably just came off inside me."

"Is that bad?!" He asks, voice thick with worry.

"Not necessarily. You can probably just pull it out if it's right there."

He slides two hesitant fingers over your entrance, feeling for the rubbery traitor that's caused him such distress. 

"Oh! I found it!" He sighs, relieved, pulling it gently from your core.

"See? Nothing to worry abou-"

"OH NO!" He cries, forcing you to sit up in alarm.

"What's wrong? Is it ripped?"

"You're bleeding! There's-" He looks as though he might pass out. "There's so much!"

"What?! I-" Realzation hits you as he holds up the stretched out condom, slick with glossy crimson. Feeling between your legs, you pull your hand away, stringy and viscous from a mix of blood and fresh arousal. 

"Oh Cho I'm sorry. I think I started my-"

"I can't believe I hurt you! I thought I was being gentle! Maybe it's my cursed technique?? No...that can't-" 

"Cho I-"

"I can fix it! Hang on let me just-"

"Choso!" He pauses his string of frantic babble to look at you. Deep lines etched across his troubled face. "Cho, I think I just started my period," You say, reaching your other hand to comfort your worried man.

"Oh. You mean 'shark week'?"

You laugh as he recalls the nickname you taught him for that notorious time of the month. "Yes hun, shark week."

"Was it...because of me?" He asks, eyes brimming with shame and guilt.

"No, my love!" You giggle at his innocence. "Just a coincidence. I'm sorry I scared you!"

A wave of relief washed over him as he clutched his chest, watching you get up and head toward the bathroom. 

"I thought maybe I broke you somehow..."

"I know, sweet boy," You called from the hall. "You did nothing wrong. But when I come back we're going to cuddle like there's no tomorrow!"

"That....sounds nice" he said with a sigh, collapsing backward on the bed, brain tired and foggy from the day's latest lesson. 

"Wait!" He called, suddenly excited. "Does this mean chocolate ice cream and movie night??"

"You really are a quick study!" You praise.

Running to grab the ice cream he calls, "I think I can get used to shark week!"

Toji:

Three's a Crowd

Toji is a lone wolf. An elusive rogue agent. He holds everyone at arm's distance, including you. That is...until recently, anyway.

What started as casual hookups in seedy bars and late-night love hotels, hell even the back of a cab once (actually maybe twice...you were rather drunk), has turned into pseudo dates and sober conversation. To be honest, you've fallen pretty hard for your man of mystery and the last thing you want to do is scare him off now. That's why, when he finally invites you to his place for the first time, you're determined not to blow it.

"It's not much, but it's home." He says, leading you through the front door of a shabby back-alley apartment. Despite his somewhat delinquent nature, his apartment is well-kept and the made-up bed you spot through an open door near the back looks far more inviting than the sleazy moth-eaten matresses and dive bar sofas where you've been spending your less-than-romantic moments.

Grabbing his hand, you practically drag him back there, excited to see where he lays his head at night, smell the cologne on his sheets. He stumbles behind, a goofy yet seductive grin stretching the scar on the corner of his lips that you're just dying to taste.

As you step into the darkened bedroom, a small sound grabs your attention. Atop the dresser something is breathing- sputtering. You pause, trying to get a look at the noise's source, realizing Toji must have a pet. Your heart skips as you imagine this macho miscreant returning home to a small, soft animal for whom he shares a rare bit of affection. Fucking adorable.

The creature, appearing only as a shapeless mound at first (is it a cat?) turns to look at you. And that's when you freeze. Because there in his room, peering at you through swollen, squinted eyes, frothy drool dribbling down its pudgy face, is a gigantic....worm???

"Toji!" You gasp, turning back to hide behind the muscular arm you're now grasping for dear life. "What the hell is that thing?!"

"Oh." He says curiously, "You can see it?"

"OF COURSE I CAN SEE IT, WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! THING'S FUCKIN' HUGE!"

"Heh," he chuckles, amused. "It won't hurt ya. C'mere."

Without even another glance at the demonic creature, Toji pushes you against the bed, bringing his large frame down over you, rutting his hips as he feasts hungrily on your neck. You want to lose yourself in the throes of his passion, you really do. But all you can think about is the thing on the dresser. Turning under the weight of Toji's advances to see if it's still there, you find yourself making direct eye contact with the hideous overgrown catarpillar.

You can't believe he's not distracted. Can't believe he hasn't said a single word about the little drooling monster. And as Toji makes quick work of undressing while he hovers over you, you find yourself unable to contain your inner thoughts.

"Toji...it's so...long!" You say, eyeing the thing warily.

"Mm...I know, Doll," he agrees.

"I mean like...it's gigantic!" You mewl covering your eyes in disgust.

"Hah...so I've heard," he admits, slipping off your panties from beneath your skirt.

"And it...I don't know...it looks hungry. Like...it's about to tear me apart..."

"If that's what you want, love," he growls with a forward thrust.

"Seriously, Toji, I don't know if I can do this! It's just so gross!"

"...Gross?" He looks like he's been punched in the gut.

"Yeah! Gross and purple!"

"Purple?!" Pulling out, he stares down at his cock. "Fuck you mean, purple?!" Then, following your gaze he says, "You're not still on about that damn worm, are you??"

"What did you think I was talking about?!"

"Look, if it bothers you that much, I'll get rid of it." Without another word, he gets up from the bed, crosses the room to the dresser, takes the creature in his hands before crunching it down into a tiny ball and swallowing it whole.

"Now are we gonna get freaky or what?" He huffs.

Oh, we are wayyyy past freaky, you think to yourself.

Who the hell was this mysterious man of yours? You're left with more questions than answers. But despite the horror you just witnessed one thing has you smiling...arm's distance or not, you doubt very seriously anything you do could scare him off.

Sukuna:

Thousand-Year-Old Virgin

Sukuna is a hardened, battle-ready, godlike being of prowess and prestige, decorated by time itself. Stranger to no man and no challenge, his many achievements transcend the millenia. He has seen and done things even those with rich and deeply fulfilled lives will never experience.

Let's face it, he's a thousand fucking years old. So that's why, when he mumbled something under his breath, something you thought could only be some type of strange joke, you were too stunned to laugh. And the fact that you didn't is the only reason you're still alive. That, and he's fallen rather profoundly in love with you, but he won't be admitting to that any time soon.

So when he pulls away from your lips to stare sheepishly at his bare feet criss-crossed in front of him before uttering the words you're sure you must have heard wrong, you ask him to please repeat himself.

"I've never done this before..." he gruffs, crossing both sets of arms and averting his gaze to the side with a nose-crinkling sneer.

"Done...what?" You ask, innocently.

"This! All of this!" He barks, waving his arms in frustration.

Your brain is working overtime just to read between the lines. He's acting like it's obvious, but you can't understand which "this" he's referring to.

"I don't get what-"

"SEX OKAY!" He gruffs bitterly. "I've never had sex!"

You just stare. Lips parted slightly as your jaw hangs limp, still unsure you've heard him correctly.

"And would you stop looking at me like that??" He scowls.

"'Kuna, I...I don't know what to say."

"Yeah, well...neither do I," he admits, still avoiding your gaze.

"It's just that you're...a thousand years old...I guess I just figured in that time you would have-"

"I didn't get to where I am by running around like some dog in heat," he retorts. "I spent my time getting stronger, strategizing, honing my cursed technique. Then I was sealed away for a few hundred years. When the hell would I have-"

"I never thought of it like that. But I figured Heian Era and all, the 'King of Curses' must have had concubines, right?"

"Yeah? So? I had a bunch of that old-timey shit!" He spouted. You had to stifle a laugh this time. "Doesn't mean I cared. I was...you know...a little busy conquerring the world?"

It was beginning to sink in. The King of Curses, God of the Heian Era, the Great Ryomen Sukuna sat on a shelf like a minted doll for a thousand years, completely untouched, and you- little modern nobody you- were about to take his "v-card". You felt giddy.

"'Kuna," You began, reaching out to take his face in your hands, compelling him to look at you. He hissed as you did so. "Ryomen. We don't have to do this."

"No, I want-"

"If you really want to, that's fine. Just know that it's going to be messy. Probably a little awkward. Maybe a lot awkward! Heck, I don't even know what to do about the extra set of limbs and...appendages," You laughed, giving his thigh a squeaze. He rolled his eyes. You continued earnestly, "I just want you to know it's okay not to know it all- not to get everything perfect. That's where the trust comes in...and where the memories are made."

He heaved a deep sigh, turning away again as he became lost in thought.

"Hey, Ryo?"

"What, brat?"

"Thanks for waiting for me," you wink.

"Don't flatter yourself," he grumps, a rougey glow tingeing his cheeks.

"Of course not," you smile. Then, eyeing his extra arms you continue. "So I just have one question..."

"Speak."

"Will we need one condom, or two?"

Thank you so much for reading! Likes and reblogs always appreciated, but never expected.

MDNI banner credit to @cafekitsune

Special thanks to @heian-era-househusband for always listening to my stories and for being my trusted partner 💕

[blueberry-puffin]

no denying how repeatedly linked harrow and mercymorn are (tricky & wretched of john to entrust harrow to the person who also had a nun in their equation, and tag ianthe onto someone connected to franticide) but ortus’s declaration towards the end of the book applies more to mercymorn than to harrow — who do we blame when the one we lost is both the victim and the killer? where does that hate go, can we really stomach it? these words a bullet that grazed but ultimately missed harrow, because she could never allow herself to hate gideon again. so she hates the person hating whom is second nature, self blame as familiar as breathing. but mercymorn had resisted leading that emotion to its source, and she lived beside this grief's river mouth for 10k years, and she held that emotion close, but slightly to the side.

mercymorn, shrill, critical, unlikeable pink haired mercymorn rattles my brain because female rage can sometimes work like a bargain. scraps and empties, bruses and falsehoods, anything to placate, to pacify, to pin that rage in place for a little while longer. was there really no other way? was our mission truly worth it? did you love cristabel?

and there was another way, and the mission was not worth it. and god never liked cristabel. the second time she died, mercymorn was there to pick up the pieces, but the first time god left her body and soul alone, bloody and shattered on the cold floor. did that mercymorn, - not mercymorn the first, but the first mercymorn - find cristabel? did she go into that room where he'd left her because she checked for her everywhere? did she go on to die herself for john with ignorance or radical acceptance?

the unloveable mercymorn dooming all the nine planets because she was an atheist in love with a nun; someone who loved god well enough to die for him twice, and did not love mercymorn well enough to live for her once.

and god did not even like her.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Okay but given that crows are ready to Throw Down with eagles at the slightest opportunity, I have to know- 1) are there crows in the Seireitei and 2) how much of their Daily Enrichment is causing problems for the 11th Division on purpose?

There absolutely are crows and jays and even ravens in the Seireitei and very nearly all of their daily enrichment is causing some level of mayhem at every division of the Gotei-13,

...except the 11th.

See, Zaraki has the distinct advantage over most eagles in that he is also a human, with a canny eye for social dynamics, and he's worked out a deal with the local corvids. He noticed the pair of ravens on the roof of the 11th the first afternoon he was there, made a note of them, carefully folded it up, and put it in his mental back pocket for later.

The ravens didn't actually notice him that much on the first day because there was an entire bisected corpse of the former Kenpachi and the medics were delayed in retrieving it for some reason so that meant lungs and liver and a spleen and gallbladder and a special course of freshly exposed brains before an eyeball each for dessert while some poor wretch from the 4th completely failed to chase them off with a broom. They did very much notice him in the middle of the afternoon on the second day, when he returned from the early morning captain's meeting they had slept through, on account of yesterday's food coma. -But even still sluggish with guts full of guts, they still sat up and took notice of a man wearing, loud, shiny and extremely steal-able BELLS.

A-ho, A-ho! Called the first raven from the middle boughs of the pine in the courtyard as the new Kenpachi sat down on the porch that surrounded the small and rather pathetic little garden, sighing deeply. What's this that jingle-jangles in like a jester and sighs and settles like a corpse at the bottom of a lake?

A great way for your mate to lose her beak if she gets any closer. He growled back, and the raven on the roof behind him startled, flapping away out of his blade's reach.

A-joke! A-joke! Don't hiss and rattle so! She huffed, joining her wife on the pine and ruffling her feathers.

It might be amusing sport on another day, but I have no humor to speak of. He clattered, turning his patch-covered eye to them in apology. I have suffered a bereavement.

A-no! A-no! Who is it who has died? Asked the first raven.

One who granted me the knowledge of letters, and further so, the wisdom of tales- in telling, and moreso in listening. Thrice blessed by her I was, and only now do I learn of her demise, fifty years too late. He explained, rubbing his temples and shaking his head, trying to soothe himself.

A-woe! A-woe! cooed the second raven in agreement. Any who teaches is a living saint, and their passing the most terrible loss.

A-woe, A-woe! the first raven cooed in sympathy. She didn't leave clutch or wife for you to look after?

She had a husband, but I do not know his name, and he is apparently deceased as well. The Kenpachi frowned. Her brother yet lives- he is my colleague even, and how I learned of this. A wretched way to meet someone she spoke so highly of- but you are right, he needs looking after. He is... unwell, and was never thriving to begin with, but the same sort of saint of words as she, and much braver than his body should allow. Of course, I will look after him for her, as is right.

A-woe, A-woe- A wretched meeting but the right and honorable thing to do. Nodded the second raven.

A-woe, A-woe, but this is not the source of your miserable sighing? asked the first. No, his care does not worry me- The Kenpachi shook his head, folding a leg up and resting his elbow on it and his cheek on his hand in turn. It's that I am left to wonder- If I had known sooner, or even before this catastrophe, if there was something I might have done. But you are interesting company so I will divert myself from useless morose- what do you call yourselves, carrion queens that live beneath my roof?

I am Mun-Yin! Declared the second raven, that spoke only in statements.

If she is Mun-Yin, might I then be Hau-Yin? Asked the first, who spoke only in questions.

You might. The Kenpachi nodded.

A-so? A-so? Who might you be that wears the shredded rags of a dead man like a pauper, but speaks with the grace of a prince? Hau-Yin asked, hopping from the pine to a closer boulder, cocking her head at him.

A-ho! A-ho! It may be your house that supports our nest, but we live above your roof, not under it! Mun-Yin laughed, hopping closer as well.

I am Zaraki Kenpachi, Captain of the 11th division! He smirked at the birds who rolled their eyes at him.

A-no! A-no! Pouted Mun-Yin We didn't ask for your NAME!

A-no! A-no! Sulked Hau-Yin Who ARE you?

The Kenpachi regarded them for a moment, then lifted his head from his hand and leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Would you like to know a secret?

A-yo! A-yo! We love a secret! Said Mun-Yin, bouncing in excitement.

A-yo! A-yo! Do we not spend all day learning all the secrets of the city? Giggled Hau-Yin.

Then I will offer you a trade- The Kenpachi grinned, beckoning then closer. -I'll tell you who I am if you promise to leave my hair-bells alone.

Hmmm... the ravens considered, then shook their heads.

A-low, A-low, those are some very shiny jingle-jangle bells, and that's but one measly little secret. frowned Mun-Yin

A-low, A-low- Agreed Hau-Yin. That's not much of a trade is it?

On the contrary, it's a very good secret! Maybe the best secret in all of the Seireitei! The Kenpachi wagged his finger at them. Nobody knows it but me and my daughter, so it's very exclusive! And the risk is all on my end- some secrets are dangerous to know, but in this case, it would grant you great advantage- it would be DEEPLY embarrassing for me if any of the humans -and whatever Komamura is- were to find out.

Hmmm... the birds considered again, and nodded this time.

A-Quo! A-Quo! Very Exclusive and Deeply Embarrassing Secrets are The Best! We will take very good trade! Agreed Mun-Yin

A-Show! A-Show! Who are you, that we will leave your bells alone? asked Hau-Yin, hopping closer and bowing her head, looking up at him with a mischievously glittering eye.

I am Zaraki Kenpachi, Captain of The Eleventh Division, Father of Yachiru, Great Sword Bastard of the North 80th District, and most relevant to you- Youngest and Most Beloved Son of She Who Rules The Sky.

The ravens stared blankly at him for a moment.

What that fuck? Asked Hau-Yin.

Didn't realize we were speaking to ROYALTY. Muttered Mun-Yin

See? It's a VERY good secret! The Prince Kenpachi grinned, leaning back and lounging a bit- someone like him could make even a bare wooden porch look like a throne. -Also, you see how you DO SO live under my roof! He added, pointing up at the clouds.

The ravens shuffled a bit nervously, reconsidering him.

A-so? A-so? Hau-Yin asked, cautiously, shuffling a sideways to him.-How does Your Highness come to be a Shinigami then?

A-so! A-so! nodded Mun-Yin. Your Highness and We alike are strange enough birds for taking Names, but to take a JOB is unheard of!

It has it's benefits... The Prince Kenpachi shrugged. Alas, I may be Her Majesty's Son, but I did not inherit my mother's wings and guts, so I cannot live on the wind and whatever I might find by the roadside alone. Still- like a Name, a Job both restricts and offers opportunity- I am bound by duty, but I also am gifted a dry and sturdy nest and all the meat I may eat in exchange. And better still- My daughter now has her choice of tutors and scholars to learn greater Wisdom than I ever will.

A-sow! A-sow! Mun-Yin considered. You do reap well in that exchange!

A-though, A-though- considered Hau-Yin. Would you have the chance to reap in such fashion had you the wings of your mother? Are you perhaps Blessed in strange Human fashion?

The Prince Kenpachi laughed. Perhaps I am! Perhaps you may be even more blessed than I- you have wings and carrion-guts, but you are not bereft! I can offer you similar employment, if you should find it agreeable.

A-ho! A-ho! You are in a fine humor now, My Prince! Chirped Mun-Yin.

A-ho! A-ho! What is this Job you have in mind for the like of us? Asked Hau-Yin, intrigued.

I am in much better humor now, thanks to you both. The Prince agreed, offering Hau-Yin an outstretched hand and patting his knee to indicate Mun-Yin should join him too. There is naught you may do against death, but you may yet ease my bereavement- I am am saddened by the loss of my friend, but it's the lateness of the news that worries me. You say you spend all day learning the secrets of the Seireitei, and that you greatly desire Shiny Jingle-jangle bells?

A-so! A-so! Mun-Yin bobbed excitedly, hopping onto The Prince's hand. All over, all over from the high pillars of the execution grounds to the lowest grates where the sewers open up, we fly all over all over My Wife and I! And we see and we hear and we remember all the secrets of the city!

A-stow? A-Stow? You poses yet more shiny shiny bells? Hau-Yin clicked with interest, hopping onto his knee.

I happen to have two such golden bells, even bigger and louder than these, and will happily give them to you- with a Doll's shiny ribbon so you may wear them if you so desire- and other shiny and noisy things as I find them, if you tell to me all the secrets of the Seireitei.

Hmmm... the ravens considered.

A-yo, A-yo- It is a good deal. Nodded Mun-Yin. -But sometimes the winter is cold or the pickings are lean, and there is only so much comfort a shiny jingle-jangle brings when it is so.

A-yo, A-yo- Agreed Hau-Yin. Maybe sometimes a secret is worth a night out of the storm or a scrap of meat instead?

You are both very wise. The Prince Kenpachi nodded and the ravens preened with the praise. I am amenable- The ribbon-bells for all the secrets you know right now, and we can work out what payment is best in the future, when you discover more secrets for me?

A-Yo! A-Yo! crowed Mun-Yin, flapping with excitement. Your Highness is as generous as he is wise!

More, I hope! Laughed The Prince Kenpachi. I promise, I am a colossal fool!

A-Yo! A-Yo! crowed Hau-Yin What secrets would you like to know first? And may I have a Pink Ribbon?

I would like to know all you know about- hm, that's a tricky question actually.- There are so many things I wish to know! He considered, rubbing his chin, then jumped to his feet, making them hop, an Ancient Bird Game. Let me go get your ribbon-bells first, and make up my mind!

A-ho! A-ho! the Ravens laughed, hopping down the hall after him.

---

"Hey Boss, I found the payroll forms but fuck me if I can make heads or tails of- what's wrong?" Ikkaku called out as he came into the courtyard half an hour later, only to find Yumichika standing in the doorway, frowning pensively with his hand over his mouth.

"I'm not sure anything is wrong, per se-" Sighed Yumichika, waving at the scene before him.

Zaraki was seated on one of the boulders in the courtyard, delicately fastening one of Yachiru's shiny pink hair ribbons around the neck of an exceptionally smug-looking raven in an elaborate bow with a large golden bell in the middle. A similarly adorned Raven perched upon his shoulder, chattering excitedly between fondly preening where his eyepatch parted his hair.

"-but I can't help but think I've seen this scene before..." Yumichika muttered.

"They look like they're all having fun?" Ikkaku shrugged as Zaraki finished the bow and the raven ruffled her feathers into place, making it jangle and Yachiru giggle and applaud from where she sat on her father's knee. The Newly-belled raven hopped around to croak and click at him as well, flapping excitedly, and he put a hand up to stop her, asking her something in the shrill hiss and click of his native Aquiline tongue.

"You ever get the impression The Boss is way more articulate in Eagle than he is in Japanese?" Ikkaku frowned.

"Darling, he learned his Japanese from Bandits and Buskers and in Brothels, his Eagle has GOT to be better than that." Yumichika rolled his eyes.

"-ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Zaraki suddenly bellowed, shaking his finger at the raven in his lap.

Both ravens cawed in objection.

"-THIS IS NOT UP FOR NEGOTIATION! SO LONG AS YOU TWO LIVE UNDER MY ROOF, YOU LEAVE KANAME AND HIS EYEBALLS ALONE." he growled.

The Raven on his shoulder tipped her head, speculating.

"-He is TOO using them, they're there to keep his eye sockets and brain from getting infected with gods-know-what flesh-eating bacteria or whatever. NO. PECKING."

Both Ravens hunched up their wings and turned away, pouting.

"What's-His-Ass in the Fifth? The faintly greasy one that looks like a sad mop? His glasses are fair game, if it will amuse you." Zaraki relented, and both birds perked up. "-Might be worth a bag of potato chips if you can bring me a pair intact." he offered.

"Oh Gods, he's not gonna make me try to add a pair of BIRDS to the payroll, is he?" Whimpered Ikkaku.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Blessed With Lucky Sevens

Shiv x GN!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 14: Begging

Summary: Shiv's in trouble.

A/N: Thank you so much @thexsanctuaryx for beating and saving me as always! Again this one became not smut.

Warnings: guns, blood, death, disposing of a body, declarations of love, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 1108

The gun presses further into Shiv’s temple. “Please, please.” He knows he’s begging for his life, but the substance of it, the tangible essence of the plea has long since escaped him. Lost in the torrent of fear that is paralysing his mind. 

The cold concrete bites into his knees. 

“Please.”

Ivanov snorts and presses the gun harder, forcing Shiv to bend his neck. “You beg so quickly, fucking pathetic.” 

“Ivanov,” Shiv swallows, trying to formulate something, anything that would get him out of his. Give him a chance. 

Ivanov smacks him hard around the face with the handle of the gun.

Shiv’s mind sings, fizzles under the sudden pain and pressure. For a second he thinks he’s going to pass out, or throw up. Or both. 

Ivanov spits in his face, the salvia splashes up his cheek. “You think you can fucking say my name?” 

Shiv swallows, eyes closed and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” Warmth from his temple runs down his face. 

“Sorry?” Ivanov huffs, “You think that’s fucking good enough for a piece of shit like you? You think that-”

The gunshot explodes, shattering everything. Shiv gasps, his hands automatically covering his ears as he falls to the ground. He’s sure he’s been shot. Sure he’s dead. 

But the concrete’s cold. And despite the thudding pain in his head from the smack, and the thump from falling (plus the few good punches Ivanov had got in earlier) there’s nothing. No extra pain. 

Maybe the bullet had struck his head, shock removing the sensation as he slowly died. 

He breathed deeply, counting. One… two… three… still here. 

Shiv opens his eyes slowly. 

Ivanov’s open eyes stare back. Lifeless. The top of his head is missing. Blown out by a rifle shot. 

He’s going to be sick. 

It’s not the first time he’s seen a dead body. But it’s all too much. The brains on the floor. How close he was to death. Is to. Whoever fired that shot is still out there. 

He scrambles back, as far away from the body as he can, away from the seeping blood despite the spatter that is already covering him. 

He needs to get to cover, get out of Ivanov’s fucking car headlights at least.

It’s the dead of night, a sideroad in the middle of nowhere that’s hardly fucking used. Thick dense forest to the side. 

Despite the headlights, the stars are the only source of light, the moon not yet risen. He could try to hide in the forest, but he’s with it enough to know he wouldn’t last until morning. Exposure would get him long before daybreak. 

He could grab the gun in Ivanov’s hand, check his pockets for the car keys. But whoever shot that rifle is still out there, surely waiting for a clear shot to pick him off too. 

He does vomit then, the bile coming up all in a rush. He spits and wretches into the dirt. He needs to…

The sound of a car approaching, he can’t see it. Ivanov’s headlights are blinding everything despite how far back he’s moved, and whoever is coming doesn’t have theirs on. 

Shiv scrambles back further into the undergrowth. It had to be the shooter, come to finish the job, impatient to splatter his brains all over the ground. 

He doesn’t recognise the car that stops. 

Could he reach the gun? Shoot first? No. Stay. Hide. Hide. Don’t give away your position.

“Shiv?” 

He does recognise the voice instantly. Your voice. You. 

“Shiv?” You step out of the car when he doesn’t answer, there’s a handgun in your leather gloved hand. 

You look around, checking the body.

He calls your name weakly. 

Your eyes snap to the undergrowth. “Shiv? You okay? You hurt?” You rush over as he pulls himself back onto the little concrete instep. 

“Fuck,” you kneel down, holstering your weapon and touch his face gently just below the wound. It’s the softest caress and he just melts into it. Unable to do anything else.

“What are you doing here?” He asks weakly. “It’s dangerous.” He doesn’t want to cry, shouldn’t. But his voice is thick with it, his throat aches with the force of holding it back. 

“Shhh,” you look him over, checking for more damage. “Can you walk?” 

He nods. 

You help him to his feet and put him in the passenger seat of your car before you grab things from your boot. You return to him, wrap him in a thick blanket and then hold out two pills. 

The white of them seems to shine against your black glove.

“What are those?” He asks, his voice small.

“Pain killers, the good kind.” You say softly.

He takes them without asking more questions, drinking from the flask when you offer it. The hot chocolate inside surprises him, but it tastes glorious. 

You tuck him back up, putting the seatbelt on for him. “I won’t be long.” 

The medication starts to have an effect quickly, either that or just the situation in general. The sudden dip in adrenaline. He starts to drift off almost instantly. 

You walk over to what’s left of Ivanov, check his right coat pocket and wouldn’t you know, first time lucky. You find his car keys. 

You douse his corpse in the petrol from the can you have in your boot before you check his car. There’s nothing much of use in there, some drugs. About ₽250,000 in cash, you pocket that. 

It’s an easy matter to get in the driving seat and park the car over his body. You douse the vehicle in the rest of the petrol before you set it on fire. 

Shiv’s seemingly completely out of it when you get back to your car and pull out. 

You’ve been driving for about twenty minutes when he speaks. “I didn’t know.” 

“Hey, it’s alright.” You lightly touch his shoulder, comforting him. 

“I didn’t know,” he repeats, his voice thick and dreamy, “that you were such a good shot.” 

You smile a little at that. But it’s not a happy one. 

“I’m taking you to a friend’s, they’ll get you patched up.”

He breathes deeply, steadily for a few moments and you think he’s fallen back asleep. “Thank you.” 

You don’t reply, about to take your hand off his shoulder, but he reaches out from under the blanket, squeezes your fingers tight and he presses a kiss to your palm before he lets you go.

He’s practically unconscious when he speaks again, fighting through the thick veil of exhaustion to speak. “I love you, you know. I always have.”

You know. You love him too.

Thank you for reading!

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[marblemoovt]

Fever - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, A sprinkle of angst, Dad!Price

Summary:

John pounds on your door at an ungodly hour in the morning. You've never seen him so distraught.

------

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

Note:

Hello! It's been a while since my last Price fic. If I'm honest I'm sorely tempted to keep writing this universe as a series of oneshots (because I'm terrible at commitment). So expect to see more Rose and Price at some point. I've already come up with a series title lmao..

I have a few dividers I want to try out and see which one I like best. So far I like this one better than the previous one.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

Bam. Bam. Bam

You bolt upright in bed, squinting around your room until you locate the alarm clock on your bedside table. You glance out the window and notice the sky is still dark, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Not even a sliver of pink or orange to creep over the horizon. Hm. Definitely not your alarm.

BamBamBam.

The noise grows louder, and the pause between hits becomes nonexistent. Your brain refuses to process the source as you sweep your eyes across your room. The early haze that fogs over your mind when you wake up clouds your ability to think.

Until you hear John shout your name. 

Snatching a coat hanging off a chair, you fly out of the room. The floorboards squeak beneath your weight as you weave between your furniture. Sliding to a stop in front of the door, your fingers fumble with the lock before you wretch it open.

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself. 

A small groan comes from the blankets. “Daddy, you’re squishing me.” 

Your shoulders sag as the tension leaves your body. The weight resting on your lungs eases. You glance up at the ceiling and say a silent prayer of thanks before beckoning the pair inside.

Heading to the kitchen, you prepare some tea to keep yourself busy. No caffeine, though. You were anxious enough as is; you didn’t need to worry faster. Fishing out the chamomile from your cupboards with three cups and saucers, you turn the kettle on to boil. While the tea steeps, you take out the honey and add a drizzle to each cup. 

“Daddy, I’m cold.” Rose’s voice breaks the still silence. You run through a mental list of all the possible things that could be wrong. It can’t be life-threatening if John knocked on your door instead of taking her to the hospital. But you can’t help but think of the worst possible scenarios. The kettle whistles, pulling you out of your thoughts. You’ll ask after you bring the tea. 

A quick glance reveals that John is still cradling her in his arms. The lighting unveils the redness of his eyes and the thin, tight line of his lips. “I know, my little flower. We’ll fix you up, and you’ll be as right as rain,” he says, stroking her head.

You walk over and set the drinks on the table. “Tea? It’s chamomile,” you say, sipping from your cup. The warm liquid soothes your nerves, pooling comforting heat in your stomach. John’s lips quirk up, but they fall just as quickly. He makes no move for the tea. Your cup rattles on the saucer as you place it down. “John, you look like shit,” you state. No response other than a slight flinch. You sit down beside him and hold out your arms. “Drink, you’ll feel better. I can hold Rose for you.”

John studies your face. His eyes are staring past you. It makes you wonder what he’s seeing to make that solemn expression. The movement of you tilting your head brings him back to the present. His gaze flickers between you and Rose. “Ok,” he whispers, carefully placing her in your waiting arms. 

“Hi, Rosy,” you greet her, checking to see if John is drinking his tea. His shoulders aren’t as tense as he sips the drink, but his knee begins to bounce. 

Rose cracks an eye open and smiles widely at you. “Hullo,” she rasps.

You observe her flushed complexion and the hair clinging to her face. “How are you doing, little one?” you ask.

She licks her chapped lips and says, “M’ sick.”

“That sounds like no fun,” you say, exaggerating the frown on your face.

Rose smiles wide and shakes her head slowly. “But Daddy says I don’t have to go to school.” Her eyes glitter at the prospect of staying home, a fantasy most children have at least once during their school years. You can imagine the chaos she could cause if she wasn’t so sick.

You mirror her grin and brush her damp hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “That’s true. You get to stay home and sleep in,” you say, and her smile nearly blinds you.

“And watch cartoons!” she adds. Ah, the quintessential stay-at-home activity for the sick. She starts squirming in your arms. “I get to watch all the shows I miss because of school.” Her lips curl into a feline-like smile, reminiscent of a cat that stole a big, juicy fish. 

You laugh and nod. “That sounds amazing!”

Rose giggles, “That’s because it is!!” If she wasn’t sick, you would be squeezing her in a bear hug. 

You press the back of your hand against her forehead. It’s warm. “Did your dad take your temperature?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and says, “He put a stick in my mouth and told me to hold it there.” She mimics the motion of placing a thermometer in between her lips and closing them. Your cheeks start to hurt; how can such a tiny being be so precious? She must get it from her father. 

You eye the cabinet in the kitchen where you keep all your medical supplies. “Can I check again?” You trust John, but you just want to make sure. 

“Why?” she asks.

“To see how warm you are,” you answer, booping her nose, which scrunches up in response. 

Rose looks at you with her big blue eyes. “Why?” she asks again. You’re glad to see the fever hasn’t affected her curiosity. 

You smooth down her hair, doing your best to flatten the stray cowlicks. “Because it’s dangerous if you’re too hot. You would need to go to the hospital,” you say. 

Rose furrows her brows and utters an “Oh.”

You rise from your seat and head for the kitchen. “Are you comfortable?” you ask. To free up your hands, you shifted her upright, and she’s now clinging to you like a koala.

“Mm,” she mumbles a confirmation into the crook of your neck. You grab the thermometer and turn it on to see if the batteries are still working. On your way back, you fill up a mug of water to keep Rose hydrated. Once seated back on the couch, you bring the thermometer to her mouth, and she lets you take her temperature without a fuss. 

You wait a few minutes until the device beeps to signal it’s finished. “38.8. Not a low fever, but you should be fine with some rest,” you say. Next, you take the mug and hand it to Rose. “Can you drink this water for me?” She drinks every last drop, smacking her dry lips together. “Wonderful! For being such a good patient, the doctor has decided to give you a little treat.” Fishing around your pocket, you pull out her reward. 

Rose stares in awe at the shiny wrapper in your hand. She gently plucks it up and marvels at the strawberries dotting the colourful material. She glances at her dad, but you bring a finger to your lips when she looks back at you. Rose smiles and nods her head, clutching the candy in her fist.

“I’m sleepy,” Rose announces. You look at John and notice that he’s sunk back into the couch, staring into his empty cup.

“There’s a bed in the guest room. I can put on some cartoons for you to fall asleep to,” you suggest.

She nods her head. “Ok.”  

On your way to the guest room, you fill another glass of water to leave on the bedside table. You lay down Rose on the bed, rummaging in the closet for a thin blanket. As you tuck her in, you feel her forehead with your hand. “Do you feel uncomfortable? Do you want to take any medication?” you ask, making a note to grab a damp cloth before you leave.

“You’re like Daddy. Especially when he looks like this.” Rose brings a finger up to each eyebrow and pushes them down, grimacing in a familiar fashion. She bursts into a fit of giggles, and you join in, unable to resist her charming antics. “Daddy already gave me some medicine. It tasted like bubblegum,” she remarks, sticking her tongue out as the rest of her face scrunches up. 

Amusement twists your lips into a smile. “You don’t like bubblegum?” you ask.

Rose shakes her head. “Bubblegum should not be medicine,” she says with a grave tone; it’s the most serious you’ve seen her since she arrived. You head to the adjoining bathroom and run a clean cloth under room temperature water. Wringing the excess moisture, you return to her side and wipe her sweaty skin.

Rose’s eyelids droop; you take this as your cue to leave. “Alright. Your dad and I will be in the living room or in the room across if you need us.” She nods, and you go to turn on the TV, switching to a channel she likes and lowering the volume and brightness.

You tiptoe out of the room, closing the door slowly but leaving a small gap in case she calls out for anyone. When you return to the living room, John is still in the same position. Except now he’s wringing his hands as his cup sits abandoned on the table.

“John?” you call out his name softly, not wanting to startle him. He doesn’t look up at you, and you wonder if he even heard anything. You remain at a distance, observing every flex of his muscles as he fidgets.

“Is she asleep?” he asks in a whisper. His eyes dart to your figure before landing on his lap again. You walk up and gingerly take a seat beside him. John shifts some of his weight onto you, head resting against yours. You can feel the exhaustion emanating from him in waves. He looks like he could fall asleep any minute himself. 

“Nearly. Rose could barely keep her eyes open when I laid her on the bed,” you say. Warmth envelopes your waist as John snakes an arm around you, pressing you closer to his side.

He kisses the side of your temple, murmuring into your hair, “I’m sorry for troubling you like this. I just… didn’t know what to do.” It’s not often you hear his words catch in his throat. You frown at the wobble in his tone and run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp in the way you know always has him purring. He hums appreciatively and leans into your touch, eyes closed in momentary bliss. 

“You’re not troubling me at all. Is this the first time she’s gotten this sick?” you ask.

John mulls over your question, his brows furrowed with thought. “First time while I wasn’t deployed,” he answers. John sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “I’m a terrible father,” and his chuckle leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pick up the untouched third tea and use it to warm your hands. “What makes you think that?” you ask, fingertips tapping against the ceramic sides of the cup. 

His answer is almost immediate, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Because I panicked.” As if that single sentence encompassed everything he did wrong tonight. 

You frown and set the cup back down, not wanting to break it in a fit of emotions. There’s a strange disconnect between John’s confidence at work and at home. “So? Does being a good father mean knowing everything about parenting? Because in that case, there’s not a single good father in the world,” you say. But your attempts at comfort only cause him to sigh. “Panicking doesn’t always equal death.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No. No, I don’t, John. I can’t read minds. What I can tell, though, is that you did your best to handle the situation.” If only you could extract your memories and play them for him to watch. Then maybe he would finally see what a good father he really is. 

“It wasn’t enough,” he deflects.

You place a hand on his shoulder and say, “Yes, it was. Rose is sleeping peacefully down the hall. She’s fine.” You emphasize ‘fine,’ but John shakes his head. Doubt swims in his eyes, churning the blue depths into sheets of glistening glass. 

“What about the next time something like this happens?” he counters. You can feel the damped vibrations through the sofa cushions, and you place a hand on John’s knee. 

“Then you use what you learned from the previous times and do better,” you reply in an even tone. The two of you stare in silence. You refuse to look away. John wavers underneath your gaze. His lips remain in a thin line, stretched taut like a rubber band. And what eventually happens when you put too much strain on a rubber band?

It snaps.  

“Can you hold me?” he whispers, and your heart clenches. You want nothing more than to pick up and carry him to your bed for some well-needed cuddles. But John’s a big man. You’re not sure you could do any of that without struggling.

You shuffle onto his lap and open your arms wide. “Come here.”

John buries himself in your embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he mumbles. His beard grazes your skin, and a giggle bubbles from your throat. The sound causes John to tighten his arms around you. Is this what stress balls feel like when they’re about to explode?

“No problem. I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to,” you say, patting his back. It’s faint, but the scent of his cologne wafts in the air. Notes of bourbon and the smoke from his favourite cigar brand. You breathe it in, wishing you could bottle it up to use when he’s away.

He chuckles, and the resulting vibrations raise the goosebumps on your arms. “I’m afraid you’ll have to surgically remove me from yourself,” he says, burrowing into you.

“Well, that doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” you wheeze, rubbing the burning tips of his ears between your forefinger and thumb. 

His voice is small, but it reaches your ears in the serene evening. “You still want to stay?” he asks. 

Your lips twist into an amused smile. “Did I ever say I wouldn’t?” You brush your fingers through his hair, fiddling with the grey streaks you find.

“I’m a mess,” he says. 

You nod. “Yeah, a hot one.”

“Darling….” he drawls. 

“Yes, John?” you say, batting your eyelashes, looking like the epitome of innocence. A sudden attack is launched on your vulnerable sides. “Hey!” you screech as John digs his fingers mercilessly into your waist. You attempt to squirm out of his grasp. If you don’t get away in time, your fight instincts might take over from your flight, and John will learn the hard way not to tickle you.

Although you doubt his reflexes will allow anything to happen. The cheeky bastard’s nearly impossible to catch by surprise since he reacts instantly to any objects hurtling towards him.

“I like hearing you laugh,” John admits, the lines on his face relaxing. The warmth in his eyes stirs that familiar fluttering in your chest. A shudder wracks your body when he absentmindedly rubs circles into your hips.

You peck his nose and lean your forehead on his. “Gets the happy chemicals flowing?” you ask.

John hums, “Mmm.” He teases you again with a quick skim of his fingertips, and you bite your lips to keep quiet. Rose is still sleeping, but a small laugh punches through your teeth. John relents his assault, satisfied for now. 

He continues to cling to you like a koala. You think back to what you’ve learned about John since that fateful encounter at the grocery store. “John? Why do you get so insecure when the topic of parenting surfaces?” you ask.

“...Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbles. You mentally scold yourself for bringing up a sore subject.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to,” you say.

“What?” John looks at you with wide eyes.

You grin and gently close his jaw before it can reach the ground. “I won’t force you to talk about something you don’t want to,” you say with a shrug. 

“Thanks.” The room falls silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the unintelligible murmurs of the TV.

“John, you’re really not that bad.” You trace the bags underneath his eyes, frowning at how puffy they are. 

“Well, I can’t be a bad father if I’m never around,” he chuckles dryly.

You hesitate before asking, “...Is that what this is about?”

“....”

“I know your job takes you away from home often.” You pause and wrack your brain for the right words to convey what you want to say. “But I wish you could see how Rose smiles when I tell her you’ll return in a few days. Or how she hugs her teddy bear—that you gave her—close every night.” Rose’s enthusiasm for her father’s return never wavers, never changes. You’ve babysitted Rose on and off for months now, and every evening, without fail, you hear the recording in the bear play from her room. “Would we like to see more of you? Of course. But I understand, and I think Rose does to a certain degree, that you have responsibilities and duties to fulfill.”

The right side of John’s lips slant up. “Don’t you ever get tired of cheering me up?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ You stand up and hold a hand out to him. “Now let’s get you to bed, my sad little man.”

“Little?” John chuckles, placing his hand in yours.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re just a sad little guy,” you say.

John blinks slowly and raises his brows. But his expression is soon replaced with amusement. “Is this some kind of internet lingo I’m unaware of?”

“....”

John clicks his tongue. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

You huff and feel like a cat with its hackles raised. “Don’t judge me for how I spend my free time,” you say.

John nods. “Ah yes, reading literature. What were they called again? Fan books?”

“Fanfics,” you correct, tugging him from his seat. “To bed. Now.”

John's eyes crinkle at the corners, and his quiet laughter fills the room. “You don’t need to be ashamed, darling. It could be worse. You could be reading those raunchy romance novels they sell at the grocery store.” You don’t humour him with a response, too busy trying to mask your face with a neutral expression. God forbid John learns about the kinds of things you read in your sacred corner of the internet. “You read the equivalent online, don’t you?” The apples of your cheeks tingle, and your mouth dries.

You clear your throat and begin stacking the cups and saucers. “It’s still late. We need to get some more rest,” you say, setting off at a brisk pace to the kitchen sink. The thud of footsteps follows right behind you. You don’t have to turn around to see how his lips curl into a grin.

“You read those books when you have me?” he asks, mock hurt lacing his tone.

You roll your eyes and set the dishes in the sink; a problem for future you. Turning around, you cross your arms and steel your gaze. “In my defence, some of them actually have a good plot,” you say. John raises a brow, and he does a poor job covering his laugh up with a cough. “Don’t give me that look! Some of them do!” you insist. Literal masterpieces exist on the internet. And they’re free??? Clearly, John’s never binged a fanfic until three in the morning and had an epiphany, only to be left desolate and distraught now that there are no more chapters to be read.

During your internal debate to justify your reading habits, John hoists you over his shoulder and heads to your bedroom. 

“Why don’t you recount your favourite one, and we can reenact it, hm?” he suggests, landing a playful smack on your bottom. You flail your limbs to no avail. The heat on your face could burn through the clothes on his back. John glances over at you with a smirk. “You can be quiet, can’t you, love? You did so well last time.” He caresses the back of your thighs, closing the door behind him with his foot.

At least you get a glorious view of his ass from this angle.

End Note:

Listen, don't ask me why I always end up writing some angst when it comes to Dad!Price. I can't help it, it's just ingrained in his DNA. I do have some ideas as to what happened with Rose's mom, and I do want to eventually write Price coming to terms with his grief. But as always, who knows when I'll get to that.

I did think about dragging this out longer. Originally, Price was also supposed to fall sick the next few days and Reader would be nursing him with the help of Rose. But that would have doubled the length and I just wanted this done so I could move on to the next fic 😅

Now it's on to the next fandom on my list! Alas, I am cursed with too many ideas and not enough willpower to write all of them at once.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Taglist: @mipitt141, @lovecats123451

[ruinationz]

i'm on life support after wgriting htis good god that was horrendous. 5,500+ words. finding frankie fic. we're not normal. inspired by the mountain goats song of the same name, thank you @yoursminehourss for being an inspo i love you my friend. read all of his shit NOW. ok fic under the cut. vomits

"But stars don't just leave after a season, do they...?"

They stood dead center in the middle of a darkened room, the only source of light coming from the television across. The air was thick with a sour, nauseating scent; Most likely due to the amount of dead contestants littering the floor.

Their eyes followed the tips of the red and green lines, snaking up the right edge of the television as profits and viewership skyrocketed like never before.

Green light flooded their vision as bolded letters materialize on the screen, confetti raining down from the top: "Renewed for another season".

They looked over their shoulder, rotten flesh covered in fabric crushed underfoot.

A pair of beady eyes, glistening in the shadows, met theirs.

It's only up from here.

turn the volume up real high,

all of that money, look at it fly,

and you smoking like a chimney

Henry could tell he truly was brought to life again from the dull, throbbing sensation of a headache creeping back into his head once he came to.

Oh, wasn't he just the luckiest guy in the world?

Maybe he owed some sick, twisted form of gratitude to that "lucky contestant"; They had brought the Palace back into the light, after all, getting the game show approved for a brand-new season to boot.

Alongside that, what they had in store for him in particular was downright merciful. If it were up to the higher-ups, Henry would probably have been punished beyond belief for the kind of things he'd mouthed off to a participant about. Maybe he'd be replaced entirely as a mascot! (And if they really wanted to make him suffer, they'd switch him out with those wretched red things that only scream and explode, not too different from what they did to-)

But that contestant? Well, they did the exact opposite of that.

...

...To be fair, the contestant didn't really do anything to Henry, positively or negatively. He only saw them once he regained consciousness in the storage room (presumably they were working to assist in his repairation), and otherwise they spent most of their time doing god-knows-what somewhere far, far away from all the other mascots.

What was it that made them avoid everyone, exactly? Was it fear? (He had chased them down at least twice, after all; Though he thought they might have liked him a bit better when he returned Deputy, albeit mangled, to them...) Or...

Was it a sense of superiority?

The thought made Henry's (fake) blood boil a bit. Were they truly self-centered enough to be that easy to persuade? He'd taken the less-fortunate contestants to be nothing but idiotic before, but the winner? Anyone with half a brain would've taken the money and ran far from the Parkour Palace, not be gullible enough to agree to being the big "star of the show", thinking they're hot shit and letting themselves get used by-

BRRRRRRRINGGGGG!

Henry hissed at the shrill sound stabbing through his nonexistent ears, gripping the sides of his head immediately as the rattling of the incoming call reverberated through his neck.

If that blind fool was going to bring him back for another season, they could've at least made this idiotic fully-functionable telephone a little less physically unbearable to have for a cranium. He wrapped his fingers around the headset, seizing it from the switch-hook and pressing it closer to his face.

"...Hello?" He rasped out, making an attempt to mask the strain in his voice as much as possible.

"Yes, hello? Is this a Mr. 'Henry Hotline' speaking?"

His heart sank at the all-too familiar voice coming from the receiver. "Speak of the devil and he shall appear," I suppose, he thought to himself, muttering a curse under his breath.

The Other laughed on his end. "It's been a hot minute, my call-up companion! I do hope I'm not interrupting anything you're doing, hmm?"

What Henry wanted to say was "Yes, I'm busy trying to have a moment of peace for once in my life after the higher-ups decided to blow my brains up, so why don't you go and buzz off you buck-toothed bastard," but he was forced to hold back; If he hadn't received a punishment now, that would certainly be the final straw to grant him one.

"I'll assume that's a 'no' on your part," Perhaps the phone paused to find a more appropriate response a bit too long, prompting the Other's voice to buzz through the speaker once more.

"...I...Is there anything you need, sir?" He twisted the cord around his fingers, a nervous subconscious motion, as he spoke.

"Oh, anything I 'need', you say?" A pause.

"Well, I may or may not need you in my offices at the moment. If, of course, it's not much trouble!"

Henry would have expressed his disdain at those words if he wasn't aware of the constant surveillance cameras lurking in every corner. He knew the Other's little empty gestures far too well: He'd give you an option to do something, when in reality you never had a choice to begin with.

It was better to go along with the game he wanted to play.

The phone balled up his free hand, pulling on the cord and adding a further strain to the cable attaching his dangling head to his body. "Y-Yes, sir, I'll... I'll be right there."

"FANTASTIC!" Henry flinched as the Other's voice reached a completely-innappropriate-for-inside level. "Let me fetch you an elevator to the utilidors, and you'll be there in a jiffy. See you soon!"

"But- But wait, what exactly do you-"

The line went dead with a quiet beep beep beep before Henry could finish speaking. Sluggishly, he hung up the receiver as he made his way into the elevator that had opened up somewhere in his peripheral vision.

Whatever that rabbit wanted with him now, it better have been worthwhile.

So much for being there in a "jiffy".

Thank goodness that he hadn't ended up across the railings, but Henry wished that the elevators at least landed on the same level as the Intercom; A few sets of stairs would have been easy for anyone else to ascend without a head that felt like it weighed 2 tons on their shoulders.

Knees still crying out in pain from all of the effort, he trudged down the corridor and turned the corner, swinging his head into the doorway of the room where the Other resided.

The rabbit was sitting in one of the many plastic chairs they had lying around somewhere in the storages, knees raised high and body hunched over in an attempt to sit at the level of the piece of furniture; A laughable sight, but granted, these chairs were meant to be used by a small child and not a massive mechanical lagomorph.

His attention was focused on a CRT television before him, removed from its initial location on the wall of security footage and placed in the center of the desk instead. Shifting colors illuminated the rabbit's face in the dimmed room, the pearly-white sheen of plastic teeth reflected in the light.

The Other must have eventually noticed Henry in the doorway, neck of metal coils swiveling with a creak to meet his gaze. An equally springy arm raised, the remote in its grip pausing the TV with a click.

A minute of deafening silence, perhaps two or three, passed between them.

It was an odd quirk the Other had, staring someone down like that; Was it because of how small his eyes were, or was it simply for the dramatics? Henry assumed the latter, though the former didn't seem so unlikely.

...

"HENRY HOTLINE!" The rabbit finally exclaimed, voice booming through the small room as he clapped his gloved hands together in what Henry took to be joy. "What an absolute delight it is to see you! I've been-"

"Could you get to the point, please?"

A pause. The Other's everlasting grin seemed to falter a bit, and Henry mentally berated himself for even speaking out at all. But the former didn't seem to pay much mind, perking up as he broke through the silence once more.

"Ah, yes!" He chirped, turning his attention to the television in front of him.

"Well, I thought it'd be pleasant for the both of us if we had a bit of...'downtime', if you could call it that! After all, I'm sure you and Frankie are just tuckered out from all the preparation for our brand-new season!"

The Other reached a coiled arm back, taking a hold of a plastic chair similar to that of the one he was sitting upon and slowly dragged it to his side, placing it upright and clasping his hands around the remote on his lap.

...Seriously?

What was he even doing? If that freak wanted to watch television together, he could've just said so, instead of building it up like it was some kind of suspenseful, mysterious thing.

...

The Other patted the seat next to him with an oversized hand, a hint of insistence in the motion.

...Well, it's not like Henry had anything else to do.

Or that he could say "no", for that matter.

The robotic rabbit's ears raised a bit as Henry made his way toward the chair, the childish piece of furniture creaking under his weight as he slowly sat himself down. A cover to something in the corner of his eye caught the phone's attention-

...Ah, it was one of those.

The company behind them all, of course, did other things besides running a gore-y abomination of a game show; Toys, movies, cartoons and god knows what else were promoted nearly everywhere around the Parkour Palace. They gloated often, signage everywhere always claiming how successful they were as the "World's Largest" in practically everything.

If that truly was the case, why were they struggling with bankruptcy to the point of livestreamed murder?

Another click of the remote brought Henry back to the present. He rested his hands on his head and peered closer at the TV, making an attempt in adjusting his vision—long-used to the dark of his areas—to the program before him.

Eye-straining technicolor hues lit up the room around the two: Frankie's cartoon show, one season out of the many that they'd produced when a Mr. "Stan Ellie" still had a hold of the brand—Or so he heard, from hushed conversations behind closed doors.

From what the phone could gather within the episode displayed before them, the cartoon counterparts of him and Frankie had an argument over who was the superior entertainer out of the two, and the rest of the episode's plot mainly consisted of the duo attempting to out-do each other in every way possible; A shallow and silly conflict, created to be entertaining yet simple enough for a child's mind to comprehend.

A minute dribbled away, maybe more, as the cartoonish antics played out before him...

"This is one of my favorite parts that's coming up."

Henry realized he'd been nodding off for most of the episode's duration when the Other leaned in close to his head to whisper to him, forcing his attention back to the television.

"Oh Frankie, what a fool I've been!"

Now both of the animated mascots were together on a stage, in complete shambles thanks to what Henry assumed to be one comical competition too many.

"I'm terribly sorry, Frankie. I spent all my time trying to upstage you, and now BOTH of our shows are ruined! Could you ever forgive me for this?"

The cartoon phone looked downright ashamed, but Frankie didn't appear to pay much mind.

"Aw, Henry, of COURSE I'd forgive you! In fact, I should probably be the one asking you the same."

"...Really?"

"Well, of course! I shouldn't have been hot-headed enough to bet on eachother in the first place. Our friendship is way more important than some silly competition!"

No one as stubborn as these characters had been prior would ever admit they were at fault in real-life, but the conflict needed to be forgotten by the next episode to keep the show interesting.

But somehow, in some way, Henry found himself more drawn to the television than ever as the animated rabbit continued.

"So, what d'ya say, Henry? Let bygones be bygones and still be friends?"

The animated rabbit looked at the phone expectantly with open arms. Silence, until the latter broke into a grin.

"...Well, I don't see why I'd say otherwise."

The two characters hugged each-other, a simple resolution made to warm the heart and make way for another episode, where it would be completely forgotten in favor for another set of antics.

Henry leaned closer to the television. His eyes locked in, onto the rabbit nuzzling himself into his cartoon counterpart's chest with a smile. Onto that sickeningly sweet display, before it blinked to darkness and back to the credits sequence.

The thump-thump-thumping cadence against his chest synched with that of the throbbing in his head.

He shot up out of his seat, despite the protesting of his legs, already sore from earlier.

"I-I—" Henry's words caught in his throat as he attempted to suppress his shaking, only worsened by how the Other slowly turned to look him in the eye.

"—I need to excuse myself for a moment, please."

Perhaps the Other was saying something to the phone when he stumbled through the doorway, but it was drowned out by his footsteps echoing through the hallway as he took himself far, far, far away from the Utilidors.

"Ah! Henry, you'll miss..."

The Other found himself trailing off, hearing Henry's stomping grow fainter and fainter down the halls.

Silence.

He sighed, pausing the television and drawing his attention to the security footage before him, then to the microphone of the intercom.

Seemed like it was time to trade out shifts for the night.

Eventually, his body couldn't take the strain of travel any longer. Henry found himself falling to a carpeted floor, chest heaving with uneven breath.

As he dragged himself toward a wall, scrubbed clean of the mural he'd scrawled on in oxidized blood before, he looked up at the cartoon visage of himself printed across every inch of the room.

He was surrounded by a reflection of something- No, someone he was meant to be before all of this. The ideal of someone who was happier than him. Someone who still had everything he wanted and deserved in life.

Someone who still had his best friend.

Tucking his knees to his chest, Henry put his head in his hands.

And for the first time, in what seemed like ages, he cried.

Alone.

shadows crawled across the living room's length,

i held on to you with a desperate strength,

with everything, with everything in me

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

When the licks of the incinerator's flames dissolved into an eerie ice-cold numbness, when the power began to surge through every circuit in his body again, when his senses returned, vision locking itself onto the visage of the fleshy face of a contestant, that was the first thing that Frankie had concluded to himself.

And he hated it.

Ever since the show started broadcasting, a simple set of rules was enforced, always playing out at Frankie's advantage: If the contestants ever got cocky and decided to try and cheat, he would come in and make sure they were put in their place. It was just routine.

And Frankie? He loved routine.

That was the only thing he could genuinely like in the Parkour Palace.

Doing what he did, of course, would always result in a death or two—But who really cared? He'd show up, make a scene, cause some scares and shed some blood. Maybe get a snack out of it, too. That's what he was made for. That's how it was supposed to go.

Frankie was the villain. The poster-boy. The big bad.

The star of the show.

...

And then, after 57 long (short was a better word for them) seasons, someone won for once.

And his little routine was torn to shreds right in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, he wasn't allowed to catch and kill that "Lucky Contestant", when it was perfectly fine to hunt them down before they won. Suddenly, they were with the big-bosses at the forefront of hush-hush conversations about "funding" and "budget" and how they would be working in the next season.

Suddenly, that cheater was the star now.

It wasn't fair.

Not at all.

It was called Frankie's Parkour Palace. It was Frankie's cereal, Frankie's this, Frankie's that, Frankie's EVERYTHING! Everything in that place was all his! He was in charge, not them!

But here he was, slouching on the seat of some stupid couch while the Lucky Contestant sat across from him.

Frankie forgot why he was even here, or what room this was supposed to be in the first place. It was probably some crappy fancy-schmancy lounge, for the higher-ups to hang out in and supervise everything. The only thing he did know was that it reeked of cigar smoke, emanating from that of one in the Contestant's hand.

Little Lucky Contestant, their shining star, their golden goose, all dressed up in the same suit as before. Though of course they had to be as decorated as possible, wearing some kind of magician's outfit instead of the regular garb. Probably the big-bosses' idea.

He watched them tuck the cigar under their mask, taking it away as a smoke ring crept from underneath with a light exhale before it dissipated mid-air.

"...So, did you catch all that?"

Oh right, they were actually saying something before.

"Alright, I guess not? Wouldn't hurt to repeat it, I suppose."

Smartass.

Frankie grumbled and sank further into his seat, the Contestant pulling up some kind of display on a newly-repaired Deputy Duck. Red and green lines, a bunch of numbers he didn't know or care about. They went on about some kind of 'game plan' for this year's season, stupid limitations he already knew about, technical terms he didn't want to bother with.

"—Now, I've been watching you guys for a while, and I know this is a lot different than what the show usually does. But, hear me out on this. Me and Frankie—"

Frankie's head shot up at his name. He savored the Contestant's discomfort—Apparent, despite their face still being concealed by a mask, just lifted out enough at the bottom for them to speak and smoke.

"...Oh, right. I meant the, um...the other Frankie."

A pause. Their head shifted from side to side. "...The real Frankie."

The sneer on the rabbit's face faded immediately. All joy that he felt from the situation had dissolved, leaving a new sensation in its wake.

Anger.

The real Frankie? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Of COURSE he was real! Was that little cheater trying to imply he was some fake?

Bullshit. If anyone around here was fake, it was that freak wearing his own face.

The Other.

The Other was supposed to be just that: Lesser than, an "other", a byproduct. The creep wasn't even supposed to do or mean anything; All he existed for was to just be some announcer for the show, a narrator for the contestants' ultimate demises. Last-minute they slapped a nasty old suit on him, shoved him in the Utilidors and said he was 'another' of him just to get more attention and drag their show out of bankruptcy.

But out of the blue, that smiling bastard—someone who was supposed to be cut out entirely after the last season, at least from what he'd heard—had the audacity to think he was superior? The audacity to talk like he was one of the higher-ups? To talk to the player, drag them into this show and ruin everything Frankie had?

The audacity, to make himself out like he was the "real" one?

That wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. This wasn't how the rules were supposed to go, not at all, he hated them all and how they came in and changed everything and ruined everything he had and they messed up his game show messed everything up and he was just so FUCKING ANGRY-

And everything boiled over.

In one swift motion, Frankie struck the Contestant in mid-smoke with his hand, the cigar and Deputy clattering onto the floor. He flipped the table over, the contents of the ashtray scattering everywhere like acrid-smelling snow. Then he kicked the objects to the wall. Stomped them a bit for good measure, but the stupid duck barely got scratched. Great, they poured money into upgrades for that thing too.

Now the rabbit's head swiveled around and he was cursing at them, screaming over the sound of their coughs. He didn't care if his words were coherent or not, voice broken and not used to speaking, as long as it got the point across to that cheater. He wanted to spite them, get them mad, spill his guts and show them how badly they screwed his life over.

Did that fraud really think they were all high and mighty just because they won? Yeah, right. When the higher-ups had another star in their clutches they'd throw them right back to the side, just like they did to him. They were just as fucked as everyone else was.

Frankie hated the Contestant, and he sure as hell hoped they hated him back as he turned his back to them, slamming the door open and stomping away.

The higher-ups are probably going to get after me for breaking their rules.

So, what? Who cared what the higher-ups thought? If they were gonna get so mad at Frankie for playing by the "brute" role, maybe they shouldn't have given it to him in the first place.

They always had something to complain about with him. It was always something, like "Oooooh, Frankie, don't dooooo that, that's not in the scriiiiiiptttt," or some other excuse to limit what he did. That, or they thought he was too dumb to listen to anything.

Well, if the bosses thought Frankie was dumb, he was gonna think they were dumb right back. He didn't need them anyway. All a bunch of morons, never taking him seriously and never letting him—

The rabbit's thoughts were cut short as he slammed face-first into the grate of a vent, unceremoniously tumbling out and falling onto a carpeted floor.

...

As Frankie sat himself up and slowly began to untangle the metal coils making up his limbs, the fire coursing through his core started to fizzle out, a chilling sensation arriving in its wake.

He knew what that meant all too well, and he despised it. The rage in his gut was going to be replaced with a cold hard lump, all the strength would fade from his body and leave him feeling crushed, and he'd start having second thoughts and second glances, and—

—No, he wasn't about to let that happen. He needed to hold onto what he had now. He needed to think something, do something to keep the fire going. Light it up. Pour some gas on. Let the flames spread farther and farther, so by the time it's all over he won't feel anything at all. Not like he wasn't used to it after-

And ears perking up, a sound caught his attention.

Looks like he wasn't alone.

The rabbit tugged himself up from the ground. Maybe it was one of those "Noob Noobs". He sure could use one of those as a chew-toy, he needed something to sink his teeth into. They were pretty much an infestation at this point, so what would one less in the Parkour Palace hurt?

And the farther and farther that he stomped away from the vents to the source of all the noise...

...

...The more and more it began to sound like static in his head, a familiar tone of voice.

Huh, so that's what it was.

Frankie rarely saw anyone crying in the Parkour Palace. Maybe he did, at least a few times during the season's run; Typically it was one of the contestants, hopeless and afraid, hunched over in some corner somewhere completely vulnerable and ripe for the picking. But aside from that, he'd never really seen anyone doing it after-hours.

Let alone when it was one of the other mascots.

Frankie didn't exactly know what Henry's role was supposed to be in the game show. He did know he was popular—definitely not as popular as the rabbit was, but enough for him to be an audience favorite and keep himself on for another season.

Maybe it was his mascot counterpart that made him so well-liked; All the artwork around the Palace showed him as a charming, charismatic character, constantly smirking or smiling for the chat to lose its mind.

But Henry wasn't smiling now.

The humanoid phone was leaned on the wall across from Frankie, legs tucked to his chest and head in his hands as his shoulders shook with each sob.

The rabbit felt his body step forward on its own accord. Despite their ability to add blood to the mascots, the higher-ups hadn't installed any fake tears for them; That explained how dry Henry's face was, when he looked up at the sound of Frankie's foot coming in contact with the carpet.

"F-FRANKIE!" He exclaimed, stumbling up from the ground and backing further into the wall.

"I-I'm...I really am sorry! I was just... um..."

...

Frankie blinked, observing the phone as he shrank beneath his presence, his stammering devolving into nonsense before trailing off.

The silence was deafening.

Henry must have concluded that Frankie wasn't doing anything to him—not like he could in the first place, it felt like he was standing in quicksand—as he slumped forward, re-assuming his position on the wall as he curled into himself again.

Slowly, one foot in front of the other, Frankie crept towards Henry's side, sitting down on the carpet to meet his level. He silently observed him, ears twitching as he heard the phone's whimpers resume.

The one thing that Frankie genuinely liked was routine.

But there was something else that he liked, too—and it was a confusing thing, rattled his body down to its very core with an unfamiliar warmth. It was something that twisted in his chest, flashing an idea in the back of his mind.

...No, he couldn't do that.

Why did he feel so conflicted about this? Why was he so drawn towards the situation? That wasn't in-character for him. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. But then again: he was the one who was mad at the higher-ups, so why did he have to stop himself to comply with their rules?

Frankie flexed his claws, mind racing with his mental debate with himself, until he finally let out a low, heavy sigh.

He'd made up his mind.

It took Henry a moment to register it all.

Somehow, Frankie had made the decision to rest his head on top of his, coiled arms wrapping themselves around his center. The metal was ice-cold to the touch, but in an... almost grounding sense.

...But why?

Why would Frankie do this at all? He could have chosen to do anything else with Henry, maybe drag him back to the Other for what he'd done. He could have left him.

So why would he decide to stay with him instead?

Henry just didn't know how to react. All he could do was cry harder, gripping onto the springs draped around his body with all he could as the rabbit pressed further into him.

Whatever reason that Frankie had to stay, he just hoped it would let him do it for just a moment longer.

and i handed you a drink of the lovely little thing

on which our survival depends

people say friends don't destroy one another;

what do they know about friends?

Lounging around on a couch was certainly different when it wasn't in the Contestant's old dingy apartment.

Everything was a lot more different, really, at least to them; Like smoking, but now they were doing it with some fancy cigars hailing from Cuba instead of cheap, crappy packs of cigarettes from the gas station that they'd burn through.

Said cigar was currently on the floor along with the table, as well as Deputy, who was currently kicking his legs and squawking as he struggled to get himself right-side up.

The Contestant sighed, grabbing Deputy from the floor and brushing the residue from the ashtray off of his screen. He gave a small qua-quack in what they took as gratitude. They didn't speak duck, after all.

Maybe I struck some kind of chord with that other Frankie, they thought, putting a hand to their throat that still stung with the bitter aftertaste of tobacco.

Before the Contestant could contemplate further the intercoms above buzzed to life, sending a jolt of shock through their body as a voice cut through the fizzling static.

"LUCKY CONTESTANT!"

Oh. It was just Frankie. They relaxed their shoulders, tilting their focus to the speakers above as the voice continued on.

It was a routine they were well-adjusted to by this point. To try and even up the workload of preparing for the new season, them and Frankie would split up their workload through shifts. He'd do surveillance around the Parkour Palace, the Contestant would do some of the financial stuff around it, and vice-versa when the time came to trade things out.

In this case, it was the latter's turn to watch over the cameras for the night. Deputy Duck tilted his head to look up at them as they made their way to the elevators that had already opened up nearby, the door closing behind the two.

"There you are, my Lucky Contestant!"

Frankie had reached a gloved hand out to pat the Contestant on the head in greeting. They readjusted their mask once he'd finally let go, straightening their posture as they stood before him.

"Good to see you too, Frank."

The rest continued like it always did. Frankie slipped through the doorway with a "Good luck, and good night!", leaving the Contestant to their own devices in the Intercom Room. They scooted a plastic chair (was there always two of them in there?) towards the CCTV footage, placing Deputy on the desk beside them as they watched through the cameras.

"Back to the old night shift. Right, Deputy?" They mumbled, petting the duck on his plastic head.

Quack.

"Yeah, me too."

The only thing they had to worry about was eyestrain, given they did this whole gig for hours on end. Then again, it wasn't too hard to pass the time; they were pretty used to keeping themselves awake for a long while. Sucked that things were uneventful for the most part, though, but at least it was an easy job.

...

...And then, they saw something out of the corner of their eye. They leaned closer into one of the screens, trying to track whatever movement they picked up on...

Huh, you don't see that every day.

One of the only interactions that the Contestant had seen between Henry and 'Frankie' had given the idea that the two weren't on the best of terms. So naturally, the last thing they expected to be seeing on the security cameras were the two holding onto one another, leaned on one of the walls in Connections.

They broke away from each other, Henry's head bobbing slightly as he supposedly spoke to the robotic rabbit. Was he laughing a bit? Given the lack of audio from the televisions, it was impossible to tell anything that was going on.

The Contestant watched Henry get up and walk away from the wall, Frankie dragging himself behind him and out of the camera's view.

They leaned back in their seat, tilting their head up to look at the ceiling above them.

The sound of white noise emanating from the televisions felt a bit louder in their head than it did before.

thunder clouds forming, cream white moon

everything's gonna be okay soon

maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day

And the Other made his way through the Utilidors, the memory of every prior event replaced by a plan for the next day's preparation for the season somewhere in his mind,

carried you up the stairs that night

all this could be yours if the price is right

i heard cars headed down to oblivion up on the expressway

And Frankie and Henry both went their separate ways for the night, silently wondering if the other would remember what had happened by the time morning came,

your drunken kiss is as light as the air

maybe everything that falls down eventually rises

And Deputy tilted his head to the side as he watched the Contestant with confusion, wishing he had the voice to ask what exactly they had seen,

our house sinking into disrepair

And, deep down, it began to dawn on the Contestant that maybe they hadn't earned anything at all—

ah, but look at this showroom, filled with fabulous prizes

[oopsiedaisiesbaby]

Does John talk while he's pawing at Gale? Does he whisper apologies? Try dirty talk? Is he silent? Does Gale mutters assurances that it's okay he forgives Joh? Does he take it silently?

Oooh I hadn’t thought about this but now I can’t stop 😅

I think it depends on how feral he is at that given moment.

So, peak feral John:

“Love your tits so much,” John groaned, nosing behind Gale’s ear. His hot breath stirred the hairs at the nape of Gale’s neck, forcing a slight shiver out of him.

It was covered up slightly by John sliding one of his hands from Gale’s chest down his abdomen as John continued to whisper into his ear, “Bet you’re already soaked for me too, aren’t you, doll?”

He cupped Gale through his trousers, fingers dipping in where he was shamefully starting to slick. He knew John couldn’t feel it through the layers of his underwear and pants, but the way he grunted against the already goosefleshed skin of Gale’s neck had him flushing.

Gale checked to see how the victims of their latest show of depravity were faring and flushed at the way Benny and Everett were averting their eyes, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. His stomach twisted with guilt and wretched embarrassment when Crosby cleared his throat and failed to start a conversation with Johnny who was staring at them with a sour expression.

“Gonna bend you over this table, taste how much you want me straight from the source,” John promised, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against Gale’s back as he continued to let his hands wander and grope at their leisure. “Stuff you so full. Knot you until you cry.”

Jack looked a little green at John’s words and Gale thought he might actually burn alive for enjoying John’s pain so much. Until, John rocked his hips up against Gale’s and it took everything in Gale to bite back the whimper.

He was definitely going to burn alive. If not from guilt, then from shame as he watched any last bit of respect from his men die as John sucked a bruise into Gale’s neck while rubbing at his hardening dick and rutting against his ass.

Spoiler alert, the man have not lost any respect for him. Like I mentioned in a previous ask, their hearts are just broken to see The Buckies suffering so much.

In his more lucid moments, John definitely apologizes as he does it:

“I’m sorry, doll,” Bucky whispered brokenly, voice thick in his throat as he grabbed at Buck’s ass and notched their hips together a little tighter.

Rosie and Curt’s crestfallen expressions over Buck’s shoulder kept the hand Buck was running through his curls from being soothing. He knew how rotten it was to be using Buck like this when it was nothing like anything he had ever wanted.

He couldn’t know that Bucky had been dying for just a sliver of this when they first met. That it was Bucky’s burning desire to have any piece of Gale he could get that had him giving him his name within seconds of meeting him.

“Shhh,” Buck gentler him, pressing the sweetest kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “Take what you need, John.”

Bucky whimpered, avoiding Everett’s knowing gaze as he leaned in and plunged his tongue into Buck’s mouth as he continued to move their hips together in quick, tight, little movements as he let his hands slip under Buck’s shirt and cherish warm, smooth skin.

He had never wanted anything more in his entire life than he wanted Buck. Bucky would never stop feeling guilty for forcing Buck into everything he had never wanted and more.

Spoiler alert, Gale was definitely into at that point and feeling his own guilt.

Sorry these are shorter! My brain is going but still not coherent. This is so much fun to consider 😍

[flaggermuser]

I interupt my regularly scheduled Homelander brain rot to present something different.

A snippet from my Astarion/Tav WIP.

My Tav is called Silje which is pronounce the same way as Cilia in Cecilia.

A storm blows through the camp, and everyone is tucked away in tents.

All except Silje, of course; she’s the only one without one.

Astarion peers out, staring at the ranger as she tries to maintain the dying fire, her only source of warmth, while the rain soaks her to the bone. It’s a rather pitiful sight that he’d rather enjoy if it weren’t for the annoying little thought wriggling in his mind, much like the tadpole.

At first, he wasn't sure what to make of her - the human ranger with a scar over her eye and freckle-dusted skin. When they first met, he'd held a blade to her throat, and she'd headbutted him.

Then there was the moment when they first made camp, he gazed up at her, pretending to watch the stars, contemplating what would happen once they found the druid. In truth, he was somewhat concerned that their little adventure would be over.

In such a short amount of time, he’d grown fond of her; she impressed him, a feat very few had managed.

The entire incident where he bled her dry (with her consent), stopping that pretty little heart of hers, he felt would change the feelings between them. When she’d been revived and confronted him with furrowed brows and a rather adorable little pout, she’d said something that caught him off guard.

“Look, I’m not ‘against’ you feeding on me, but only if we talk about it first…”

It was a rather gracious offer he’d be a fool to reject, yet he wasn’t prepared for her to offer him the chance to dine every night.

He sighs, opening the flap to his tent and calling out to her, “Leave that wretched thing and come here; the last thing you need to do is freeze to death. Not when I find you stimulating company.”

Abandoning the fire, she races to his tent, pausing to remove her shoes before stepping inside. Of all the things he could call her (and had under his breath and in private), rude is not one of them. She clearly knew expensive fabrics when she saw them.

He hums, rummaging through a pile of fabrics, pulling free a slightly heavier one and draping it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” - Spoken with sincerity.

Sometimes, you're a little too good for my liking.

Despite the fabric engulfing her, she still shivers, and he rolls his eyes, gently helping her to sit on the floor. He sits behind her, running his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her up even though it’s her fault she’s in this mess.

“Honestly, I don’t understand you sometimes. You could have spoken to anyone in this camp, and they’d gladly invite your good little self into their tent. But no, you just had to sit in the rain.”

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

Oh no, of course you didn’t.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Heaven forbid you intrude. Honestly, you’re such a good little thing that it’s bordering on naivety. Keep going like this; plenty of people will walk over you.”

She huffs, “You think my kindness is a weakness? In this harsh and unforgiving world, kindness does a great deal of good, but it doesn’t make me a fool.”

No wonder they all love you so much; you’re a precious little thing.

[andr0nap]

just dropping in to say I absolute ADORE your art, your colors and backgrounds and everything is absolutely gorgeous and I was losing my mind a little at your entire "ice planet au". Like, the backgrounds?!?!?! The environments?!! I need to sit down with those for a few hours and study how you did them because !!!! its amazing?! Also the ptarmigan inspired Tomas are adorable and I wish to hug them. And!! Diversity in Tomas?!! YES! My biology heart is singing with joy

also. Also. Sea Slug Vash. The Design. Is. Impeccable. Deep sea inspirations are absolutely perfect for the whole multidimensional kind of eldritch thing and vibe he + the plants have going on and it is stupendous. I absolutely love it

Aaaand the centaur au, is just delightful and I love the designs and the details to their forms, from Vash and Knives having different biology that's distinctly different when you look at details but close enough that Vash can mimic being horse-ish. (The coat patterns are so pretty!)

And (mostly last thing) this piece: https://www.tumblr.com/andr0nap/723041602792210432/turn-your-gaze-upon-this-wretched-holy-thing?source=share

I am in awe. The lighting, the detail work?! It has the feathers of trimax but the plant patterning of stampede (and oh gods, the patterning, the detail, the glow--) and then Vash's damned hand?! You've got all the pieces plus the texture and I'm just staring. AND the symbolism! Like, you've got Wolfwood staring at Vash, though Vash himself is hidden from view, and I'm just ajkghdkghjkd

Thank you very much for sharing your art!!

BWAAA THANK YOU SM!!! youre so sweet aaaa 🥺🥺🥺💕

im so happy people like my little ice planet au!! im no storyteller but i love worldbuilding and biology and putting my faves in new environments!! i definitely want to get back to this au when i get past the fandom burnout bc i put a lot of thought into this and id hate for it to end up gathering dust

YEAHH!! you get me!! i love feathery angel vash with all my heart but theres something so charming about the naked slimy chicken slug (more of that coming soon in the backlog dump)

designing the unicorn twins was an interesting little challenge, trying to make them look horse enough to be able to blend in with the masses but also predatory enough to make you go hey wait Thats Not A Horse. vash needs to put more effort into making himself look harmless because A. he moves differently from an equine when he isnt putting up an act with his exaggerated gait and B. the prey part in my centaurs brains is alive and well and theyre a suspicious bunch by nature so seeing vash stalk towards them in his normal gait would set off a lot of alarm bells

and im happy you like that piece!! it was my proper full render for the fandom and im still very proud of it!!! (esp the prosthetic.. and the fact that i remembered to turn on the timelapse yippee)

thank you again for the sweet ask!!!

[gaylittlewizardcat]

Mistoffelees: [Wow. I’m at a loss for words.]

Victoria: [If I have to hear that joke one more time I’m disowning you as my brother]

Mistoffelees: [You can hear that joke?]

Victoria: >:l

Mistoffelees: :>

[nelliesnellie]

Hit by a Tegan And Sara Shaped Brick

Have you ever heard a song for the first time in over a decade, completely forgotten about? It hits you like a fucking brick. Or that's how it works for me anyway.

This is basically a journal-y musing about Tegan And Sara, growing up kinda repressed, and mowing lawns while listening to college radio.

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

I'm having a pretty angsty day as it is — something that listening to Tegan And Sara was never bound to help. But I have a 12ish-year-old mental note rattling around my brain that says "listen to Tegan and Sara" and I needed to clear some clutter. Besides, apparently I'm a dyke in Canada. To not give them a go would be simply irresponsible.

So picking an album somewhat at random, I put on The Con. Immediately good shit. I can get pretty nostalgic about 2000s indie music, even though I only got into it in like 2010. Maybe missing out on the heyday is part of that nostalgia — after all, nostalgia is based missing an experience more than it is living one. I got through two-thirds of the album. It's a great experience. This is no surprise. I am, in fact, the demographic. Every time one of their songs has come up in the past its made me want to do this dive and it was not disappointing.

And then the song "Nineteen" starts playing. I'm hit by a peculiar wave of emotion and I stop playing Tetris mid-game. THIS WAS IT. I had heard it once before, about 12 years ago, and was immediately smacked upside the head with a clear memory.

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

In my mid-teens I had a summer job mowing lawns. Yeah that's right. I'm intimately familiar with the blended smell of fresh cut grass, gasoline, and occasionally hot dog shit. The sound of the mower engine masking a chorus of bugs. This was in Northern New York — a largely rural place which comes with most of the expectations one might have of the American countryside.

It was an awkward place to grow up as a queer indie kid. Hell, I didn't have the resources to even begin to understand that I was a transfeminine lesbian. I just knew I was different, that something was off.

I did not take for granted any accessible source of "cool music." This included the local college radio station. It went to shit by the time I attended that school, but in my mid-teens it was exactly what one wants of a college radio station, playing its delightful indie nonsense. And when I mowed lawns, I would often tune in on the radio built into my chunky, noise-protective headset I wore to protect me from the wretched sound of the combustion engine.

And that's how I heard "Nineteen" by Tegan And Sara for the first time. And the song HIT. It's full of this longing passion. To me it evoked a deep yearning for something I couldn't even articulate. "I felt you in my legs before I even met you." It was aesthetically and thematically evocative of something I was missing without being able to articulate. Something so deep I don't think I could've spoken about it, to quote an entirely separate artist. And their sound has this undeniable "cool girl" energy that was deeply aspirational to me in a way I didn't even understand at the time (classic trans girl egg situation).

In spite of all that, I never followed up on looking them up though. Probably because this was the iTunes days when I only got music from sharing mp3s with friends, the weekly free iTunes downloads, and the occasional iTunes giftcards. But it was one of those memorable first-listen experiences, like the time I first heard Regina Spektor laying in my bed one night listening to the same station on a shitty handmedown mp3 player that had a built in radio. Ugh. Why does Spektor have to be a Zionist?

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

I think this aesthetic of cool-girl longing is why it hit me so hard back then, and hearing it for the second time at nearly 30. By this point I've found myself, I've found my people, I've found my life. I've made it across that enigmatic chasm I felt the first time I heard it. It's not really a journey I think about that often, it just is what it is. But this time it just swept me down like an undertow.

I don't even know that its an amazing song. Like its a GOOD song. But I feel like my subjective experience is what makes it really hit.

Time travel is a heavy drug. Maybe next time I'll talk about hearing Tubthumping for the first time as an adult lmao.

[stealthnoodle]

hearing "i shipped astos/garland before stranger in paradise was a twinkle in nomura's eye" SENT ME. as a sop fan, i salute your ancient wisdom 🫡🫡🫡

I still haven't played it (it is on The List), but when Stranger of Paradise first came out and people started posting about its characters and major plot points, my brain turned into Winona Ryder at the SAG awards because it was like the creative team had received their wretched visions from the same source I did at the turn of the millennium

[deathlessathanasia]

"Then her (the witch Erictho's) voice, more powerful than any herb to bewitch the powers of Lethe, began to utter dissonant cries, far different from any human speech. The dog’s yowl, the wolf’s howl, were there, the restless barn-owl’s hoot, and the screech-owl’s call, beasts’ wails and shrieks, the hissing of snakes, they were all expressed within; and the roar of waves beating on rocks, the forest’s moan, the thunder through a rift in the cloud, all such things formed that single voice. Next she began a Thessalian spell, in accents that penetrated Tartarus: ‘You Furies, and you Stygian horrors, you torments of the guilty, and you, Chaos, ready to confound innumerable worlds in ruin; and you, ruler of the world below, a god whom lingering Death torments through long centuries; and Styx, and that Elysium no Thessalianwitch deserves; and Persephone who shuns her mother in heaven; and the third form of our patroness, Hecate, through whom the shades and I converse silently; and the Janitor of the wide realm, who throws men’s flesh to the savage hound; and the Sisters who must re-spin the thread of life; and you, ancient ferryman of the fiery wave, weary of rowing shades back to me: hear my prayer! If I invoke you with sufficiently foul and impious lips; if I never chant these spells fasting from human flesh; if I have often slit open those breasts filled with divinity, and laved them with warm brains; if any infant whose head and organs were laid on your platters might prevail with you, grant me my request. …

With this, foaming at the mouth, she raised her head to find the shade of the unburied dead close beside her. It feared the lifeless corpse, the loathsome confinement of its former prison; it shrank from entering the gaping breast, the flesh and innards ruined by the mortal wound. Oh wretched ghost, iniquitously robbed of death’s final gift, that is: to die no more! Erictho marvelled that fate could be delayed so, and enraged by the dead she lashed the inert corpse with a live serpent, and through the clefts where the earth had been split by her spells she growled like a dog at the shades below and shattering the silence of their realm, cried: ‘Tisiphone and Megaera, unheeding of my voice, will you not drive the unhappy spirit with your cruel whips from the void of Erebus? Or shall I summon you by your secret names, Hounds of Hell, and render you helpless in the light above; there to keep you from graves and funerals; banish you from tombs, drive you from urns of the dead. And you, Hecate, all pale and withered in form, who paint your face before you visit the gods above, I will show them you as you are, and prevent you altering your hellish form. I shall speak aloud about that food which confines Proserpine beneath the vast weight of earth above, by what compact she loves the gloomy king of darkness, what defilement she suffered such that you Ceres would not recall her. I shall burst your caves asunder, Ruler of the Underworld, and admit light instantly to blast you. Will you obey me? Or shall I call on one at the sound of whose name earth ever quakes and trembles, who views the Gorgon’s head without its veil, who lashes the cowering Fury with her own whip, who dwells in Tartarus beyond your sight, for whom you are the gods above, who swears by Styx while perjuring himself.’"

- Lucan, Pharsalia, Book VI

First, Erictho is genuinely terrifying and makes my skin crawl, I recommend reading the full section she appears in. Second, I find it funny when people claim that the Romans ruined Hades and Persephone's beautiful and consensual romance considering that the idea of Persephone/Proserpina refusing to leave her husband for her mother and the… stuff in this particular passage come from Roman sources.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 13: Justice

Now that your mind is clear enough from the hunger to engage in more complex conversations, your husband delights in telling you of the cases he is presiding over. Every day that he works, he will regale you with stories when you sit down for dinner; you to your glasses of wine and blood, and he to his meal. You wonder if it’s a coincidence that the food he is served is so often the meals that you once told him were your favourite. You decide it’s better not to know.

Today he is delighting over a gnome he sentenced harshly for stealing. “The beggar brought his family to the courthouse as if his squalling pups would make me go easier on him. Can you imagine? Trying to manipulate me with such crude tactics? So naturally I gave him the longest sentence possible. And then,” he adds with glee, “his wife made such a racket that I had her arrested for disturbing the proceedings! They were both dragged off to prison together!” He lets out a cruel laugh.

“What happened to the children?” you ask, keeping your voice as neutral as you can.

“What? Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure they scuttled off back to whatever hole they nest in. They're only gnomes. Anyway,” he says, raising his glass, “here’s to justice. Drink up, darling.”

There’s something about the glint in his eye when he says that last sentence that sends a terrible stab of suspicion through your chest. A question burns on your lips. You’ve asked it before with little success, but now you are determined to know the truth of it.

“Where did this blood come from, Astarion?”

He says nothing, only smiles at you. When you put your cup down and push it away from you he rolls his eyes.

“You told me it came from willing sources.”

“It does, my dear. Most willing. It’s amazing what people will do to commute their sentence of imprisonment.”

“And the Flaming Fist just allow you to waltz into Wyrms Rock prison and bleed their prisoners dry?”

“Wyrms Rock? Dear me, no, my love. The New Watch imprisons criminals right here. After all, we’re blessed with a newly emptied dungeon fit to hold thousands.”

A newly emptied dungeon. What a pleasant way of putting it. Just a clear-out. Just a clean-up. Not the damnation of seven thousand souls. You’re speaking before your brain catches up with your mouth.

“Do you ever think that killing all those people might have changed you?”

“Of course it changed me, you sweet, silly thing. Killing them allowed me to ascend.”

“You used to be kinder. More gentle.”

“I used to be weak.”

“You used to be good.”

“And now I am great. Besides, you’ve got far more blood on your pretty little hands than I do, my love.” His voice grows colder. “How convenient that you forget your own bloody past when you throw these accusations at me. I am a veritable paladin of virtue compared to you, you godless murderspawn.”

The viciousness of his voice makes you flinch. That's not fair, you want to say, but you can't bring yourself to utter the words because a part of you sees the truth in what he says. All of his cruelty is nothing when compared to the destruction your past self wreaked upon the world. He seems to see the conflict on your face - he is so good at seeing your weaknesses now - and he pounces on it.

“Your ungratefulness astounds me, my pretty little love. You have no idea how worthless you would be without me, do you? Do you think anyone else would want such a useless, broken wretch as yourself? Cast out by your own father, rejected by your chosen god. The weight of the sins you carry should force you to your knees every day in penance. To the world, you are less than worthless. And yet I chose you. I, the greatest vampire who ever lived. And through my love I allow you to share in my majesty, and still you do not thank me. You should kiss the very ground I walk on. You should pray to me every night. But you do not. You dare question me, your husband, your master, your god. My patience with you is proof enough, I think, that I am still kind. I am still gentle. Trust me, pet, you do not want to see what happens when that patience runs out." He pauses and cocks his head to the side, considering. When he continues, his voice is lower, quieter, slower. Deadly. "Or perhaps you do, hmm? You have always liked it when I exert my power over you, haven't you, darling? Back when your heart still beat it would betray your excitement, and now… you might tell me you don't like it, but your actions betray your true desires, don't they? Your actions beg me to discipline you. To punish you. To break you."

You let out the small hum of fear that is the closest you can get to saying 'no' since he took the word from you.

He rises from his seat at the head of the table and walks over to you, pulling your chair out for you.

“I’d go and get some rest, my treasure,” he says to you. “I’m going to need you at your best tomorrow.”

You follow his suggestion, but you already know that the dreadful apprehension curling in your gut will keep you awake tonight.

[marblemoovt]

Sneak Peek at Fever

Starting the John Price fic I've been meaning to write. It's more !Dad Price, and honestly I think the majority of my fics for him will be set in that universe lol.

I feel bad because I can never seem to not make him a sad little guy. Fingers crossed this doesn't grow into a 5k+ monstrosity that dwells in my drafts for ages.

Blurb after read more.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

The noise has grown louder, more frantic. Your brain refuses to process the source as you take a visual sweep of your room. 

Until you hear John shout your name. 

The floorboards squeak beneath your weight as you weave between your furniture. Sliding to a stop in front of the door, your fingers fumble with the lock before you wretch it open.

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s carrying it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine and you can feel your fingers go cold. Your eyes widen and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You take a step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.