#stony wicked au

[pinkpinkmermayyy]

yall hear me out

popular in the stony wicked au

@lunadensmidnightprowl @transgender-tonystark

[lunadensmidnightprowl]

@pinkpinkmermayyy your stony wicked au has such a grip on my psyche it's insane

i was wheezing the entire time good witch tony came to be lolllll

[nanamiskentos]

UNADULTERATED LOATHING ! ☓. ── ( 五条 悟, gojo satoru )

⌗ dazzling starlet, bardot reincarnatе. well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist ? you have an effect on gojo satoru, and he tells you that it's pure, unadulterated loathing. but why does his heart say otherwise?

ᯓ starring ─ ﹙ 五条 悟 : gojo satoru ﹚ ─ the strongest x reader

𝓳𝓳𝓴. ㅤ﹑ ( 呪術廻戦 x afab!reader )  ─��─ ❛ cw ⌓. sfw. wicked!au. enemies to lovers, gojo is SO in love, mutual pining, this is just a one-shot, like a quick snippet. wc ⌓. 2k.

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ( author says ) i finally watched wicked and i was listening to olivia rodrigo's lacy

you push through the doors of your long awaited assigned dormitory, already dreaming of the quiet solitude that's ready for you. that blissful moment when you can drop your bags, sink into the comfort of your room, and finally crack open that hefty book in your bag.

but the moment that you step aside, that dream dies a swift and unceremonious death. this room is a disaster. a veritable storm of pale blue, navy, and stark white sprawls across every available surface that the eye can take in. clothes draped over chairs, video game casings cracked open at odd angles, and half-finished letters abandoned in precarious piles. there's even a pair of sunglasses littered on the floor, so very close to polished tips of your new boots.

you just inhale sharply, already bracing yourself for the worst as you round the heavy trunk that blocks your path. only to collide, at full, devastating force into a solid, broad chest.

a firm plane of muscle that belongs to none other than the golden boy, gojo satoru.

and god, how your head snaps up in horror. his ever-present sunglasses are pushed up to his white hair, exposing a pair of sharp and wary eyes. bright and assessing, and currently locked onto you as if your very presence is the final act of some awful cosmic joke.

for a long and weighty moment, neither of you speak. there's a realisation settling between the two of you like a stone dropped into deep water. the administration truly did not make a mistake, gojo satoru was your new roommate.

"do you really think this is fair?" you ask, voice a tad weaker than you had hoped.

gojo just exhales through his nose, as if he's suffering through tragedies untold, "i do not." but his voice is melodic, smooth, as he straightens his spine so the very uppermost tufts of his snowy hair brush the ceiling, "as i was promised a private suite. but thanks for asking."

your eyes fall back skywards, stepping past him to assess your new surrounding. manoeuvring carefully through this...mess. gojo, for his part, seems content to move aside and keep his distance. he's just watching you in the large, oaken vanity, fiddling with his already-perfect hair.

casual, far too casual. he's suspicious, you realise. which, considering your mutual dislike, is quite fair.

still, it seems as though he's eager to make a show of his generosity. gojo's leaning away from the mirror, "i saved you some space, by the way." gesturing a long limb towards the farthest, least appealing corner of the room, where a diminutive daybed sits awkwardly beside a tiny, lopsided table with exactly one draw. your eyes fall on gojo's own bed, a rather ornate and gilded piece with curtans. ugh, what a diva.

gojo somehow must be mistaking your stony grimace for gratitude, for he's smiling. all beatific and cherubic, as though he's a saint sent down from the heavens above, "it was nothing. roommates do these things for each other, after all."

your eyes meet jewel-blue, still watching as gojo basks in your silent outrage. he's stretching his arms out luxuriously, kicking up his own boots onto a plush, cornflower blue ottoman.

you're going to strangle gojo satoru in his sleep. but had you not turned away from the walking waste of oxygen, you might have noticed the sudden, red flush that plastered itself onto gojo's alabaster skin — crawling up his neck until it tickled at his ears.

the room is now steeped in candlelight, the soft glow of gojo's lamp casting a cool, blue hue over everything. shadows flicker along the walls, elongating the handsome angles of his face as he lounges at his desk, twirling a navy feather-quill between his fingers. the fine parchment before him still lays untouched, for his gaze keeps drifting to you.

you, curled up on your far end of the room on your bed, bathed in the tired amber glow of your own lamp. gojo just watches as you're lost in your own careful strokes of ink on dry parchment. and he hates to admit it, loathes to even bestow upon you this grace, but he's fascinated by the sight of you — the most brilliant (if odd) peer in this damn cohort.

you write the way people pray, head bowed and utterly absorbed as each word is something sacred. your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks, and gojo just gnaws at the soft flesh in his own mouth. enraptured by the parting of your lips lost in thought.

gojo satoru has seen beautiful things before, no-one raised in the illustrious gojo clan hasn't, but this is something else. something he can't quite name, and he fears that he hates you for the hold you have over him.

"to whom it may concern at the ol' gojo clan. guess what?" gojo finally begins, scrawling the words onto his letters without much thought. pretending to make a big show of tapping his chin, kicking back against his bed.

but across the room, you're so, so adamant to barely acknowledge gojo. forgoing his desire for constant attention to be rather focused on your own letter to home, "my dear father. thank you for agreeting to let me stay."

gojo's exhaling dramatically, head lolling back onto his tired neck, "i can't hear your guesses because this is a letter. so i'll just tell you."

silence stretches between the two of you, filled only by the faint rustling of paper, and the distant sound of laughter from the courtyard below. gojo's fingers tap out a restless rhythm against the wood of his bedside table. you're still refusing to acknowledge him, still wrapped up in your letter, and gojo — who has spent his entire life commanding love and affection, expecting it, feels something like irritation curl in his chest. or maybe it's something else entirely.

he tries again, and unbeknownst to the lovestruck gojo, you're penning the exact same words on your own letters.

"there's been some confusion over rooming here at school."

you're suddenly glancing over at him, and gojo bites his heavy tongue at the flicker of exasperation flashing through your eyes. watching as you sigh, and shake your head, "but of course," you scrawl, "i'll focus on my studies."

gojo's lips twitch, "but of course, i'll rise above it."

it seems that neither of you are aware that you are both writing in tandem now, so very synchronised as gojo dips his quill lazily into that half-empty ink pot, "for i know that's how you'd want me to respond."

gojo watches from you from behind the rim of his sunglasses, shameless in his greed for the sight of you, and utterly fascinated. the delicate furrow of your brow, the way your fingers tap absently against the desk when you pause to think. he knows people. he understands them.

but you? you are a riddle wrapped in something unfairly lovely, a puzzle he isn't even sure he's able to solve, because maybe knowing would make the mystery less intoxicating. gojo briefly wonders why he feels as though he's about to hurl.

"yes, there's been some confusion, for you see, my roommate is..."

gojo pauses, contemplating, for how does one describe you? how does anyone categorise something so strangely, annoyingly captivating?

you are contradictions woven into the shape of a person. sharp and soft, cold and brilliant, distant but so alive. he wants to say infuriating or prickly or entirely too self-serious, but none of those words quite capture the way that gojo's world seems to tilt slightly whenever you shoot him that unimpressed look.

"unusually and exceedingly peculiar, and altogether quite impossible to describe."

but you? you have very little hesitation. your quill barely lingering before you hastily scribble away, "blonde."

scratching the quill against the cheap parchment in a single stroke, amending yourself, "or rather, silver-haired and silver-tongued. yet, all too lacking for wit or decency."

and so you gently blow on the drying ink, neatly creasing the letter as you do your best not to meet gojo satoru's eyes. isn't he just too much? too loud, too arrogant, too sure of himself?

gojo satoru walks into a room as though it belongs to him, like the air bends around him and gravity itself is an afterthought to the heir of the gojo clan.

and god, you hate the way that your eyes must betray you first, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw or the effortless sway of his posture. the way his silver-white hair falls perfectly, no matter how carelessly he runs a hand through it. you hate, truly loathe the way gojo tilts his head when he's pretending to listen, or the way pink lips curl when he's about to say something that will drive you absolutely nuts.

you tell yourself that you find him irritating, not intoxicating. that you're unmoved, not entranced. that you don't notice the absurd prettiness of the school's golden boy, that annoyingly, careless confidence and the way he seems to puncture the air out of your lungs.

gojo's snowy head jerks, as though he can hear your thoughts. eyes narrowing behind dark lenses as he folds his own letter and tucks it into the pocket of his uniform jacket. you just school your features, and shoot him a seething look as though you did not just spend the last five minutes memorising every single detail of his face.

it's just loathing. pure, unadulterated loathing.

[theanoninyourinbox]

ONE OFF (maybe) WORLDBUILDING TIME

This is all @moths-wc-aus fault with the Worldbuilding generator, and thanks to @exocynraku for the cat description generator!

INTRODUCING STORMCLAN! (yes I know there's now a canon stormclan but it's cool so shoosh and enjoy)

Stormclan is a clan known for their steady demeanors, their efficient actions, and their mercy in battles. They value being like their environment - steady as stone but quick as water, ready to grow like the trees and laugh like the wind - and respect the cycle of life. Their merciful natures comes from the gods they worship - The Five Before. They eat a varied diet, but mostly fish and birds. Certain insects are farmed for the barren times. They weave the reeds and bark of their home into dens, baskets, and accessories.

This clan lives in a verdant stretch of a canyon, on the edges of a grand river. The clan is so large that the are split into 3-5 (depending on the seasons) colonies along the river, all in caves or under stony overhangs.

The main camp is situated under a large, ancient olive tree, and in the den of an equally ancient wolfpack. The nine founders of Stormclan found some of their bones scattered throughout, and sometimes trade the claws to travelers and wandering groups - the rest of the bones were either given to the river or buried beneath the path to The Sacred Grove. A Monster skeleton lies in front of the main cave entrance, and the Leader of the clan will address all from there.

The river is gentle on the surface, but has few places where cats can cross or fish safely. Each safe point is marked with stone stacks, and all cats are taught at a young age to be very careful - fish may be their main food in the hottest times, but the river doesn't differentiate between cat or leaf litter or whole trees. In flash flood season, messengers or available swift and loud cats are stationed at high points, ready to scream an echoing warning to go to higher ground.

The Sacred Grove lies behind the waterfall, down a long tunnel of packed earth. Here a piece of each passed clan member are buried in the walls, the rest given to the river to carry to new places. The Grove has an opening in the roof, allowing a single small tree to grow there. This is where the Speakers go, to offer sacrifices to the Five Before, and to ask the stars for guidance. The stars are where the dead rise to, regardless of their lives. It is the company of the Five Before that is withheld from the wicked, and the ability to give wisdom to the living to the virtuous.

The clan is guided by a single leader, with an heir and several underleaders - one for each colony in the clan. If two colonies merge, the senior underleader takes over, and the junior underleader acts as their heir. If the heir wishes to step down, they choose the next heir - unless they cannot choose (by death, being missing, or being banished, or otherwise), then the clan is asked to vote. The leader is given nine lives - for the nine founders of the original clan - and their health is tied to the health of Stormclan. A happy clan that trust their leadership means a healthy leader - but a clan in turmoil may lead to a sickly leader.

Kits are usually apprenticed at 6 moons, but may take up to 10 moons if they have a disability or special need - so that the best mentor or mentors may be chosen. No kit is left behind, for all kits can overcome anything, with the right mentor or the right role. Training may take up to a year, with the second half of the year being dedicated to learning at least a little of each role alongside polishing their skills. Knowing how to weave a basket may be useful, but knowing what herb helps with snakebite can save a life. This also can ensure an apprentice is happy with their role - there is no shame changing a path to a better or more fulfilling one. All cats know how to hunt, and work in shifts of their chosen duties and hunting duties. Cats may take mates at the half-year apprenticeship mark, when they gain their adult names and visit the Sacred Grove with offerings to each of the Five.

Messengers are traveling nearly every week - carrying woven bags of herbs, bones, and other goods. Only experienced messengers are allowed to travel in the heat of the day - most travel in the cool of the night, on moonlit nights. They are welcomed to each colony, with their goods and tales - and with the toms, their genetic contributions. (Such donations are carefully recorded, with the usual family lines. Female messengers may also get donors from the colonies they travel to, but usually molly messengers are single or don't want/keep kits)

Nurses are healers, but also the cat equivalent to first responders. They tend their precious herb gardens, grind medicines, and valiantly fight off anything or anyone who threatens their patients. The current Lead Nurse lost a leg saving their pregnant patient from a falling stone. Any nurse is allowed to have kits, but only if they have at least one trained apprentice under them, or another fully trained senior nurse available. Every colony has at least two nurses - one fully trained and one apprentice.

Denmakers are the artists of the clan, weaving both useful and beautiful items. They make the dens, as their names suggest, but they also make messenger carry-baskets, storage baskets, and accessories. They often are older or retired cats, and sometimes cats who became injured and can no longer work as they once did. There is no shame in retiring, and denmakers are often good therapists and philosophers.

Speakers are rare - only one can hold the role at a time, but another is always chosen two years before the natural death of the current Speaker (in the case of a murder or accidental death, the leader acts as a temporary Speaker until the new Speaker is chosen, and helps to train them). Speakers are always cats who have survived the unsurvivable - long falls, drowning, flash fires, or heat stroke. They Speak to the gods, and tell the colonies what must be sacrificed for good fortune or to stave off the wrath of offended Wandering Spirits - the dead and the gathered feelings of the living. The current Speaker was found abandoned, her legs burnt by a lightning-sparked fire. Speakers may not take a mate or keep kits, but they may donate and have contact with their family. Only one molly Speaker had kits, but she was chosen shortly after surviving major bloodloss, and was able to raise them with her mate and see them become adults, until becoming the Speaker.

Stormclan worships the Five Before - Stone, River, Tree, Sky, and Change.

As the ancient story goes, River and Stone were mates in the void, and River birthed Tree and Stone birthed Sky. They ran together in the endless dark, before shedding their fur and creating the world. Change clawed their way up from the soil when the world became too crowded, and created the Cycle of Rot and Renewal - of Life begetting Death, and Death feeding Life. One day, nine cats decided to battle the Five, so that they may have a safe place to live. The nine were easily defeated, but Sky begged that his kin stay their claws and fangs, and made the nine cats explain. The boldest spoke up, that their homes had thrown them out for many reasons - being too crowded, refusing to have kits, changing their pronouns, feeling unsatisfied in life, and being too outgoing - and being so desperate for a home together that they would fight the Five Themselves. The Five Before were sympathetic - Stone and River had made their family so they would not be lonely, and Tree, Sky, and Change could not imagine throwing away their kin for any such silly reasons. The Five made the cats vow to give them offerings, and learn from them, so that they might be something new - the first Clan. Sky named them for their ferocity and wild cries - Stormclan.

Stone is the most fierce of the Five, and is known for their hotheadedness and unbreakable fangs and skin. They shed their fur to create stones and soil, and their wrath is felt in earthquakes and rockfalls. Offerings to Stone are succulents (Tree's gift to Stone, to give them the inspiration to grow gems), black or sandy stones, and fossils.

River is the most emotional of the Five, and is known for their adaptability (being ice and water and fog) and constantly waterlogged pelt. They shed their fur to create rivers, oceans, and snow, and their wrath is felt in floods and droughts. Offerings to River are fish bones, hail (Sky's gift to River, so they could make ice and snow), and clear or white stones.

Tree is the most helpful of the Five, and is known for their cheeriness and is known for their ever-growing and ever-changing bark and leaves. They shed their fur to become trees and all green things, and their wrath is felt in disease and poisonous plants growing wild. Offerings to Tree are petrified wood (Stone's gift to Tree, to preserve their favorite trees), seeds or fruit -especially olives-, and green or wood-brown stones.

Sky is the most talkative of the Five, and is known for their sense of humor and their pelt of clouds and feathers. They shed their fur to become the sky and the air, and their wrath is felt in out-of-season storms and tornadoes. Offerings to Sky are windswept stones (River's gift to Sky, showing him how to carve the earth like her waters did), any part of a flying animal - bird, insect, or rarely bat or very adventurous lizard -, and cloudy or grey stones.

Change is the most mysterious of the Five, and is known for their preservation of balance, and their two faces. They keep the Cycle of Rot and Renewal turning for all creatures, and are the most difficult to Speak to. Change is the one who chooses Speakers, halting the Cycle so one may Speak to the Five Offerings to Change are mushrooms (a gift from the rest of their family, mushrooms grow everywhere and keep the Cycle going), birth and death objects paired (like eggs and bird bones or seeds and dead branches), and multicolored stones.

Offerings are given every full moon, and colonies have a designated area to worship, so they don't have to trek back to the main camp every moon.

[iamumbra195]

One-Shot from my completely unhinged and unplanned SBG Manhwa AU and kinda Part 2 of this Post

Mostly Outsider POV until the end

Context:

Essentially what happened is that Ashlyn's parents went missing when she was fourteen under mysterious circumstances and she's been searching for them since. She turned to magic and became Mage of the Tower when she was 15-16. She's been mostly isolated and only goes out to follow leads, which is why she's travelling with these merchants to Savannah. Aiden and Ben are returning from a three-year exploration expedition and stopping at Savannah to rest and this is where the three officially meet. Aiden met Ashlyn once when he was younger and he swears he recognizes her from somewhere but can't remember. Ashlyn doesn't know he's the crown prince but doesn't want him to recognize her because he's weird and she wants to stay undercover.

Word Count: 1.37k

Anyways, onto the fic

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Smoke rose from the smoldering remains of a campfire, hardly visible in the dense foliage of the Forsyth Woodlands. 

Eleven figures lay around the dying fire, curled under blankets to guard from the frigid breeze of the night. A twelfth rested just within earshot, leaning back against a shadowed horse carriage. The horses themselves were tied to a nearby tree, feeding on some grass in the clearing.

Bingo.

Haik jumped down from his perch in the trees and landed in a silent crouch, sending his waiting companions a wicked grin as he straightened up. “Another batch of amateur merchants– their lookout couldn’t even stay awake!”

A young girl with olive skin and short, dark curly hair stood near a middle-aged man with scarred, pale skin and long brown hair, shadowed beneath the forestry as Haik approached. 

“Think robbin’ ‘em blind will be enough to teach ‘em a lesson?” Karine snickered with a matching grin of her own, revealing a golden tooth that glinted in the moonlight and contrasted the brilliant emerald of her eyes.

Haik tore his gaze away from her to check Sevan’s reaction but found his expression as impassive as ever, the only difference being the suspicious squint in his eyes. Haik clicked his tongue in irritation. “What now, you superstitious old man? This is the lucky break we’ve been waiting on for weeks now.”

He was tired of eating the same shitty meal his mother prepared, of the silent disgust in her eyes as she stared at the lout her brilliant boy had become. He wanted to drown in expensive alcohol and the cash earned from the stolen goods of idiotic merchants. He wanted to forget.

He tried to listen to Sevan most of the time because he was the seasoned bandit of their group and weathered the worst of the worst with scars to show for it but sometimes just being in his presence grated at Haik’s fraying patience, especially after weeks of dealing with his mother’s snide remarks.

“It’s nothing.” Sevan shook his head before he shot the teen an irritated look. “And don’t call me old, I’m barely thirty.”

“Tell that to the white streaks in your hair,” Karine snorted, unphased by the stony look she received in return as she raised an eyebrow. 

For a moment, Haik was sure Sevan was going to pound her into the ground, his hands twitching for the blade sheathed at his hip. Then the man exhaled sharply and focused his gaze back on Haik.

“What’s the situation?”

Haik straightened on instinct but forced himself to relax. Something about the way Sevan spoke reminded him far too much of his short-lived career as a knight sometimes. “Eleven merchants and a lookout, all unarmed by the looks of it. The horse carriage looked pretty expensive and the horses were in good shape– we’d get some good money if we sold those things to Mirza.”

Sevan remained silent for a moment, tension building as Haik and Karine awaited his decision and subsequent order. “Let’s move.”

They took off silently, sticking to the shadows as they approached the clearing where the merchants laid camp. They observed it for a few minutes before deeming it safe to approach, sneaking past the sleeping lookout.

It was a young woman with long ginger hair hidden beneath the hood of a dark green cloak, with freckles littered across her face. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was soft and rhythmic– she really was asleep. 

It was a pity the merchants chose an idiot to keep watch of their goods.

Well. A pity for them. Haik was having the best night in weeks.

The carriage was filled to the brim with expensive goods. Jewelry, books, weapons, grimoires. Karine went for the jewelry, vain as always. Sevan headed for the weapons, examining them all with a discerning eye and leaving Haik to deal with the books. 

There was nothing special about most of the books, spanning from scientific research to the latest romance novella trending in Savannah. The grimoires, however, were what piqued his interest. He’d never seen one in person, only heard about them in the context of the Imperial Magicians or ever elusive mage of the Tower.

Grimoires were rare and expensive and if he could sell even just one, let alone numerous, he would be set for years. He could get his own place far away from his mother, from Savannah, from the cursed nation as a whole–

“I advise you not to touch that.”

Haik went stiff at the unfamiliar voice, outstretched hand frozen just inches away from the pile of grimoires as he caught sight of a presence that hadn’t been there just a moment before. 

He leapt away, drawing his sword in one swift motion. His companions were similarly prepared, chosen weapons drawn and facing the threat.

It was the lookout from earlier.

Karine bared her teeth in an ugly smile, golden tooth glinting menacingly as she stared the woman down. “You got a death wish or something, lady?”

The woman only raised her eyebrows in response, her body loose and unguarded without a hint of the apprehension one would expect to see when faced with three bandits with drawn weapons while unarmed.

Something about the situation didn’t sit right with him.

The lookout brushed off Karine’s threat as if it was nothing. “I don’t like repeating myself so I’m only warning you once.” Viridian eyes bored into Haik’s soul, leaving him feeling cold and clammy. “If you value your lives, you’ll leave immediately.”

“Who do you think you are, ordering us around?!” Karine snarled, swinging at the woman with her spiked mace. “You don’t even have a sword!”

Haik forced himself to move and join her, unable to shake the feeling that this was dangerous yet not wanting to leave his partner alone.

It was only then that he realized Sevan was nowhere to be seen. 

“I don’t need one,” the lookout answered coolly.

As if in slow motion, Haik saw a staff appear in the woman’s hands and her eyes began to shine with an unearthly glow and his mind connected the dots in an instant.

She was a mage.

Everything went dark a moment later.

o-o-o

As the sun rose, the sleeping travelers began to wake up to the smell of cooking lentil soup that she had started on the fire. 

Alina, the merchant’s wife, had taken the task off her hands when she had woken up and told Ashlyn to get some rest before they were back on the road. 

Exhausted and perhaps a little embarrassed of the fact that a group of amateur bandits had gotten the jump on her, Ashlyn agreed and escaped before the woman could ask if anything had happened the night before. 

If not for the protective wards placed on her grimoire, those stupid kids would’ve gotten away with it too. 

Well, two kids and a strange, scarred man who had somehow managed to evade her senses long enough to escape and abandon his fellow criminals. She’d contemplated pursuing him for that reason alone but figuring out what to do with the unconscious bandits had been more than enough for her sleep-addled mind.

She managed to catch an hour or so of sleep before she was shaken awake and they were back on the road to Savannah. Seeing her goal within sight made her forget about last night, annoyance replaced by grief that swelled in her chest at the thought of her parents. She didn’t think she could handle another dead end. Not again.

Then, the insufferable chatterbox by the name of Aiden decided to open his mouth at that moment.

“Nice going with the bandits last night,” he whispered cheerily and Ashlyn closed her eyes, biting back a long-suffering sigh before his words processed and her eyes flew open and stared at him in disbelief

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he grinned back; the picture of innocence. 

“You were awake?” Ashlyn demanded quietly.

“I wanted to see what you would do,” Aiden shrugged and his smile widened, crow's feet wrinkling near his eyes. “So imagine my surprise when I found out you were a mage. I knew I’ve met you before– you’re Ashlyn Banner, the mage of the Tower, aren't you?”

… Damn it.

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This was very much inspired by a Merlin edit sound where he goes, "If you value your lives, you won't take another step." and the dudes are like "You don't even have a sword." and he's like "I don't need one" and demolishes them. I keep imagining this Ashlyn saying that so I had to write it and get it out of my system lol

That's a wrap, tell me what you think! This is my first time actually writing a fic for the fandom lol

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

THE WASTE WAND

BY

T. S. EWIOT

"NyAM Sibywwam quidem Cumis ego ipse ocuwis meis

vidi in ampuwwa pendewe, et cum iwwi puewi dicerent:

Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; wespondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω."

I. THE BUWIAW OF THE DEAD

APWIL is the cwuewwest month, bweeding

Wiwacs out of the dead wand, mixing

Memowy and desiwe, stiwwing

Duww roots with spwing wain.

Wintew kept us warm, cuvwing

Eawth in fowgetfuw snow, feeding

A wittwe wife with dwied tubews.

Summew suwpwised us, coming uvw the Stawnbewgewsee

With a showew of wain; we stopped in the cowonnyade,

And went on in sunwight, into the Hofgawten,

And drank coffee, and tawked fow an houw.

Bin gaw keinye Russin, stamm' aus Witauen, echt deutsch.

And when we wewe chiwdwen, staying at the awchduke's,

My cousin's, he took me out on a swed,

And I was fwightenyed. He said, Mawie,

Mawie, howd on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel fwee.

I wead, much of the nyight, and go south in the wintew.

What awe the roots that cwutch, what bwanches gwow

Out of this stony wubbish?!?! Son of man,

You cannyot say, ow guess, fow you knyow onwy

A heap of bwoken images, whewe the sun beats,

And the dead twee gives nyo shewtew, the cwicket nyo wewief,

And the dwy stonye nyo sound of watew. Onwy

Thewe is shadow undew this wed wock,

(Come in undew the shadow of this wed wock),

And I wiww show you something diffewent fwom either

Your shadow at mownying stwiding behind you

Ow youw shadow at evenying wising to meet you;

I wiww show you feaw in a handfuw of dust.

Fwisch weht der Wind

Der Heimat zu,

Mein Iwisch Kind,

Wo weiwest du?

"You gave me hyacinths fiwst a yeaw ago;

"They called me the hyacinth giww."

—Yet when we came back, wate, fwom the Hyacinth gawden,

Youw awms fuww, and youw haiw wet, I couwd nyot

Speak, and my eyes faiwed, I was nyeithew

Wiving nyow dead, and I knyew nyothing,

Wooking into the heawt of light, the siwence.

Od' und weew das Meew.

Madame Sosostwis, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cowd, nyevewthewess

Is knyown to be the wisest woman in Euwope,

With a wicked pack of cawds. Hewe, said she,

Is youw cawd, the dwowned Phoenyician Saiwow,

(Those awe peawws that wewe his eyes. Wook!)

Hewe is Bewwadonnya, the Wady of the Wocks,

The wady of situations.

Hewe is the man with thwee staves, and hewe the Wheew,

And hewe is the onye-eyed mewchant, and this cawd,

Which is bwank, is something he cawwies on his back,

Which I am fowbidden to see. I do nyot find

The Hanged Man. Feaw death by watew.

I see cwowds of peopwe, walking wound in a ring.

Thank you. If you see deaw Mws. Equitonye,

Teww hew I bwing the howoscope mysewf:

Onye must be so cawefuw these days.

Unweaw City,

Under the bwown fog of a wintew dawn,

A cwowd flowed uvw Wondon Bwidge, so many,

I had nyot thought death had undonye so many.

Sighs, showt and infwequent, wewe exhawed,

And each man fixed his eyes befowe his feet.

Fwowed up the hiww and down King William Street,

To whewe Saint Mawy Woownyoth kept the houws

With a dead sound on the finyaw stwoke of nine.

Thewe I saw onye I knyew, and stopped him, cwying "Stetson!

"You who wewe with me in the ships at Mywae!

"That corpse you pwanted wast yeaw in youw gawden,

"Has it begun to sprout?!! Wiww it bwoom this yeaw?

"Ow has the sudden fwost disturbed its bed?

"Oh keep the Dog faw hence, that's fwiend to men,

"Ow with his nyaiws he'ww dig it up again!

"You?!?1 hypocwite wecteuw!—mon sembwabwe,—mon fwèwe!"

II. A GAME OF CHESS

THE Chaiw she sat in, wike a burnyished thwone,

Gwowed on the mawbwe, whewe the gwass

Hewd up by standawds wwought with fwuited vinyes

Fwom which a gowden Cupidon peeped out

(Anyothew hid his eyes behind his wing)

Doubwed the fwames of sevenbwanched candewabwa

Wefwecting wight upon the tabwe as

The gwittew of hew jewels wose to meet it,

Fwom satin cases pouwed in wich pwofusion;

In viaws of ivowy and cowouwed gwass

Unstoppewed, wuwked hew stwange synthetic pewfumes,

Unguent, powdewed, ow wiquid—twoubwed, confused

And dwowned the sense in odouws; stiwwed by the aiw

That fweshened fwom the window, these ascended

In fattenying the pwowonged candwe-fwames,

Fwung theiw smoke into the waqueawia,

Stiwwing the pattewn on the coffewed ceiwing.

Huge sea-wood fed with coppew

Buwnyed gween and owange, fwamed by the cowouwed stonye,

In which sad wight a cawvèd dowphin swam.

Abuv the antique mantew was dispwayed

As though a window gave upon the sywvan scenye

The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king

So rudely fowced; yet there the nyightingawe

Fiwwed all the desewt with inviowabwe voice

And stiww she cwied, and stiww the world puwsues,

"Jug Jug" to diwty eaws.

And othew withewed stumps of time

Were towd upon the wawws; stawing fowms

Weanyed out, weanying, hushing the woom encwosed.

Footsteps shuffwed on the staiw.

Undew the fiwewight, undew the bwush, hew hair

Spread out in fiery points

Gwowed into wowds, then wouwd be savagewy stiww.

"My nyewves awe bad tonyight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

"Speak to me. Why do you nyevew speak?!! Speak.

"What awe you thinking of?!?1 What thinking?!?1 What?

"I nyevew knyow what you awe thinking. Think."

I think we awe in wats' awwey

Whewe the dead men wost theiw bonyes.

"What is that nyoise?"

The wind undew the doow.

"What is that nyoise nyow!!11 What is the wind doing?"

Nyothing again nyothing.

"Do

"You knyow nyothing?!! Do you see nyothing?!! Do you wemembew

"Nyothing?"

I wemembew

Those awe peawws that wewe his eyes.

"Are you awive, ow nyot?!?! Is there nyothing in youw head?"

But

O O O O that Shakespehewian Wag—

It's so ewegant

So intewwigent

"What shaww I do nyow!!11 What shaww I do?"

"I shaww wush out as I am, and wawk the stweet

"With my haiw down, so. What shaww we do tomowwow?

"What shaww we evew do?"

The hot watew at ten.

And if it wains, a cwosed car at fouw.

And we shaww pway a game of chess,

Pwessing widwess eyes and waiting fow a knyock upon the doow.

When Wiw's husband got demobbed, I said—

I didn't mince my wowds, I said to hew mysewf,

Huwwy up please its time

Nyow Awbewt's coming back, make youwsewf a bit smawt.

He'ww want to knyow what you donye with that money he gave you

To get youwsewf some teeth. He did, I was thewe.

You have them all out, Wiw, and get a nyice set,

He said, I swear, I can't beaw to wook at you.

And nyo mowe can't I, I said, and think of poow Awbewt,

He's been in the awmy fouw years, he wants a good time,

And if you don't give it him, thewe's othews wiww, I said.

Oh is thewe, she said. Something o' that, I said.

Then I'll knyow who to thank, she said, and give me a stwaight wook.

Huwwy up please its time

If you don't wike it you can get on with it, I said,

Othews can pick and choose if you can't.

But if Awbewt makes off, it won't be fow lack of tewwing.

You ought to be ashamed, I said, to wook so antique.

(And hew onwy thirty-onye.)

I can't hewp it, she said, puwwing a wong face,

It's them pills I took, to bwing it off, she said.

(She's had five awweady, and nyeawwy died of young Geowge.)

The chemist said it wouwd be awwight, but I've nyevew been the same.

You awe a proper foow, I said.

Weww, if Awbewt wont weave you awonye, there it is, I said,

What you get mawwied fow if you dont want chiwdwen?

Huwwy up please its time

Weww, that Sunday Awbewt was home, they had a hot gammon,

And they asked me in to dinnew, to get the beauty of it hot—

Huwwy up please its time

Huwwy up please its time

Goonyight Biww. Goonyight Wou. Goonyight May. Goonyight.

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

Good nyight, wadies, good nyight, sweet wadies, good nyight, good nyight.

III. THE FIWE SEWMON

THE wivew's tent is broken: the wast fingews of weaf

Cwutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind

Cwosses the bwown wand, unheawd. The nymphs awe depawted.

Sweet Thames, wun softwy, tiww I end my song.

The wivew bears nyo empty bottwes, sandwich papews,

Siwk handkewchiefs, cawdboawd boxes, cigarette ends

Ow othew testimony of summew nyights. The nymphs awe depawted.

And theiw fwiends, the woitewing heiws of city diwectows;

Depawted, have weft nyo addwesses.

By the watews of Weman I sat down and wept . . .

Sweet Thames, wun softwy tiww I end my song,

Sweet Thames, wun softwy, fow I speak nyot woud ow wong.

But at my back in a cowd bwast I heaw

The wattwe of the bonyes, and chuckwe spwead fwom eaw to eaw.

A wat cwept softwy thwough the vegetation

Dwagging its swimy bewwy on the bank

Whiwe I was fishing in the duww canyaw

On a wintew evenying wound behind the gashouse.

Musing upon the king my bwothew's wweck

And on the king my fathew's death befowe him.

White bodies nyaked on the wow damp gwound

And bonyes cast in a wittwe wow dwy gawwet,

Wattwed by the rat's foot onwy, yeaw to year.

But at my back fwom time to time I heaw

The sound of howns and motows, which shaww bwing

Sweenyey to Mws. Powtew in the spwing.

O the moon shonye bwight on Mws. Powtew

And on hew daughtew

They wash theiw feet in soda watew

Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit

Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely fowc'd.

Teweu

Unweaw City

Under the bwown fog of a wintew nyoon

Mw. Eugenyides, the Smywnya mewchant

Unshaven, with a pocket fuww of cuwwants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To wuncheon at the Cannyon Street Hotew

Fowwowed by a weekend at the Metwopowe.

At the viowet houw, when the eyes and back

Tuwn upward fwom the desk, when the human enginye waits

Like a taxi thwobbing waiting,

I Tiwesias, though bwind, thwobbing between two wives,

Owd man with wwinkwed femawe bweasts, can see

At the viowet houw, the evenying houw that stwives

Homewawd, and bwings the saiwow home fwom sea,

The typist home at teatime, cweaws hew bweakfast, wights

Hew stuv, and ways out food in tins.

Out of the window pewiwouswy spwead

Hew dwying combinyations touched by the sun's wast ways,

On the divan awe piwed (at nyight hew bed)

Stockings, swippews, camisowes, and stays.

I Tiwesias, owd man with wwinkwed dugs

Pewceived the scenye, and fowetowd the west—

I too awaited the expected guest.

He, the young man cawbuncuwaw, awwives,

A smaww house agent's cwewk, with onye bowd stawe,

Onye of the wow on whom assuwance sits

As a siwk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

The time is nyow pwopitious, as he guesses,

The meaw is ended, she is bowed and tiwed,

Endeavouws to engage hew in cawesses

Which stiww awe unwepwoved, if undesiwed.

Fwushed and decided, he assauwts at once;

Expwowing hands encountew nyo defence;

His vanyity wequiwes nyo wesponse,

And makes a wewcome of indiffewence.

(And I Tiresias have fowesuffewed aww

Enyacted on this same divan ow bed;

I who have sat by Thebes bewow the wall

And wawked among the wowest of the dead.)

Bestows onye finyaw patwonyising kiss,

And gwopes his way, finding the stairs unwit . . .

She tuwns and wooks a moment in the gwass,

Hawdwy aware of hew depawted wuvw;

Hew brain awwows onye hawf-fowmed thought to pass:

"Weww nyow that's done: and I'm gwad it's ovew."

When luvly woman stoops to fowwy and

Paces about hew woom again, awonye,

She smoothes hew haiw with automatic hand,

And puts a wecowd on the gwamophone.

"This music cwept by me upon the watews"

And awong the Stwand, up Queen Victowia Stweet.

O City city, I can sometimes heaw

Beside a pubwic bar in Wowew Thames Stweet,

The pweasant whinying of a mandowinye

And a cwattew and a chattew fwom within

Whewe fishmen wounge at noon: whewe the wawws

Of Magnyus Mawtyw howd

Inyexpwicabwe spwendouw of Ionyian white and gowd.

The wivew sweats

Oiw and taw

The bawges dwift

With the tuwnying tide

Wed saiws

Wide

To weewawd, swing on the heavy spaw.

The bawges wash

Dwifting wogs

Down Gweenwich weach

Past the Iswe of Dogs.

Weiawawa weia

Wawwawa weiawawa

Ewizabeth and Weicestew

Beating oaws280

The stewn was fowmed

A giwded sheww

Wed and gold

The bwisk sweww

Wippwed both showes

Southwest wind

Cawwied down stweam

The peal of bewws

White towews

Weiawawa weia

Wawwawa weiawawa

"Twams and dusty twees.

Highbuwy bowe me. Richmond and Kew

Undid me. By Richmond I waised my knyees

Supinye on the fwoow of a nyawwow canyoe."

"My feet awe at Moowgate, and my heawt

Undew my feet. Aftew the event

He wept. He pwomised 'a nyew stawt.'

I made nyo comment. What shouwd I wesent?"

"On Mawgate Sands.

I can connyect

Nyothing with nyothing.

The bwoken fingewnyaiws of diwty hands.

My peopwe humbwe peopwe who expect

Nyothing."

wa wa

To Cawthage then I came

Buwnying buwnying buwnying buwnying

O Wowd Thou pwuckest me out

O Wowd Thou pwuckest

buwnying

IV. DEATH BY WATEW

PHWEBAS the Phoenyician, a fowtnyight dead,

Forgot the cwy of guwws, and the deep sea sweww

And the pwofit and woss.

A cuwwent undew sea

Picked his bonyes in whispews. As he wose and feww

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entewing the whiwwpoow.

Gentiwe ow Jew

O you who turn the wheew and wook to windwawd,

Considew Phwebas, who was once handsome and taww as you.

V. WHAT THE THUNDEW SAID

AFTEW the towchwight wed on sweaty faces

Aftew the fwosty siwence in the gawdens

Aftew the agony in stony pwaces

The shouting and the cwying

Pwison and pawace and wevewbewation

Of thundew of spwing uvw distant mountains

He who was wiving is nyow dead

We who wewe wiving awe nyow dying

With a wittwe patience

Hewe is nyo watew but onwy rock

Wock and nyo watew and the sandy woad

The woad winding abuv among the mountains

Which awe mountains of wock without watew

If there wewe watew we shouwd stop and dwink

Amongst the wock onye cannyot stop ow think

Sweat is dwy and feet awe in the sand

If there wewe onwy watew amongst the wock

Dead mount in mouth of cawious teeth that cannyot spit

Hewe onye can nyeithew stand nyow wie nyow sit

Thewe is nyot even siwence in the mountains

But dwy stewiwe thundew without wain

Thewe is nyot even sowitude in the mountains

But wed suwwen faces snyeew and snyaww

Fwom doows of mudcwacked houses

If there wewe watew

And nyo wock

If there wewe wock

And awso watew

And watew

A spwing

A poow among the wock

If there wewe the sound of watew onwy

Nyot the cicada

And dwy gwass singing

But sound of watew uvw a wock

Whewe the hermit-thrush sings in the pinye trees

Drip dwop drip dwop dwop dwop dwop

But there is nyo watew

Who is the thiwd who wawks awways beside you?

When I count, there awe onwy you and I togethew

But when I wook ahead up the white woad

Thewe is awways anyothew onye walking beside you

Gwiding wwapt in a bwown mantwe, hooded

I do nyot knyow whethew a man ow a woman

— But who is that on the othew side of you?

What is that sound high in the aiw

Muwmuw of matewnyaw wamentation

Who awe those hooded howdes swawming

Ovew endwess pwains, stumbwing in cwacked eawth

Winged by the flat howizon onwy

What is the city uvw the mountains

Cwacks and wefowms and buwsts in the viowet aiw

Fawwing towews

Jewusawem Athens Awexandwia

Viennya Wondon

Unweaw

A woman dwew hew wong bwack haiw out tight

And fiddwed whispew music on those stwings

And bats with baby faces in the viowet wight

Whistwed, and beat theiw wings

And cwawwed head downwawd down a bwackenyed wall

And upside down in aiw wewe towews

Towwing reminyiscent bells, that kept the houws

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wewws.

In this decayed hole among the mountains

In the faint moonwight, the gwass is singing

Ovew the tumbwed gwaves, about the chapew

Thewe is the empty chapew, onwy the wind's home.

It has nyo windows, and the doow swings,

Dwy bonyes can harm nyo onye.

Onwy a cock stood on the rooftree

Co co  wico  co co  wico

In a fwash of wightnying. Then a damp gust

Bwinging wain

Ganga was sunken, and the wimp weaves

Waited fow wain, whiwe the bwack cwouds

Gathewed faw distant, uvw Himavant.

The jungwe cwouched, humped in silence.

Then spoke the thundew

Da

Datta: what have we given?

My fwiend, bwood shaking my heawt

The awfuw dawing of a moment's suwwendew

Which an age of prudence can nyevew wetwact

By this, and this onwy, we have existed

Which is nyot to be found in ouw obituawies

Ow in memowies dwaped by the benyeficent spidew

Ow undew seaws bwoken by the wean sowicitow

In ouw empty wooms

Da

Dayadhvam: I have heawd the key

Tuwn in the doow once and turn once onwy

We think of the key, each in his pwison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a pwison

Onwy at nightfaww, aethewiaw wumouws

Wevive fow a moment a bwoken Cowiowanyus

Da

Damyata: The boat wesponded

Gaiwy, to the hand expewt with sail and oaw

The sea was cawm, youw heawt wouwd have wesponded

Gaiwy, when invited, beating obedient

To contwowwing hands

I sat upon the showe

Fishing, with the awid pwain behind me

Shaww I at least set my wands in owdew?

Wondon Bwidge is fawwing down fawwing down fawwing down

Poi s'ascose nyew foco che gwi affinya

Quando fiam ceu chewidon— O swawwow swawwow

We Pwince d'Aquitainye à la touw abowie

These fwagments I have showed against my wuins

Why then Iwe fit you. Hiewonymo's mad againye.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

[moon-language-0]

I don't eat human beings by @fohatic, now on ao3!

Steve/Incubus!Tony AU, rated E

Tired of luring the wicked to their deaths, a young incubus sets out to prove that he's powerful enough to capture a noble soul— despite all warnings against the foolhardy endeavor. When he sets his sights on the handsome and perplexingly honorable Steve Rogers, he unwittingly bites off more than he can chew.

written for the "sex magic" square of my @tonystarkbingo card, and the "graveyard" square of my @cap-ironman stony bingo round 2 card ✨🦴✨

Coming soon to Ao3...

IT'S HERE

[cannedpoo]

The Waste Land

BY T. S. ELIOT

‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: άποθανεîν θέλω.’

     For Ezra Pound        il miglior fabbro.

 I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,

My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

                      Frisch weht der Wind

                      Der Heimat zu

                      Mein Irisch Kind,

                      Wo weilest du?

‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’

—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson!

‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,

‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

 II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Glowed on the marble, where the glass

Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines

From which a golden Cupidon peeped out

(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)

Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra

Reflecting light upon the table as

The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,

From satin cases poured in rich profusion;

In vials of ivory and coloured glass

Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,

Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused

And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air

That freshened from the window, these ascended

In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,

Flung their smoke into the laquearia,

Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

Huge sea-wood fed with copper

Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,

In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.

Above the antique mantel was displayed

As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene

The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king

So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale

Filled all the desert with inviolable voice

And still she cried, and still the world pursues,

‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears.

And other withered stumps of time

Were told upon the walls; staring forms

Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

Footsteps shuffled on the stair.

Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair

Spread out in fiery points

Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.

What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

  I think we are in rats’ alley

Where the dead men lost their bones.

  ‘What is that noise?’

                          The wind under the door.

‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’

                           Nothing again nothing.

                                                        ‘Do

‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

‘Nothing?’

       I remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’    

                                                                           But

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—

It’s so elegant

So intelligent

‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’

‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?

‘What shall we ever do?’

                                               The hot water at ten.

And if it rains, a closed car at four.

And we shall play a game of chess,

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

  When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—

I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.

He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you

To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.

You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,

He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.

And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,

He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,

And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.

Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.

Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.

Others can pick and choose if you can’t.

But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.

You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.

(And her only thirty-one.)

I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,

It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.

(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)

The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.

You are a proper fool, I said.

Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,

What you get married for if you don’t want children?

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,

And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

              III. The Fire Sermon

  The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind

Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,

Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends

Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.

And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;

Departed, have left no addresses.

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation

Dragging its slimy belly on the bank

While I was fishing in the dull canal

On a winter evening round behind the gashouse

Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck

And on the king my father’s death before him.

White bodies naked on the low damp ground

And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

And on her daughter

They wash their feet in soda water

Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit

Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely forc’d.

Tereu

Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter noon

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel

Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights

Her stove, and lays out food in tins.

Out of the window perilously spread

Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,

On the divan are piled (at night her bed)

Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—

I too awaited the expected guest.

He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,

A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,

One of the low on whom assurance sits

As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,

The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,

Endeavours to engage her in caresses

Which still are unreproved, if undesired.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

Exploring hands encounter no defence;

His vanity requires no response,

And makes a welcome of indifference.

(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all

Enacted on this same divan or bed;

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

Bestows one final patronising kiss,

And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,

Hardly aware of her departed lover;

Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:

'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’

When lovely woman stoops to folly and

Paces about her room again, alone,

She smooths her hair with automatic hand,

And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’

And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.

O City city, I can sometimes hear

Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,

The pleasant whining of a mandoline

And a clatter and a chatter from within

Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls

Of Magnus Martyr hold

Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

               The river sweats

               Oil and tar

               The barges drift

               With the turning tide

               Red sails

               Wide

               To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

               The barges wash

               Drifting logs

               Down Greenwich reach

               Past the Isle of Dogs.

                                 Weialala leia

                                 Wallala leialala

               Elizabeth and Leicester

               Beating oars

               The stern was formed

               A gilded shell

               Red and gold

               The brisk swell

               Rippled both shores

               Southwest wind

               Carried down stream

               The peal of bells

               White towers

                                Weialala leia

                                Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.

Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew

Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees

Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’

‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

Under my feet. After the event

He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’

I made no comment. What should I resent?’

‘On Margate Sands.

I can connect

Nothing with nothing.

The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

My people humble people who expect

Nothing.’

                       la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

              IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

                                   A current under sea

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool.

                                   Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

              V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road

The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit

Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit

There is not even silence in the mountains

But dry sterile thunder without rain

There is not even solitude in the mountains

But red sullen faces sneer and snarl

From doors of mudcracked houses

                                      If there were water

   And no rock

   If there were rock

   And also water

   And water

   A spring

   A pool among the rock

   If there were the sound of water only

   Not the cicada

   And dry grass singing

   But sound of water over a rock

   Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees

   Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop

   But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

—But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air

Murmur of maternal lamentation

Who are those hooded hordes swarming

Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth

Ringed by the flat horizon only

What is the city over the mountains

Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air

Falling towers

Jerusalem Athens Alexandria

Vienna London

Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight

And fiddled whisper music on those strings

And bats with baby faces in the violet light

Whistled, and beat their wings

And crawled head downward down a blackened wall

And upside down in air were towers

Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.

It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree

Co co rico co co rico

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

Waited for rain, while the black clouds

Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

Then spoke the thunder

DA

Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms

DA

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

DA

Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

                                    I sat upon the shore

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina

Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow

Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih     shantih     shantih

[jehbeeeh]

*Happy sigh*

It is @marveltrumpshate time again, friends, and I think this year can be something special. Magical! Something that might make others... green with envy.

A Stony AU your wildest dreamings could not foresee.

DUM-E, I don't think we're in the MCU anymore...

I decided this year was the year. It's time to trust my instincts.

Close my eyes...

And leap.

But, as always, I need your help to make it happen.

We are going back to an oldie but a goodie of a trope for this AU: Soulmates

We all know there are multiple kinds of soulmates. And we know for sure that our beloveds are absolutely linked by some cosmic force and they will get their happily ever after!

But...

What if a certain someone - that may or may not be named Steve Rogers - has more than one soulmate? How would our dearest darlingests handle that? I worry there might be some flying off the handle in the works somewhere but I'm getting ahead of myself - or rather, ahead of @betheflame 's fantastical idea and words for this Wickedly fun AU.

Featuring Steve as Elphaba and Tony as Fiyero - our romantic soulmates destined to be together, but who need a little help believing the other wants them for real.

And, Steve's very Popular BFF, Bucky "Glinda" Barnes as his platonic, but no less important, soulmate. I mean, who else would you turst to teach you how to fix your hair?

So what do you say? Will you join me?

Think of what we can do, together!

Unlimited... Together, our combined financial spending power is, unlimited(ish)!

Together we can be the greatest Pod bid team there's ever been, fandom! Fic the way we dreamed it, if we work in tandem. There's no fight (with another Pod Bid) we cannot win.

Don't worry, I'm determined to succeed.

So if you care to find me, Tumblr and Discord are where I spend my time - just send me a DM and we can chat! Hopefully I won't be flying solo, and you will come and join me on this wonderful adventure.

The Fine print that didn't flow so well in the above text: Bidding starts Oct. 23, so please let me know ASAP if you are interested and your bid amount. Like past years, we will have a spot on Pod Bid Beach's Discord (we will be team I Feel Wicked on there) but there is no pressure to join. I can keep you posted via DMs if you'd prefer.

[s-horne]

What about stony quarantined with a rambunctious toddler? Or teenage Peter?

(I went for toddler!Peter and essentially just wrote about my own lockdown life... including at-home workouts and far far far too many snacks)

(also, no mention of the bad thing causing this lockdown)

***

“What in…” Tony trailed off as he surveyed the living room. It looked like every flat surface was covered with some sort of artwork. If random scribbles and brightly-coloured sponge patterns could be called artwork. “Having fun?”

“Loads of fun, Daddy! Look at this!” Peter held up a piece of printer paper covered with splotches that vaguely resembled hearts. “D’ya like it?”

All Tony could really see was the mess in his living room. There was paint on his table and a pink splodge on the floor, steadily growing larger as a stream of blue dripped down the table leg to meet it. He swallowed down his sigh to smile at his son. “I love it, baby. Going up on the fridge, for sure.”

Peter beamed and eagerly grabbed another painting. “And this one! Look at this one!”

“That one, too? Wow.” Tony smiled at Peter, heart sinking when he noticed yet another patch of paint that had somehow reached the skirting board. It was a bright yellow that seemed to glow in the sunlight. “My little artist.”

“Papa did this one,” Peter said, setting his painting down on the table. Steve swept in and picked it up when Peter put it on top of another painting, carefully moving it away from his flailing arms. “Like it?”

Tony laughed. “I love them all, baby. You and Pops are pretty talented, huh?”

“The best,” Peter agreed, nodding his head as he handed Steve his painting. When his hands were free, he grimaced down at the mess on them, holding them up to show his parents.

Steve took the painting with a smile and shook his head at the mess Peter had gotten into. As he met Tony’s gaze over Peter’s head, Steve reached for a damp towel. “Work done?”

“For now. Need to go back to it in an hour or so to finish off the last few bits. But I think it’s snacky-snack time, yeah?”

Peter’s face lit up and he yanked his hands away from the towel that Steve was rubbing over his arms. When he’d scrambled off his chair, Peter bounced over to Tony. “Snack! You want cookies?”

Tony poked Peter on the nose. “Thank you, kid. We can share a packet of cookies. Once we help Pops to clean up this room.”

Eyes wide, Peter turned to look around him. He grimaced again and leant his head against Tony’s knee. “Whoops. Lotsa mess.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said, lifting his eyebrows at Steve. “Lots of mess.”

*

“What’s going on here?”

Steve had walked in on some strange scenes over the years, but seeing his husband and son bunny-hopping around the room was one of the cutest.

“Bunny!” Peter cried, toppling over when he jumped a bit too enthusiastically.

Tony sighed as he stopped bouncing, breaths a little laboured as he shot Steve a tired look. “Yeah, Pops. We’re bunnies. Obviously.”

Snorting, Steve crossed the living room to deposit his bags of shopping on the kitchen table. He stepped back into the lounge to watch them, arms folded across his chest as he leant on the doorframe. “I can see that. I think. Why are you being bunnies?”

“It’s a good workout, isn’t it, Pete? I found it online.”

Peter grinned over at them for a moment, hands held up at either side of his forehead to make rabbit ears, before he turned his attention back to the television and concentrated on the next move. It looked to be some kind of jumping set to replicate frogs and it took every ounce of Steve’s self-control to not laugh at the unimpressed stare on Tony’s face.

“Come give me a hand with the groceries?”

Tony sighed in relief at the offer and ran a hand through Peter’s hair before he headed into the kitchen. As soon as he was through the door he fell into a chair. “Oh my – have you done that? It’s extreme. Never mind a workout; it’s a torture method.”

Steve chuckled, grabbing a glass to fill with water. “Here, drink this. Looks like being a bunny really took it out of you.”

Drinking the water eagerly, Tony glared at Steve over the rim of his glass. “You don’t get to mock until you’ve done that. You try doing Pikachu jumps followed by a plank and reverse lunges. And then go straight into Fireman Sam climbers.”

The longer Tony talked, the wider Steve’s smile grew. “Those are not real.”

Tony’s glare worsened. “Oh, believe me. They are.”

“Well, I think they sound like a lot of fun. Can I join?”

Tony threw a hand over his face and sank further into his chair. “You can take over. Forever.”

*

Tony rather thought he might live on the couch forever. It was comfortable. And the cushion over his head worked wonders for blocking out sounds. Tony could play innocent with his head buried in the proverbial sand.

“What happened?”

Someone poked at his shoulder and Tony groaned loudly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve said, but there was a sharp undertone to his voice. “What happened?”

“What?” Tony rolled over enough to peer up at Steve.

“I’m sorry, have you gone deaf? Am I the only one who can hear the gates of hell opening?”

“He’s in time out,” Tony said, wincing when a particularly loud cry reached them from Peter’s bedroom.

“How long has he been–,” he cut off with a grimace when Peter cried again. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“He’s a kid,” Tony snapped. Pushing himself to sit up, he rubbed at his forehead. He hated being the bad parent, the one to dish out the punishment. “They cry. He was naughty and now he’s being punished. This hasn’t had to happen in a while – he’s forgotten how much he hates it, is all.”

Steve was silent for a moment, frown lines deep in his forehead. There was a bang and a thud and Steve shook his head. “Oh, go and get him.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not. He needs to learn.”

His answer was a lifted eyebrow and Tony groaned when Peter wailed again. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. But when he does the exact same thing tomorrow, I absolutely reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’.”

Steve rubbed his hand up and down Tony’s arm soothingly, as though it were Tony who was in tears. Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Times are hard enough at the moment. Go and get him.”

With a long sigh, Tony pushed himself up. He stood still for a moment to collect himself before he headed to Peter’s room. Sometimes, he really hated being the adult.

“Hey, kid.” Tony perched on the end of Peter’s bed, eyes on the boy-shaped lump beneath the blankets. Though Peter’s sobs increased in volume with his presence, Tony knew the difference between actual cries with real tears and ones made for attention. Peter’s had definitely turned into the latter. “Come on, Petey, don’t cry.”

There was a beat of silence before a tiny voice was heard. “Mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Tony said with a sigh, resting his hand on his son’s back. It showed how Peter was feeling that he didn’t throw Tony’s touch off. An apology would be easy enough to work from him and Tony would be able to orchestrate a somewhat-sensible conversation.

“Are.” Peter sniffed. “Big meany.”

“Come here, silly boy.” Tony peeled away the blankets to reveal his son and brushed his thumb over the boy’s wet cheek to dry his leftover tears. “Don’t cry, kiddo. I’m not a big meany. You know you aren’t supposed to hit people.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter said, heavy breaths punctuating his words. “Didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I think you did,” Tony said as he hooked his hands under Peter’s armpits and heaved him onto his lap, “but now you know what happens when you’re naughty. What do you say after you do it?”

“Said sorry,” Peter mumbled, words a little slurred with his exhaustion. He burrowed closer into Tony’s arms and Tony graciously pretended not to notice where he wiped his nose. “I did.”

“I know.” Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s hair and rubbed circles into his back. “Take a deep breath for me. You know you aren’t supposed to hit people. It’s not okay to do that, even if you’re really, really angry. It’s a difficult time at the moment, babe, so you need to be a bit more patient with us, okay? We can’t go outside so we have to be extra, extra nice to each other.”

“I’m nice. Miss. Danvers says I’m a good boy. I love you.”

“You are a good boy,” Tony chuckled, holding Peter closer and tickling his stomach softly. “Most of the time. And I love you, too.”

There was a long moment of quiet before Peter pulled his face away from Tony’s neck. “Snacky-snack?”

Tony gasped. “A snack? How can something as tiny as you possibly eat so much? You’re so small!” Tony stood up with Peter in his arms and lifted him high in the air. “Have you got hollow legs? Is that your secret?”

Steve laughed from across the doorway and stepped into Peter’s room. “I think he must have hollow legs. A little hollow boy.”

“No!” Peter squealed, right in Tony’s ear. “I’m not hollow!”

“You do eat a lot,” Tony said thoughtfully, dropping Peter down onto his hip. “You’ll eat us out of house and home, eventually.”

“Papa!” Peter reached out for Steve when Tony started to tickle him, desperately grabbing at the air as giggles fell from his lips, cheeks flushed with laughter instead of tears. “Tell him ‘m not hollow!”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Steve said, taking Peter with a laugh. “He’s not hollow. Now, what was this I heard about a snacky-snack?”

*

“No.”

Steve took a deep breath. “You can’t say no, babe. You have to do this.”

“Can’t.”

“You can.” Steve pushed the pencil back across the table to Peter. “And you can say more words than that, you silly billy. Don’t go shy on me now.”

“No.”

Peter’s glare was impressive. It was clear whose son he was, Steve mused. It caught him off guard quite often, but most of the time he loved when he noticed it. Not all times, though.

“Come on, kid. One more worksheet and we can get a snacky-snack with Daddy.”

“It’s hard.”

Sighing, Steve cursed his son’s stubborn streak. “It’s good that it’s hard, sweetheart. That’s what I’m here for – I can help you with it. And then when you go back to school, you can show your teachers how clever you are. Miss. Danvers will be so impressed that you’ve worked so hard over the little break.”

“‘m clever,” Peter said, rubbing at his eye. “Like Daddy.”

“I know you are, kid,” Steve said, reaching out to pull Peter’s hand away from his face. “You’re my clever boys. So let’s do these horrible math sheets and then we can go and show Daddy how smart you are!”

Peter sniffed. Loudly. “You gon’ help me?”

“Of course I am,” Steve said, voice soft. “That’s what Papas are for, aren’t they? Now, look at this first one.”

*

“Is it bedtime yet?”

Steve snorted, which Tony thought was rather rude. “It’s only eight. Pete’s only been down ten minutes.”

“He’s also been up since five. It’s been a long day.”

From where he was burrowed against Steve’s chest, Tony felt more than heard Steve’s chuckle.

“That’s cause he’s your son, sweetheart. Bed is for the weak, according to you pair.”

Tony huffed. “It is. Most of the time. These are extenuating circumstances and I just want to sleep until it’s over.”

“Well,” Steve said, hand running through Tony’s hair, “I was going to open a bar from my secret chocolate box and finish off that bottle of wine we opened last night, but if you’d rather go to bed then…”

Groaning, Tony stretched his legs out on the couch and rolled until he could see Steve’s face, peeking through one eye at him. “What sort of candy have you got?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ooh,” Tony moaned, grinning up at his husband sleepily, “the magic words. Talk dirty to me, baby.”

With a loud laugh, Steve bent down and brushed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Red wine and Hershey’s. The Special Dark kind.”

Tony groaned theatrically and lifted his arms to twist them around Steve’s neck, holding him close. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against Steve’s lips, “you know how I like it.”

[pineapplebread]

I just have a thought.

stevetony John Wick AU.

[pinkpinkmermayyy]

these "spot the difference" challenges are getting harder and harder

@sh3s4k1ll3rqu33n @itsfrthebirds @lunadensmidnightprowl

[lunadensmidnightprowl]

IMAGINE PETER AS DOROTHY IN THIS AU!!!!

YAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!

lol I'm picturing him in the dress and silver heels lmaoooo

the more I think about it the more I fall in love with it why does Peter as Dorothy fit so well??!!!

[hunterofartemis151]

Hi! Welcome to my page!

I use this page for my fanfic writing. You can find me by this name on ao3 and Wattpad, and by CrofterKing on ff.net.

These are the fandoms I will write for:

Harry Potter (any gen)

Percy Jackson, Magnus Chase

Marvel (Primarily MCU)

Hunger Games

Heartstopper

Wednesday

Sanders Sides

Ted Lasso

Our Flag Means Death

Hazbin Hotel

Dead Poets Society

Wicked

What will I write? Great question! Here's a list:

Anything LGBTQ

Reader insert

Depending on the prompt, smut

ALL THE FLUFF AND ANGST YOU CAN HANDLE

Disabled characters

Age appropriate relationships (same age to five or six years between depending on younger person's age)

Time travel! This means based on the above I may write a fic between to characters if the younger person time travels back to meet with the older person back in time.

Most common AUs. Just ask!

Imagines

Blurbs

What WON'T I write? Here's my list:

Child (under age of consent) with an adult in any romantic or sexual relationship. If they're old enough to be the younger person's parent I don't write it. See above for my comfortable age range, and the one exception (time travel) to the rule.

Certain kinks. I've read a lot of shit and I... will not write stuff. If your prompt is ignored and you've put in kink specifics don't re-submit it. I may add a list here later.

Hateful content towards any specific person or community.

IF THEY'RE RELATED IT AIN'T HAPPENING

Nothing sexual with age regression

What ships I'll definitely write for:

Wolfstar

Moonstarchaser

Jily

Jegulily

Jegulus

Solangelo

Percabeth

Pernico

FierroChase

Hearthblitz

Stony

Stucky

Stonucky

Brutasha

Spideypool (NOT TOM HOLLAND RYAN REYNOLDS)

Pepperony

Steggy

Cartinelli

Katniss and Peeta

Haymitch and Effie

Charlie and Nick

Tao and Elle

Darcy and Tara

Wenclair

Any sanders sides ships except Creativitwins

Tedependent (TedTrent)

Roy, Jamie and Keeley

Keeley and Rebecca

GentleBeard / BlackBonnet

Radioapple (With immense respect to Alastor's sexuality and romantic orientation)

Dusthusker/Angelhusk

Anderperry

Gelpie

Gelphiyero

Reader with a character/character(s)

Maybe more, just ask!

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[dreamerstreamer]

Devil-May-Care

Pairing: demon!Dream / Clay x demon hunter!gn!reader

Summary: [Demon Hunter!AU] When you went in search of the most powerful demon known to mankind, you didn’t expect him to be so charming.

Warnings: a little horror + some violence + tw// weapons (crossbow, gun)

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: this was requested by a passionate anon! i fell in love with the request at first sight and had loads of fun writing this, although i did take some creative liberty with it. i hope you all enjoy :)

You huffed as you pushed past the branch hanging in your face, wrinkling your nose as you trudged onward. The forest was almost eerily silent around you, the pitch black night doing nothing to ease the tension that had gathered in your shoulders. Above you, the moon and stars twinkled soundlessly, peering down at you with wide, watching eyes.

Where could he possibly be hiding? you thought to yourself with a grimace. Is he even in this forest?

Your mentor had told you that this forest was the last place he’d ever been seen, and that it would be your best bet. But she also told you not to get your hopes too high, since he was known to be a trickster who never stayed in one spot for too long.

You sighed as you stepped over a fallen log, making sure not to trip. Despite how young the night was, you were already getting tired. Tracking was arguably the hardest part of your job, and easily your least favourite part of it.

Then again, no one said being a demon hunter was easy.

With a slight grumble, you squinted through the darkness while walking past another tree. So far, all you’d seen was tree after after tree, and you were getting fed up. Heck, you could have sworn there was a clearing just ahead of you here.

It was at that moment that the trees suddenly parted before you, and you found yourself standing in the middle of a clearing. The soft grass rustled beneath your feet as you took a tentative step forward, your ears perking up for any noise or movement. When nothing came, the muscles in your legs tensed.

This was the first clearing you had found in hours, and something about it just felt off.

“What are you looking for, little hunter?”

You whirled at the sound of the low, curling voice, your gaze frantically darting around the darkness for its source. You kept your lips pursed as your head whipped this way and that, nothing but silence filling the forest air. Even with the light of the moon, all you could make out between the shadows were the silhouettes of trees and their taunting branches looming over you.

There was no way it was who you thought it was... right?

“Not gonna say anything? Hm. Perhaps that’s just because you can’t see me. Here.”

You heard the snap of a finger, and the clearing around you suddenly lit up in a faint, greenish hue. Your eyes widened as the earth you stood upon began to glow, your fingers twitching at your side. Turning again, you quickly searched your surroundings once more for the voice’s owner. Everything seemed to be exactly how it appeared when you first arrived—the trees were just trees and the grass was just grass, even if they were both admittedly glowing.

Just then, there came a whistle from above you.

You lifted your head, and your gaze fell upon a figure sitting atop a tree branch a few feet away. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight.

Piercing, emerald eyes. A green fitted shirt to match. Dark, golden hair. A smattering of freckles. A cold, wicked grin.

The man smiled at you, swinging his legs leisurely as he tilted his head. “Hello there, pet.”

You didn’t wait another second before your arms were reaching up behind you, pulling your crossbow off your back. You slotted the arrow into the flight groove in near record time before aiming it up at him, aiming for but a split second before you pulled the trigger. In a flash, the arrow went flying through the night sky, pointed directly at his face. You could have sworn you caught his eyes turn red before he suddenly vanished, your arrow passing through empty space before pinning itself into the tree trunk he had been leaning against just seconds prior.

You panted, quickly pulling another arrow out of your quiver and reloading your crossbow as you turned in a circle, not a single detail going unnoticed by your watchful eyes. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you tried to focus on the rustling leaves around you. Your fingers curled around the stock of your bow a fraction tighter, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Where is he? Where did he go?

A smooth voice curled around the back of your neck.

“Is this how you greet everyone you meet, or am I just special?”

Whipping around again, you pulled the trigger without even an ounce of hesitation. A twang of satisfaction shot through you as you heard the distinct sound of flesh being pierced, followed by a tumble to the ground. You rushed over at the sight of the man—or demon, as you should be calling him—lying sprawled on the ground, his arms casually tucked under his head as if he hadn’t just been shot.

“Ooh,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the arrow sticking out of his chest, “your arrows are made of dreamshade.” He grinned at you. “Smart one, aren’t you?”

Before you could even react, he ripped the arrow out, watching with amusement as crimson slowly dripped onto the front of his shirt. You stared at the hole in his chest, left behind by your arrow, a glimmer of glee expanding in your chest. Yes! you thought, your lips quirking as your hand floated toward the pistol hanging at your side. Now’s my cha—

All of a sudden, you watched in horror as the skin began to reform, the sinew and muscle stitching themselves back together to fill the gap. In an instant, his chest was whole again, the hole having disappeared entirely with nothing to even hint at its existence, were it not for the tear in his shirt.

“Unfortunately for you,” he said, tossing the arrow behind his head with a flick of his fingers, “I’m tougher than most demons out there.”

In a flash, you were standing over him, one foot digging into his chest. You didn’t even give him the chance to blink before you were pointing your crossbow at him once more, this time just barely allowing the arrow tip to hover above his neck. You tried to calm your breaths, pushing back the sick sense of joy you could feel starting to boil over inside you. You were so, so close to just killing hi—

“Don’t you think it’s a little rude to attack me without even asking for my name?” he calmly drawled, looking bored out of his mind.

You blinked in surprise, your thoughts faltering for a moment before your expression hardened once more. “I know who you are.”

He cocked his head at you, something like delight swimming in his viridian eyes. “Do you, now?”

You gulped, hesitating only for a moment before you began to speak. “Y-You’re Dream. Lord of chaos. Progenitor of destruction. Harbinger of nightmares.” You nearly choked on your own words.

“The world’s most powerful demon.”

He grinned at you, clapping his hands together above his head as he let out a small hoot. “Aw, you know all my titles?” He winked. “That’s cute.”

Cute, your brain repeated dumbly, a fuzzy feeling forming in your chest, but you quickly shook the thought from your head with a scowl. You should not be happy that one of the most powerful demon’s known to mankind called you cute.

(Okay, well. Maybe you were a little happy. Not that you would ever admit it.)

With a stony look, your finger wrapped around the crossbow trigger, the cool metal sending a shiver down you spine. “I’m here to kill you, Dream.”

He didn’t look fazed. “Oh? Even though we only just met?”

A snarl ripped itself out of your throat, fury slowly beginning to claw up your insides. Why did he sound so calm? Didn’t he understand that he was about to die to your hand?

“That doesn’t matter,” you said bluntly, trying to ignore your heart ramming away at your ribcage. “You’re a monster that needs to be disposed of.”

He hummed, absentmindedly picking at his nail. “That’s bold of you to say.” His tone was dull and interested, and his eyes seemed to shine even brighter thanks the green glow surrounding his head. “I can’t remember the last time a demon hunter has ever been so upfront with me.”

The string tying your restraint together snapped. That was it. How could he be so nonchalant? So apathetic? Didn’t he care?

“You’ve killed so many people,” you spat, “taken so many innocent lives, and for what?” You narrowed your eyes, nothing but pure disgust running through your veins as you dug the tip of your crossbow into the soft flesh of his neck. “What reason do I have to stop myself from ending your life right here, right now?”

Below you, Dream only stared blankly at you, his eyebrows raised. Then, he let out a sigh, wrapping a hand around the stock of your crossbow. Panic shot through you as he pulled it away from his throat with ease, his fingers curling around the polished wood. “First of all,” he said lowly, “that little thing isn’t going to do anything.”

In a blink of an eye, you heard the snapping of metal and wood, your gaze going wide. He shot you a cocky grin. “Not anymore.”

You leapt back, gritting you teeth and tossing your now useless crossbow onto the earth beside you. Your hand moved in a blur as you reached down and pulled out your pistol from its holster, pointing it toward him. “Each and every one of these bullets is soaked in holy water,” you shouted, your hand cocking back the safety. “Don’t think I won’t shoot.”

Dream rolled over onto his stomach, his grin widening as he rested his chin on his hand. “Tell me,” he drawled, tilting his head, “do you really think you scare me?”

You ignored the shaking of your fingers. “I—I can and will shoot you.”

He laughed, an uncomfortable warmth wrapping around your gut. “Please, darling—I’ve been alive for longer than you can even fathom. As if you’d be the first to pin me down, let alone try to shoot me.” His eyes flashed crimson, and you felt your stomach drop. “I know all your hunter tricks and tactics, and believe me when I say they won’t work.”

Suddenly, he floated up off the ground, not changing his position whatsoever. In only a matter of seconds, he was hovering above you, blinking down at your shocked expression with mirth glimmering in his scarlet gaze. 

Of course he could levitate—what were you expecting?

“Second,” he said, “I did a lot of those things a long time ago, especially in human years. How long has it been?” He tapped his chin. “Probably centuries by now, which is like forever for you guys.”

You scowled at him, your pistol still pointed at him. “That doesn’t mean you haven’t caused any chaos recently.”

“That’s true!” he chirped, snapping his fingers. “But my more recent activities have been much more... tame in comparison to my golden years, don’t you think?”

As much as you wanted to shoot him right here and now, you also wanted to punch him in the face before you did. “Lives are lives, Dream!” you shouted. “Any more or less lost doesn’t make you any more redeemable.”

A chuckle slipped from his lips, flipping onto his back as he continued to hover in the cool, night air. “Oh, you humans and your morality. How entertaining you all are.”

There was only one word running through your mind as you glared at him, your jaw clenching tight as your rage only multiplied inside you. Monster, monster, monster.

His eyelids fluttered shut as he allowed himself to drift a fraction lower toward you. “Well, I do believe I should ask—who’s to say that I was the one who killed those people, anyways?”

Your heart stopped in your chest. “...what are you talking about?”

He peeked an eye open at you. “It’s not like I flew down from the sky and shot them all with a rifle, and it’s not like I just snapped my fingers and everyone dropped dead.” He hummed at the thought. “Just what kind of person do you take me for?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your toes curling in your boots. “Stop distracting me—you’re dodging the question.”

“On the contrary,” he shot back without missing a beat, “I’d argue that you’re dodging mine, pet.” You could hear the laughter threatening to bubble up his throat as he spoke. “Do you really think I was the one purely responsible for all that destruction?”

You tried to ignore the slight tremble of your hands. “A-Aren’t you?” you stammered out. “You’ve started wars, detonated massive bombs, pushed people to their absolute limits. That stuff’s all your fault.” You gulped. “...isn’t it?”

For a second, he simply stared at you. Then, he burst into a fit of giggles. “Oh, how naïve you are, pet. Just what were you taught?” As he clutched his chest, he sunk a little lower toward you. “I didn’t fight on those battlefields. I didn’t press the red button. I didn’t kick men and women to the ground, pointing guns in their faces. But do you know who did?”

The cogs in your head began to turn as you wracked your mind over his words. Then, a wave of understanding slammed into you, and you lowered your pistol, your arm going limp at your side.

He couldn’t possibly mean...

“Ding, ding, ding! You guessed it.” His lips curled up into a delighted smirk. “Humanity did.”

Your eyes widened in horror. Oh, no.

The manic look in his eyes only grew. “Oh, yes.” He cackled at the look on your face, pointing at you. “I didn’t even have to lift a finger for you to all walk straight into your own demise! How pathetic is that?”

You took a shaky step back, your pistol dropping to the ground. “B-B—”

“B-B-B-But what?” he said mockingly, mimicking you in a high-pitched tone. “Did they tell you that I’m the big, bad wolf and that humanity is Little Red? Because they lied, pet. They lied to you.” He pointed his fingers together to form an X, tilting his head at you. “I’ll have you know that I’m not a liar. A trickster, perhaps. But a liar?” He narrowed his eyes. “Never.”

He bent down where he hovered in the air, waggling a finger in your face. “The truth is, darling, is that I didn’t do anything. I just stood in the room and watched. I might have pointed out that that one little duke was in perfect view, or that that one city only had so many people living in it, but I never took any lives myself.” He lightly tapped your nose, and you shrunk back as he crooned, “Humanity did all that, pet. They’re the real monsters to blame here.”

You wanted to sink to your knees and melt into a puddle on the ground. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Your mentor told you that Dream killed all those people—that he was the one to stab the knife in and twist it while pulling it out. She wouldn’t lie to you, never in a million years.

You wanted to believe him, you really did. But there was something about the freckles scattered across Dream’s face and the way the moonlight bounced off his eyes that made you realize.

He was telling the truth.

A few moments passed in silence as you stared long and hard down at your feet. You could feel Dream’s gaze boring into your figure, eyeing you up and down as you struggled to steady the beating of your heart. You half-expected him to mock you even more, but to your surprise, he didn’t. Maybe he was more human than you thought.

“Why?” you finally whispered after god knows how long.

When you were met with silence, you raised your eyes to meet his once more. “Why did you do it?” you said, louder this time. “Why did you interact with us at all if you wouldn’t even get your own hands dirty? If you knew it would only end like this?”

His eyes flashed, the tiniest hint of carmine swirling in their murky depths. “Isn’t the answer obvious, pet?” He flashed you a wicked grin. “I was bored.”

You blinked, realization slowly setting in. “Bored? Bored?” You were about to lose it, now. “You did all that just because you were bored?”

He shrugged. “Sure did. Chaos makes the world so much more interesting, don’t you think? If only good things happened, you would be bored, too.”

Your stomach churned with disgust. “You’re twisted.”

His smile only widened. “At least I’m having fun.”

All you could do was stare at him in defeat. This wasn’t right. There were more ways to have fun than to toy with humanity’s psyche and drive them to end people’s lives, even for a demon like him. There had to be something you could do. For some inexplicable reason you couldn’t bring yourself to name, a part of you almost wanted to help him.

I must be losing my mind, you thought. What person in their right mind would try to save a demon, let alone the most powerful one of them all?

You, apparently.

The cogs in your head began to churn, your mind bustling as it tried to come up with some alternative, no matter how silly. There had to be something he could do that wasn’t just this.

That was when it hit you.

“Why,” you started slowly, your voice coming out shaky and unsure, “don’t you have fun in a way that doesn’t destroy things... but creates them?”

He blinked lazily at you. “Hm?”

You swallowed, raising your chin. “You—you can have chaos, but it doesn’t need to be destructive.”

He raised his brows. “It doesn’t?”

Your gaze hardened. “Not at all.”

Just then, a flash of memory shot through your skull, and you gasped. “Say, Dream,” you began, “do you—do you know how the Greeks thought the universe came to be?”

You didn’t wait for him to answer. “First,” you said, “there was chaos. And from chaos, life was born. Gods and goddesses, plants and animals.”

“And humans,” he added.

You nodded. “And humans—like me.” You pressed a hand to your chest. “See? Chaos can create things. It doesn’t have to be so full of death and terror.”

While his expression was bemused, there was something sad about it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. “You do realize that that’s just a story that you human made up?” he hummed. “How the universe came to be is far more different.”

You blinked. “You were alive for that?”

He sent you a blank smile, the look in his eyes betraying nothing. “Maybe, maybe not.” Waving his hand, he flipped over onto his back, floating a fraction higher than before. “Point is, that kind of chaos probably doesn’t exist.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your side. “But it could,” you whispered.

He paused, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “What?”

You dug your heel into the ground, raising your voice. “It could! You don’t know that it doesn’t.” You took a step toward him, throwing your arms out. “Isn’t that fun? Isn’t that exciting? That there’s a whole other form of chaos you’ve never discovered before?!”

Your shout rang out into the quiet forest as Dream stared at you, his lips parted the tiniest bit. Rather than looking amused or arrogant, he almost looked... raw. Real. This might just the most vulnerable look you’d gotten of him all night.

Then, he burst into laughter.

Lowering your arms, you huffed at him, trying and failing to ignore the warmth blossoming between your lungs as you took in his wheezing face. “W-What?”

“Oh,” he gasped between peals of laughter, “what a treat you are, pet.”

Heat flashed across your cheeks as he wiped away a tear from his eye, his chuckles slowly dying down. His laugh should not sound as attractive as it was—he should not be as attractive as he was.

“Tell you what,” he said as he caught his breath once more, sending you a devilish grin. “If you tell me your name, I’ll tell you my real one.”

You stared at him for a moment, then your jaw dropped. “What?”

He stared at you, his emerald eyes glowing in the dim light. “You heard me.”

For a few seconds, you simply gaped, your brain still struggling to process his words. “But... but why?” you finally blurted. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

He hummed at you, flipping upside down. “What about it doesn’t make sense? It seems like a fair trade to me.”

Sputtering, you threw your hands into the air. “A demon’s true name is the source of their power! By handing it over to me, you’re basically putting your life in my hands—in a demon hunter’s hands.” Your face blanched at the mere thought. “A human name and demon name aren’t even remotely comparable.”

He blinked at you, slow and lazy. “I know.”

You didn’t understand—you couldn’t understand. “Then why are you doing this?”

He dipped his down toward you, his face hovering mere inches away from yours. “Isn’t it obvious?” he murmured. “You’re interesting. And rather cute, I suppose.”

You back-pedaled, your eyes wide as you stammered, “I-I could kill you if you told me your real name.”

He hummed, tucking his hand under his chin. “Perhaps, I suppose.” His lips curled upward. “But you won’t.”

Your hand squeezed around nothing. “You don’t know that.”

He chuckled again, and your heart skipped a beat in your chest. “Oh, yes I do, pet. Don’t act as though I can’t see right through you. I know you’re too wishy-washy to kill me off just like that.”

He tilted his head at you, his gaze brimming with mischief.  “That’s the thing about humans—you’re all so greedy. You all want something you don’t have, something that fuels you to acquire more. It might be power, or fame, or fortune, or love. It’s quite pathetic, really. But curiosity?”

Lowering himself, he pushed himself up until he was standing flat on the ground again, his hands sliding into his pockets. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and your mouth went dry. “Why, curiosity is your greatest flaw of all. You humans always want to know more, and I know that you want to know what I do next, whether you’re aware of it or not.”

You felt like your blood was going to tear right out of your veins. You hated how right he was, how well he seemed to know you. “You’re insane,” you said.

His smile was lazy and wide as he took a single step toward you. “Probably. But I’ve been alive for ages now, and you might be the most fun thing I’ve seen in millennia. I want to know your name, pet.”

This was crazy in every sense of the word. Any other demon wouldn’t even dare utter their true name aloud, even to themselves, yet here Dream was, bargaining his for yours.

You’d be an idiot not to tell him your name, now.

Swallowing, you didn’t dare look away from his piercing eyes. “It—my name is [Y/N].”

His lips parted in awe, and he stepped toward you once more. “[Y/N],” he repeated, slowly. Carefully, like a wolf stalking its prey. “Fascinating name. Haven’t met too many of those in my lifetime, shocking as it may be.” He paused for a moment, and you could have sworn his smile looked different. “It’s pretty.”

A rush of heat went shooting down your spine, your stomach doing a flip. Biting the inside of your cheek, you glared at him. “Well, stop dawdling! What’s your real name, Dream?”

For a long, excruciatingly slow minute, he only stared at you, scanning every inch of your face. You could feel anxiety begin to crawl up your throat as he did nothing more than watch the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed.

All of a sudden, he was standing in front of you, his hand tucked underneath your chin and lifting it upward. You barely had the chance to gasp before you felt a soft warmth pressing against your lips, light as a feather and tasting like ash and smoke.

Before you could even register what had just happened, he was gone.

You whirled, your face growing astronomically hot. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears again, but for an entirely different reason this time. You raised your hand to touch your lips while your cheeks burned furiously.

Did he just... kiss me?

Just then, a whisper ran along the shell of your ear, so soft that you almost missed it.

“My name is Clay.”

[phrynewrites]

Jazzy and Bosco with 46 pls 💙

Thank you for this ask hun! It immediately gave me jealous/protective Bosco vibes, so I hope you enjoy! This is set before Jasmine and Bosco are officially together in the blind date au.

***

“I feel like I see you a lot.”

The voice snakes around her, a constrictor set on holding Jasmine in place as she’s staring off in search of Bosco.

“Yeah.” Jasmine shifts a bit as she says it, peering past the box lights. She knows it’s a useless endeavor, as Bosco moves about their sets with their typical quickness. In a glance, they’d be gone, micromanaging the camera operator, then scolding the intern manning the lights. They’re focused, minding every detail at once. There’s a magic to it, but Jasmine isn’t interested in admiring their craft; she’s only interested in finding Bosco.

Jasmine gives up, eyeing the woman instead, only finding a stare that cuts through her in return. “Sometimes I come and bring Bosco the sandwich they order for lunch.”

“How kind of you,” she replies, tone turning cloying, dripping in a sweetness that was immediately unpalatable. “And you make these trips just for Bosco?”

Now, Jasmine had been told that she wasn’t terribly good at reading the room—she always talked out of turn, didn’t have the greatest sense of what needed to be said and when. But she knew that the tone of the conversation had changed. At once this woman was sweet, making conversation. The just for Bosco was as weighted as the hand now brushing down her arm and resting in the crook of her elbow, asking with her barren teeth what about for me?

She swallows, shifting the bag to her other hand. “No, I work at a restaurant, so…”

“But surely you don’t head back to the office of all the people you deliver for?” The woman tries again. And again, Jasmine feels the air around them thicken, her chest tightening as though someone were squeezing it like a ripe lemon. “Seems a bit personal, whatever you two do back there in Bosco’s office.”

Jasmine wants to say that her and Bosco usually split the sandwich. That Bosco usually gives Jasmine all the fries but steals a couple for themself after the fact, their grin wicked and bright. That they’ll talk about Jasmine’s design plans for her next project: avant garde. That sometimes Bosco knows just from Jasmine’s untucked shirt and lack of mascara that she hasn’t slept much at all that night, and lets Jasmine push the garment bags off the couch and nap there. That Bosco keeps a blanket under the couch specifically for Jasmine. And that other times, they’ll simply talk about their friends, about whatever ridiculous outing they have planned for them, how it feels like a middle-school game of seven minutes in heaven, only there’s no way to escape the closet they’ve been shoved in—besides actually dating—and seven minutes is usually a whole day of various nonsensical outings.

But whether it's the tightness of her chest or the way in which the woman’s stare leaves Jasmine stony and lifeless, she doesn’t say any of that.

In turn, the woman’s fingers linger and Jasmine can feel her pulse under each one of them, as though her thought of where’s Bosco? is repeating over and over again, in time with the rising tempo of her beating heart.

“I just think you’re gorgeous and maybe sometime we could—”

Jasmine snaps up at the heavy sound of something hitting the trash can followed by a whiny voice saying, “that’s not even your coffee,” and then Bosco’s boots, smacking against the floor with every step, harsh and cruel and wonderful.

“Janet,” they call across the room, eyes wild, dangerous, as though the words to follow would be I could beat you up, you know that right? I’m going to fuck you up. It’s an anger that though Jasmine’s thankful for, it still sends her stomach into knots.

“Maybe I’ll order something later,” the woman, Janet, says, before turning on her heel. She’s indignant, throwing her hand up at Bosco as she passes them. Bosco throws back a finger and a promise to speak with her later.

“I’m going to fucking kill her, how fucking dare…” Bosco mutters, folding Jasmine against them. Their fingers spread across Jasmine’s back and close up into fists, gripping the back of her t-shirt. Against Bosco’s chest, Jasmine finally takes a deep breath, finally feels comfort despite Bosco’s muttering against Jasmine’s hair.

“It’s fine, B. I’m fine,” Jasmine says, speaking into their chest. “I think she was just trying to hit on me a little.”

Bosco stiffens and they pull Jasmine off of them, resting their hands on either side of her hips, studying Jasmine as though they were looking for damage. “She was—”

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Jasmine pries a hand off of her hip and holds it between her own, straightening out Bosco’s fingers, massaging their knuckles with her thumb.

And after a moment Jasmine adds, “thank you though,” before lacing Bosco’s fingers with hers, feeling warm as Bosco squeezes her hand back.

“Anything, anytime.” They raise their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Jasmine’s, like they’re sealing a promise.